The Lost Dragons of Barakhai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Her eyes widened. “Delicious.”

  The short man opened the other two candy bars and passed them around the group while Collins emptied his pockets of dog biscuits and jerky. “You can have all of these, too.” No longer worrying about an attack, he went through his pack, emptying it of everything he could spare. Not only could those things work as bribes, but shedding them would lighten his load tremendously. “Here’re some clothes. You look like you could use these.” He left the selection of T-shirts, jeans, underwear, and socks on the ledge beside him. Finding the medicine bottle, Collins sorted through the Tums to find three Tylenols, which he forced down without water, using several hard swallows and all the saliva he could muster. He returned the bottle to his pack. The Barakhain prisoners could probably use the medicine, too; but he did not want to take the time to explain it. He also kept his toiletries, the binoculars, keys, watch, and beeper but left the speaker wire he had used to lead Falima to the biology laboratory. He looked up at no one in particular. “Now, does any of that buy me the freedom to find the lost dragons?”

  The prisoners in human form tore their gazes from the pile to glance at Collins, clearly bewildered. The short man who had opened the Snickers spoke first. “The lost what?”

  “Dragons,” Collins repeated dutifully, though he doubted that would prove enough. “Humongous scaly creatures with lots of sharp teeth.”

  “Like the one who attacked you?” the skinny woman tried.

  Collins shook his head. “No. No. That’s a large furry creature with sharp teeth. I’m talking about dragons. Bigger. Just scales all over. Hairless wings.” He glanced up to see two bats hanging upside down from a stalactite over his head and looked for the words to differentiate the dragons from them, without resorting to the word “scales” again. “Enormous creatures. Like alligators with wings, but bigger than elephants.”

  The humans traded glances, and Collins now realized that more had joined them. New animals had arrived as well, including an ocelot and a bobcat, who must have crept out from holes beneath the ledges. Some of the newcomers examined Collins’ offerings, and a naked preteen girl began raking them into piles.

  Collins stopped describing. Ultimately, it did not matter. “Look, if I can get those dragons out of this place, they can make magic that takes away that involuntary shape-changing . . . curse thingy.”

  Captivated either by Collins’ words or his excitement, the group kept every eye focused directly upon him. No one spoke.

  Collins delivered what he thought would prove the coup de grâce. “You can all walk out of this prison as easily as I walked in.” He waited for applause or cheering, anything to show they understood the significance of his revelation.

  Instead, they all looked at him curiously. The original speaker cleared his throat. “Prison?”

  Skinny Girl added, “Walk out to where?”

  The triumphant grin that had crept across Collins’ face with his final pronouncement withered. “To—to the real world. The world beyond these inescapable caverns.” Sudden realization hit him low in the gut. These switchers knew little or nothing of their history. To them, the entire planet began and ended at the barriers thwarting their escape. The river, with its life-giving water and the objects outsiders tossed into it, was probably a god to them.

  “To your world?” the girl continued. “Where there’re no switches or switch-forms. No royalty.”

  “No, no, no.” Collins slapped the heel of his hand against the knot of torn T-shirt on his forehead, further worsening his headache. “You live in a small part of Barakhai. Out there, there’s a whole . . .” He avoided the term “world” this time. “. . . a whole other place, more of Barakhai, with buildings and sunshine, towns and villages, where people don’t worry that their neighbors might eat them. I come from somewhere else. Somewhere farther, separated from Barakhai by magic.” He did not know what to name it, uncertain how the spell might translate English terms such as “The World” or “Earth,” especially since he could not even say whether or not he had left the planet or the scientifically known universe. With my luck, Earth would come out as Dirt.

  The human fraction of the group whispered among themselves, while the animals shifted from paw to paw.

