Key of Living Fire (The Sword of the Dragon)

by Appleton, Scott

  The viper blinked its eyes up at her and curled tighter around her arm.

  “I guess this is one good-bye I’ll never get to say. But maybe it is better that way.” With a final glance at the concealed cave, she inserted her feet back in her slippers and walked out of the hollow into the forest.

  When she arrived back at the house, she placed the viper on the hearth. The creature curled on the warm stones, slicked out its tongue, and closed its eyes. Oganna crossed the room to the short hallway and opened the first door. Upon entering her bedroom, she went immediately to bed. In the adjacent rooms, all but one of her aunts lay sound asleep. Caritha had accepted Ombre’s invitation to come see the construction of a new fort right on the coast of the Sea of Serpents. They’d left the day before yesterday.

  The next morning Oganna woke early and stretched, put on her slippers and robe. She took an iron poker from the fireplace and stirred the coals until they ignited. Then she grabbed the split logs from beside it and laid them inside, crisscrossing them on top of one another. The viper reluctantly uncoiled itself and slithered out of her way, coiling to the side instead of before the flames. Sunlight beamed through the front window, adding unnecessary heat to the room. She opened the front door and kicked a wooden wedge under it. The door remained ajar as she rustled through the kitchen, grabbing cooking mitts, a cast-iron frying pan, and spatula.

  She sat in front of the fireplace and inserted a cooking rack. She shoved the pan onto it and threw in a chunk of butter. Before long she settled into a pattern. Stirring eggs, cinnamon, and milk in one pan, she soaked thick bread slices in it and flipped them on the frying pan.

  “Mornin’.” Rose’el rubbed her face as she emerged into the kitchen. She tightened the drawstring around her green robe and dropped onto the bench, elbows on the table.

  Oganna flipped two slices of toast a final time in the pan, and then transferred them to a plate. “Good morning!”

  Laura, Levena, and Evela trooped out of their separate rooms, slowly closing the doors behind them. Evela smiled brightly and sat at the table. “That smells wonderful.”

  “Indeed it does.” Laura quick-stepped to the fireplace, bent over the toast, sniffed and closed her eyes for a moment. “Thank you, Oganna.”

  Levena squinted at Oganna in what came off as an attempted smile, then sat down with her sisters.

  They all ate at the table, for a while not saying anything but simply glancing at each other and the food. Laura commented on the beautiful weather. Hasselpatch glided from the stairwell to perch next to Oganna.

  “Psst! Psst!”

  Oganna turned and shook her head at the viper as it showed its fangs to Hasselpatch. “She had this spot first, Neneila. Go back to the hearth.”

  “Ssspit. I ssshould spit in thisss bird’s face!”

  Oganna glared at the creature, and it slunk to the floor, averting its gaze. It slithered back to the hearth and coiled on the stones, then buried its head at the center of its coiled heap. Hasselpatch cooed and flashed her silvery eyes at Oganna, who set a slice of breakfast toast in front of the bird and held up the syrup jar. The bird bobbed its silver beak, and Oganna poured the sugary liquid on the toast.

  Evela stood and walked around. “Would you like that in smaller bites, Hasselpatch?”

  “I would indeed, mistress Evela.” The bird cuddled up to Oganna while the aunt cut the toast into smaller chunks. Evela stroked the Nuvitor’s head, then returned to her seat and resumed eating.

  “So,” Rose’el said through a mouthful. “Your father has been gone a whole week. Any idea what is keeping him?”

  Laura wiped her mouth with a napkin and brushed a crumb off her robe. “Caritha would know. If anyone would know, it would be her. Ilfedo tells her first, or Ombre, and she spends enough time with both of them to get the updates firsthand.” When Rose’el glared at her, she shrugged her shoulders. “What?”

  “If I’d wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it.” The tallest sister scowled. “Humph!” She forced a large chunk of syrup-dripping toast into her mouth and turned to Oganna. “Do you know anything?”

  “About father?”

  Rose’el rolled her eyes and shrugged. “Maybe I’m just talking to the wind. Either that or no one listens when I speak up.” She set down her fork, swallowed her food, and crossed her arms. Her eyes narrowed at Oganna. “Yes, your father. Do you know what is taking him so long and why we haven’t heard from him?”

  In all honesty, Oganna had no idea. She chewed her food, thinking that her aunt was right in her unspoken assumption that something major must have come up; otherwise her father would have returned home or at least sent a messenger. “No,” she said at last.

  “See—that wasn’t so hard!” Rose’el reached out, pinched Oganna’s cheek, and then stood. “Well, I don’t know about everyone else, but I’m going to take advantage of this nice weather. I have some weeding to do in the garden.” She strode into her bedroom and closed the door, emerging shortly afterward with her hair tied in a bun and wearing a white blouse and brown skirt. With a sudden cheery smile at her sisters and Oganna, she exited through the front door. Oganna heard her whistling a catchy, unfamiliar tune and mentally noted that she would have to ask if there were words to go along with it.

  But where was Father? Surely he was not attending another state banquet.

  The fifty-one delegates around the grand mahogany table returned Ilfedo’s somber gaze. The garnished plates of food lay untouched before each of them. He folded his hands behind his back and sauntered to the windows. From here he could gaze from the castle’s heights. The gardens twisted about the structure, and beyond the city limits thirty stone buildings took shape. Carpenters and masons clambered like ants in a building frenzy. Gwensin, the capital city of the Hemmed Land; he could only imagine what it could look like in another twenty years. At this rate it would sprawl over every adjacent hill and beyond. But if relocation proved necessary, expansion of this city would come to a sudden stop.

  Someone at the table cleared his throat in what came out as half-growl. “My lord, do you really think it will come to that? I mean, abandoning our country over a little weather crisis.”

  “It is more than that, Vortain.” Ilfedo faced them and felt the familiar slap of the sword of the dragon on his leg. “Consider the extent of Resgeria. Miles upon uncharted miles of hot, dry sand. The current wind pattern has held for the past three months. In that time we have seen the desert advance half a mile into our border. And that wind continues unabated as we speak.”

  Mayor Vortain shook his long blond hair and stood, pushing back his chair. “With due respect, my lord. Consider what you are saying! Consider the consequences. This land is all we have. It is all we know. Unless you propose we relocate our people to the now-abandoned land of the giants.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a bad option, Vortain.” A bald-headed man thumped his fist on the table and glared at Gwensin’s mayor. “It’s better by far than watching this land slowly die. At least Burloi is vast, watered, and there are enough buildings to shelter our entire population whilst we build new cities.”

  Ilfedo raised his hand and Vortain sat down, though a frown played across his face. “No. That would not be prudent. The land of Burloi was laid waste. It may be green, but much of it reeks with death. I wouldn’t want to build upon such a massacre. Besides, who knows if the animal carcasses have sat there for too long? The water and the land itself could be poisonous by now—in all probability they are. I am not proposing that we leave the Hemmed Land. Believe me, I do not want to, in the slightest. But I do ask that all of you prepare for that possibility. Prepare yourselves and your people; store foods and supplies with which to journey. Whether or not the idea suits your fancy, you cannot deny that, if the weather pattern does not change, this land may no longer be able to sustain our growing population.”

  A murmur of agreement passed through the men at that table. Even Vortain gave him a slight nod. Ilfedo could
only guess what was going through the mayor’s mind. But he imagined it had a lot to do with the beautiful city of Gwensin. Vortain continued to pour all his energies into making the Hemmed Land’s capital a place of which to be proud. For this Ilfedo admired him and worried for him.

  “Long ago I told you of the creature that gifted this sword to me.” Ilfedo drew the sword from its sheath, and the Living Fire engulfed him. “And I remember also telling you all of the prophecy delivered by the white dragon. But one other thing the dragon told me, something that has been on my mind in recent months. He told me that when our land can no longer sustain me and my people I will look for another land. When that time comes, I must seek out the dragon Venom-fier—because that dragon will be my strong arm, and I will be his shield. I still don’t understand the meaning of it, but I believe it was a prophecy meant to lead us out of the Hemmed Land to a sustainable country. And I believe it will come true.”