  Uncertain whether or not he had clarified things or muddled the situation even more, Collins tried to think it through. He believed he understood how such a strange bunch of creatures had come together. Likely, it had started with animals who tended to herd or pack and with human counterparts with an eye toward family and protection of those weaker, including their own offspring. Some of the stronger, less social creatures, like the cougar, preferred to spend most of their lives alone. Others might band solely for the purpose of hunting or procreation, such as pure inbred packs of wolves or prides of lions. A group as mismatched as the one that had discovered him had to have security and companionship in mind. Otherwise, the fiercest would already have devoured those most vulnerable. Amid the chaos of eternal imprisonment, at least this one civilized society had emerged, perhaps more. He had to play on their sense of community.

  Collins felt utterly beaten. His head pounded, as prone to shatter as a glass-blown figurine. He ached in a million places, and the thought of dragging his tattered body one step farther made him cringe. Nevertheless, he gathered what little energy remained and declared, “I’m sorry I don’t have time to explain any more. If I don’t leave now, my mission will fail.” It was not technically true. Even with Zylas gone, he could still complete the ultimate goal. “And a good man will die for nothing.”

  Collins tilted his chin, a defiant gesture that nearly cost him his consciousness. “I’m leaving. If you stop me, I will fight with every ounce of strength left in my body.” Yeah, that ought to last about a second.

  The tortoise started toward him, through a silence that admitted only the steady water-song of the stream. Enormous, paddlelike feet heaved the huge shell forward in a lumbering style that precluded speed. Collins clambered off the ledge to meet her, the simple gesture pounding him with exhaustion and dizziness. He hoped Ialin, Falima, Vernon, and Aisa fared better, because it seemed unlikely he would ever make it to the dragons. In time. The downward spiral of his thoughts quickened. Oh, come on, Ben. Don’t let hope turn you into a fool. If the dragons were here, someone would certainly have seen them.

  Collins dropped to his haunches, and the tortoise practically climbed into his lap to meet his gaze levelly. One ancient, clay-colored eye met both of his, and the burden of its one foot on his thigh crushed him against stone. The tortoise had to weigh two or three hundred pounds. Uncertain of its purpose, or the best way to pet a reptile, he reached out a careful hand and set it gently on the animal’s head. “Scaly,” he murmured. “Scaly, like this.”

  The long, tortoise neck stretched from its domed shell. If Collins added even a vestigial tail, the creature had to measure a good four feet. He froze, uncertain how to react as the tortoise laid its beaked head upon his shoulder.

  A redhead with a scarred face explained, “Mataia approves of you. She’s the oldest and wisest of us, and we will help you.”

  Relieved, Collins gave the tortoise’s neck a gentle hug, then scratched the scales on the top of her head. Though akin to stroking large-grained sandpaper, the gesture was the only one he could think of to express his appreciation. She’s human, too, stupid. Probably with great overlap. “Thank you,” Collins told Mataia. He looked past her enormous form to the humans and animals beyond, “And thank all of you, too. I’m not sure how you can help, but—” A possibility came to Collins even as he spoke the words. “Did any of you hear the sound I played on my recorder?”

  The teenaged girl continued to sort through the food and clothing Collins had given them, and two boys who looked like they were about eight or nine years old came over to help her. The rest of the group continued to regard Collins in silence.

  Realizing “recorder” might not have translated, Collins clarified, “I brought a sound wi
th me. Until it broke, I used my little box thing to make it.”

  The black woman held up the smashed remains of the recorder, and Collins wondered where she had hidden it until that moment. He guessed someone had his knife as well.

  “Yes, that’s it! Did you hear it?”

  Several of the humans, and even some of the animals, bobbed their heads. Mataia eased off of Collins’ thigh, to his relief. His leg buzzed with a pins and needles sensation, and he cringed through the pain of returning circulation.

  “Is that what you’re looking for?” a middle-aged man in a loincloth asked, the only human in the gathering with gray in his hair. “The monsters who make that sound?”

  “That’s them!” Collins said, too excited to question the term “monsters.”

  The black woman made a decisive gesture. “Come with us, then.” Her voice sounded inexplicably tired. “We’ll take you there.”

  Once imprisoned, Ialin allowed his agitation free rein, pacing the confines of his dungeon cell relentlessly to work off a long-suppressed tide of nervous energy. He ceased caring about keeping up appearances. Even a usually composed bear could be expected to demonstrate discomfort when locked in a cage anticipating questioning and, possibly, execution.