  “You believe?” Vortain scowled up at him for an instant before lowering his gaze. “Forgive me, Lord Ilfedo. I know that you think you speak the truth. But let me say for those of us who love this land as much as our own limbs, and would never trade it for another, that I would oppose relocation publicly. Especially relocating in search of some dragon.”

  Ilfedo sheathed his sword, and the fire receded from his body. “Then,” he said with a meaningful stare in the man’s direction, “let us pray to God that it will not come down to that.” He returned to the table’s head and sat down. For a moment he studied the thick tabletop, wishing he could return to his life as a hunter. Yet he lifted his gaze to the opposite end of the table and nodded at the monk seated there.

  Brother Hersis stood. His black hair framed his beady eyes in an almost fierce way. But as the delegates looked at him and he smiled, the atmosphere changed and they smiled back. “In the midst of this deliberation, I do believe a fog of moodiness has prevailed.” He spread his arms so that his white cloak brightened the room. “Come now, brethren, can we go to God with our petitions if we build walls against one another?”

  Vortain glanced back at Ilfedo and shrugged his shoulders. “I hope you know I am not your enemy, my lord.”

  “I do.” Ilfedo smiled and then raised his glass. “A toast, gentlemen, to Vortain! May he always be as honest with us as he is today. Few counselors dare contradict the Lord Warrior, and few counselors could build such a magnificent city!”

  The men laughed and raised their glasses. Vortain smiled and drank with them.

  Brother Hersis chuckled as the table quieted and then drank deeply from his own glass. “Wow! My congratulations to the house of Vortain for keeping such a fine wine for tonight.” He set his glass on the table and sat down, folding his hands and bowing his head. The delegates closed their eyes with hands folded, and Ilfedo closed his own.

  “Oh, Lord God,” Brother Hersis began. “We are so very thankful for the wonderful things you have blessed us with—the good food and the good lords of our land.”

  The monk’s prayer continued for a few minutes longer. Ilfedo felt the spirit of peace rest in the room. When the prayer ended, Vortain rose from his seat and bowed to him, then excused himself through the door. The remaining delegates shuffled out of the room in short order, leaving Ilfedo alone with the monk in the large room. He gazed out the window as horse-drawn carriages lined up in front of the castle-like mansion. The delegates emerged from the building, many hanging their heads and crossing their arms. Some scratched at the backs of their heads. Others toyed with their wide-brimmed hats. They stepped into the carriages and drove off into the city.

  Brother Hersis stepped up beside him and gazed out over the white and gray city buildings. “Do not fear, my lord. You only said what you believe the Creator is guiding you to do or, rather, prepare for. These men know that even if doubts fill their minds, they will follow you. You are the Lord Warrior. Your word sways the people.”

  “But this is a hard thing to comprehend. It is an impossible situation in my mind and in theirs. They know that even if the desert wind continues to devastate our southern border, it will take years to make significant headway into the Hemmed Land. And it could cease at any time, just as readily as it appeared.”

  The monk stepped over to the table and picked a strip of meat from an untouched dish. “Is that what is bothering you?”

  Ilfedo shook his head, still gazing over the city spires and slate-and-wood rooftops. “How would it be possible?”

  “Possible? With God what thing is not possible?”

  “That is not what I mean.” Ilfedo stood back and gestured out the window. “Look at us. We have grown strong. Unity has brought prosperity, and with it our numbers have grown. How many people do we now sustain in the Hemmed Land? Twenty, thirty, maybe even fifty thousand?”

  The monk smiled. “Closer to fifty, I think.”

  Ilfedo shook his head. “I could not ask fifty thousand people to follow me on a pilgrimage into unknown lands. The warriors under me—their numbers alone stand around fifteen thousand. Somehow, some way, we must remain here. The land is green; the people are happy.”

  Clearing his throat, the monk walked to the door and opened it to reveal the arched hallway beyond. “If it is the comfort of the people that you seek, Ilfedo—if it is the approval of Vortain—then forget the will of God. Yet, if you wish to follow Him, do not look for man’s approval. God will lead, my lord, and you—you must follow.” He bowed and strolled into the hallway, waving as he did so.