  As instructed, Vernon returned before Ialin’s switch, though time would tell whether or not the mouse had located Zylas during his absence. It seemed long enough to the hummingbird/ man for Vernon to have found an army of missing renegades, yet Ialin never trusted his own concept of time. Others tended to find him irritatingly impatient.

  This time, Ialin did not heft the mouse, instead turning his back to his guard and pretending to lie down for a rest. The fuzzy gray rodent stood, planting his forepaws on Ialin’s magically sculpted nose. The man kept his voice low. “At my switch time, you distract the guard.” Though it required more words, Ialin dared not leave details to an animal who, like himself, had incomplete overlap. “Make something fall with a noise. Pick an object behind or beside him, so he doesn’t look toward me.”

  The guard’s voice boomed through the prison. “Did you say something, Draezon?”

  Ialin twitched his nose until Vernon dropped to the floor. He glanced over his shoulder at the guard. “Just berating myself.”

  The guard chuckled. “For what you did or for getting caught?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  The guard laughed harder. A tall, lanky man with unkempt brown hair, he would clearly transform into some lean, hungry-looking dog.

  Ialin turned his head back and hissed at Vernon. The change would soon be upon him. “Go.”

  As Vernon scampered into the shadows, Ialin loosened the layers of shirting that swaddled his slight frame. Becoming entangled would ruin his well-laid plan. A familiar tingle throbbed through his skin as he worked harder to shove down the cloth. Hurry up, Vernon. Ialin glued his gaze to the bars, solid iron with barely a spot of rust. The guards had clearly chosen a secure cell, afraid he might bend or damage the bars in bear form, just as he had hoped. He dared not become complacent, however. Many things had gone well with the previous plan, only to fail him when it mattered most. He could not count on anything going smoothly. A wave of warmth shunted through him, heralding the change. Vernon!

  Falling metal crashed against the stone floor, followed by the sound of several more objects slamming and rolling. The guard spun, just as switch-form overtook Ialin. He felt himself shrinking, clothes flopping to the floor, beak sprouting. He sprang into the air, lacy green wings beating madly, all but invisible. His body a blur, he flitted through the bars and out into the main portion of the dungeon.

  Ialin scanned a scattering of dented pans and chamber pots, and a small gray figure racing from the carnage. From the air, he followed Vernon, not bothering to watch the guard’s reaction. In a few moments, the man would notice that his prisoner was missing and call for assistance. Ialin only hoped his sudden disappearance would confuse them, and the mystery would take significant time to piece together. Even if they figured it out immediately, he believed they would expect him to escape, not wend his way deeper into the dungeons.

  Vernon led Ialin through a prison filled with empty cells, into a storage room where he disappeared beneath piled up junk. Ialin hovered, willing himself to stay focused. He had decent overlap; and, where excitement tended to unbalance others, it made him more alert and attentive. His beadlike eyes scanned the floor, seeking movement. At first, he saw no sign of his companion. Then, he caught a sudden flash of gray from his left eye. He barreled toward it, an abrupt, midair stop all that saved him from crashing into another door. Vernon disappeared through the crack beneath it.

  Ialin dove. Leading with his slender beak, he followed the mouse’s retreating form beneath the door and into a dusty room sparsely filled with furniture covered in tattered sheets. On top of one flat surface that appeared to represent a chest of drawers sat a cage barely large enough to contain his own miniscule form. A naked, pink tail protruded between the bars.

  Vernon leaped to the dangling edge of sheet draped over the chest and scrambled upward. Ialin hovered over the cage, peering at its inhabitant through one eye. The white fur, the bright red eyes, now dulled by pain, the pink ears laid tight against the ratty head—he knew those features, if not their broken demeanor. Vernon had, indeed, brought him to Zylas.

  “Zylas,” Ialin buzzed to the only person other than Prinivere who could understand him in animal form.

  The pink nose twitched, and the muzzle rose. “Ialin?”

  As the mouse finished his climb, Zylas’ ratty expression grew even more hopeful. “Vernon. Can you help me?”

  In animal form, it never occurred to Ialin to lie to comfort his friend. “I don’t know. I’ll try.” He fluttered to the lock, wings beating with furious ease. He had used his delicate beak many times to thwart the skill of locksmiths, but this one looked like nothing he had ever seen. It appeared brand new, its shiny, silver surface some strange amalgam of iron, and it had a black knob with figures that might represent foreign letters or numbers inscribed on it. He saw no hole in which to insert his beak. He pecked at the front, and his beak slammed against a substance as hard as glass yet like nothing he had ever encountered.

  Ialin returned to Zylas’ face. “The lock. It’s weird.”

  Zylas clamped his muzzle tightly. His position in the cage did not allow him to view the lock, and he had no room to turn. “Carriequinton put it on there.” His voice had a quaver to it that Ialin usually associated only with his own jerky movements. “It might come from her world. I think she spun it when she put it on.”

  Ialin went back to the lock, tapping the knob with his beak. It did move slightly. He continued experimenting, hoping to stumble upon the correct series of movements.

  “She taunts me,” Zylas was telling Vernon. “Wants to be here when I . . . change. Wants to watch me die.”

  Ialin paused to chirp out, nearly subvocally, “You’re not going to die.”

  “You’ve got the lock?” Zylas asked hopefully.

  “No,” Ialin admitted. “But I’m not going to stop trying till I do.” He drove that promise deep into his soul, working at the knob frantically while Zylas addressed Vernon.

  “You watch for Carriequinton. If you see her, squeak loudly, then hide. Both of you, hide.”

  “All right,” they promised in unison, then Ialin went back to work.

  Chapter 11

  BENTON Collins dragged through the carnivore caverns with an escort that included the lioness, the ocelot, the scrawny woman, and the bearded man who had first spoken to him. Exhausted from blood loss, assailed by a persistent headache scarcely alleviated by the Tylenol, fresh wounds throbbing, he staggered among the four with few verbal exchanges. They told him their names, but he retained only the last, Margast, and only because it reminded him of his ex-girlfriend, Marlys. At times, he discovered himself leaning heavily against the lioness’ furry back. He always righted himself when he noticed it, glad
she took no offense at his touch. One swipe of her enormous paw would send him tumbling, and he doubted he would ever regain his feet.

  Collins staggered onward, though the reason seemed distant, and no strategy for handling the dragons once he found them came to mind. He was dimly aware that he would have to find a way to communicate with them, to convince them of the significance of following him back to the entrance where they could talk to Prinivere. She would likely have the words that he did not, the ones that might make them understand their role in rescuing every nonroyal citizen of Barakhai. He hoped—and doubted—he could make it back to the cave opening with them. His body wanted only to lie down and surrender to sweet oblivion again, and the realization that a wandering carnivore might eat him barely overcame that desire. Inertia more than intent, the familiarity of forward movement surrounded by shapechangers, kept him going when even need failed.

  Even though Collins glanced repeatedly at his watch, even though he had to force every step, time ticked by too fast for his liking. Every bone-weary step seemed to take a full minute, every one a beat closer to Zylas’ death. Please God, let Falima and the others be doing better than me.

  For over two switch times, two hours in Collins’ world, Zylas listened to the click of Ialin’s beak against the lock, his muttered buzzing indicating frustration. Though focused on this one task, Ialin’s discomfort was gradually overcoming his overlap. With each failure, he became more birdlike and less human, which would impair his judgment when it came to perceiving the intricacies of the Otherworld lock. Driven to pace but confined to a quiver, Zylas concentrated on maintaining his own overlap. As his companions lost their humanity, he had to keep his as finely honed as possible. He shared Ialin’s aggravation. If only he could turn around, he might find a way to aid them. He had explored the lock with his tail, knew its general feel and composition. He had yanked at the bar looping like an elongated semicircle through the matched tangs of the cage, but it seemed at least as solid and strong as the tangs themselves.