  Ilfedo left Vortain’s city little more than an hour later, wearing a hooded cloak to shield his identity from passersby. Women knitted outside their homes, basking in the sunlight. Children played ball on the highway. A tall soldier marched down the cobblestones, jostling Ilfedo. “Beg your pardon, stranger.” The soldier smiled sidelong at him and passed, then spread his arms as a young woman with dark hair dropped her knitting and ran to his embrace. For that moment Ilfedo hesitated. The warrior swung his lady around and passionately kissed her lips. They laughed, and she pulled his helmet from his head and ran her fingers through his blond hair.

  The lord warrior smiled to himself. Peace at last. It had cost them blood, sweat, and tears. Around him laughter filled the streets. Women washed their house windows as men scrubbed the white and gray building exteriors. He leaned forward and continued walking away from the heart of civilization. A blue marble statue of a horse stood in the highway’s midst, and he walked beyond it, beneath a stone arch, and gazed at the open fields stretching to the lush green forest. It was quite the contrast, and he almost glanced back at Gwensin’s hewn magnificence once more. Yet he kept his face forward and strode into nature’s privacy.

  The Creator’s good trees welcomed him into their shadows and a profound silence. He slipped the hood off his head, striding with purpose westward—homeward.

  Later that day, twilight fell upon the forest. Still, the woodland remained silent save for an occasional breeze. A twig snapped under his foot and he halted. The familiar path home, almost as wide as a road, wended through the forest ahead. Why such silence? He felt the cool pommel of his sword, ran his fingers along its smooth crystalline surface.

  Suddenly a flame grew on the path ahead of him. A single thread of red and yellow flickered into existence and curled toward his feet. He stepped back and drew his sword. But an invisible force ripped it from his hand, and it hovered several feet off the ground, blade pointed to the sky. The Living Fire knifed out of the blade, roiling around its reflective surface. Flames whirled around the blade and shot toward the treetops. Flames cascaded from its guard, flooding the ground about him. The leaves crackled, catching fire. The trees’ trunks blackened, and the fire formed a tornado around his body. He could reach out and touch it with his fingertips, but he did not.

  A splash of white mixed with the fire, and he was pulled off the ground. The white swam through the fire, and the enormous, glowing face of the albino dragon gazed upon him from behind the flames. He looked into those p
ink orbs—its eyes—and tried to bow. But the whirlwind caught Ilfedo away in its flames and white. Strands of black snaked through the tornado, across the magnificent creature’s veiled face—and the dragon vanished.

  The flames stroked his face with thin fingers, yet they gave off no heat. He could see nothing beyond the flames, the white, and the black. Only the sword of the dragon remained within sight. It spun in gradual orbit around his head, spilling flames that whipped about.

  A beam of light pierced the flames above his head and spotlighted the sword. The weapon ceased its orbit, held its place before him, and the hands of an old man reached from the flames. The wrinkled fingers grasped the sword’s handle with unwavering strength while one hand grasped his shoulder. And the old prophet shepherd who had wed him with Dantress stepped through the fire, blue eyes blazing at Ilfedo.

  Gone was the gentle patriarch. This man gazed up at him with positional authority and experience. Ilfedo knew that look—the look of a fellow warrior. The sword of the dragon blazed in the prophet’s hands as he swept its blade in a slow, wide loop. Lightning crackled from the blade’s double edge, sewing a ring of electricity through the flames.

  The prophet’s fist clamped on Ilfedo’s shoulder and pulled him close to the ring. “Hear me, Lord Ilfedo. Hear my warning. A war broods in Subterran, and only the strength of your sword stands between you and death. Long, long ago, a prophet of God forged this sword and bequeathed to it the power of Living Fire. Yet the power that your sword wields comes not from itself but from a Hold in a faraway land that we had thought forever lost. In recent days that land has been rediscovered by our enemies. Even now one of their agents walks the Hidden Realm in search of the Key of Living Fire to take it for her master. Ilfedo, she must be stopped or the might of your sword will be forever lost, and all that we have worked to save will be destroyed.”

  Thoughts of the Hemmed Land’s trouble fled Ilfedo’s mind. Without the sword of the dragon’s power, he was a mere swordsman. Skilled, yes, but without the might that had formed him into the potent protector of his beloved daughter and had enabled him to kill the wizard Razes.