A Most Refined Dragon

by Paul Chernoch

“You want me to send you back?” said Melissa. She pointed to a rifle. “All too easy.”

  He pulled her onto his lap. “This body has its uses.” With his hands around her waist, he felt her breathing quicken, smelled the pungent sweetness of her unwashed hair, and saw the smile she was holding back. There were soldiers in the room, so this was not a date.

  Melissa sat tall to get a better view and pounded her fist against her thigh. “What are they waiting for? Why are we here?”

  “They told me, but my peculiar ability to understand other tongues falls short. My mind translated one unknown word into another. They keep looking up, so it may be something that flies.”

  “A helicopter?” said Melissa.

  “That was the word,” said Shoroko. “This place has not been used for some time. What was its purpose?”

  Melissa unwrapped herself from his arms and walked to the window. “May I look out?”

  The soldier nodded.

  Past two camouflaged vehicles and an assortment of rusty drums and brush, she saw an oil rig stripped of its fittings. To the right was a rocky outcrop at the side of a small mountain with a boarded up tunnel.

  “My father worked in the mine,” said the dark-skinned man beside her. “Just as it was played out, they struck oil. He praised Allah for his good fortune. Then Allah’s lighter-skinned ‘servants’ from the north came and took it from him, and my father from me. I will take it back.”

  Melissa looked the man, or rather teenager, in the eyes, such pained eyes. “I am a doctor; I save lives. If I were a soldier, I would fight with you. What is your name?”

  “Samir.” He turned back to face the window. “They are here.”

  A faint buzz grew into swishing and whirring and the sound of air being sliced into ribbons and the skies beaten into submission like the people subsisting below. A column of dust rose as the helicopter descended near the oil rig. The soldier raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes. “It’s them.”

  Melissa watched through the dust. “I see Chinese characters on the side of the helicopter. Too much dust to read. May I?” The man handed her the glasses. She twisted the focus knob.

  Shoroko got up and put his hand on her back. Her heart beat faster. “What does it say?”

  “Jinsay Ju Long Exploration Company.” Melissa’s eyes teared.

  “What’s wrong?” said Shoroko.

  “I learned to draw those characters when I was only three. My father was so proud of me that day. He told me that he hired only the best calligraphers to paint that name on all his signs, because our family was known by that name and must always display it with pride. He said that from that day on I would be permitted to paint the family name.” She wiped her eyes dry and put the glasses to them again. Then she gasped. “The words are right, but the alignment is poor, the strokes uneven. Some horizontal bars don’t even cross the uprights.” She jumped back from the window. “It’s a trap! That is not my father’s aircraft!”

  The man beside her shouted into his radio. Men popped up from behind the jeeps, barrels and oil rig and fired on the helicopter, which returned to the air in response. The chopper door opened and machine gun fire sprayed the area. One by one the men on the ground were picked off.

  Beside Melissa, the men in the shack unpacked a rocket launcher from a crate, smashed a window, set the launcher on the sill, aimed and fired almost straight up. The smoky trail arced towards the helicopter. Melissa clapped her hands over her ears and closed her eyes. The explosion knocked her to the ground, split the roof open and sent flaming metal flying about.

  Shoroko grabbed her arm, dragged her to her feet and snatched a rifle with his other hand. He kicked down the door and they ran. Two of the men in the shack were killed by shrapnel. Samir and the other survivor fled the burning shack. They scooped spare ammo clips from the bullet-ravaged jeep.

  “To the mine!” shouted Samir. “There is no cover elsewhere. We shall die in my father’s mine.”

  Before Melissa could remind him that he had shot down the helicopter, a second helicopter flew over the ridge. Moments later, it was joined by a third, bearing Sudanese markings. They ran.

  Melissa ran in front, followed by Shoroko. Samir and his companion walked backwards, firing at the men exiting the helicopters. There were twenty of them. Four fell, wounded. The rest took cover behind the oil rig. Melissa reached the boarded up mine entrance and ripped a few planks off before ducking inside. Shoroko followed.

  “How do you work this weapon?” said Shoroko.

  The two freedom fighters entered the dim light of the mine entrance and took up kneeling positions on the left and right, behind the remaining boards. Samir took the automatic rifle and slid a latch. “This is the safety. The gun is now ready to fire.” He held it up, put the butt against his shoulder and put his eye behind the sight. He touched the sight at the front of the barrel and the aperture at the rear. “Line these up on the target. Pull the trigger quickly and release to fire one bullet. Hold it down to fire many. And pray.” He handed it back to Shoroko, along with an extra clip. With the two best positions taken, Shoroko lay on the ground in the center, poked the end of the rifle through a gap in the slats and waited.

  The advancing soldiers wore camouflage. It didn’t matter; Shoroko was a hunter. He fired at a lump in the dirt a hundred yards away and missed. He saw a puff of dust where his bullet hit, corrected his aim and fired again. Closer. The man broke cover and ran to the side to hide behind the burning shack. He fired a round in front of the man. Missed. These are faster than arrows. The man was almost to the shack. Blam. Dead.

  His next three bullets killed three more soldiers.

  Samir laughed. “You asked me how to fire a gun? I should be asking you!”

  There would be no more laughter. The thunder of hundreds of rounds fired rapidly was followed by hundreds of tiny beams of light puncturing the planks giving them cover.

  “I have a flashlight,” said Melissa. “Does this mine have another exit?”

  “Yes,” said Samir. “If your destination is the afterlife.” He looked to his companion. “Hassan, I will stay behind to slow them down. Take the doctors. Perhaps you can find a more fortified position.”

  Silence.

  “Hassan?”

  His friend slid sideways in slow motion, then hit the ground.

  Without a moment of mourning, Samir spoke. “You are on your own. I will meet God here, and you, down the tunnel behind us. My conscience is clean. I will buy you enough time to confess your sins and make your own peace. May we meet soon in paradise.”

  Shoroko crawled back slowly from his position to where Melissa stood around the corner, out of the line of fire. He stood, took her in her arms and kissed her. Then leaned his head on her shoulder, stroked her hair and whispered in her ear. “This was a good way, but we need to find another. I love you forever.” He pulled back.

  “No. No!” said Melissa.

  “Samir, I am a fighter. I have a home and a family to fight for, just like you, but I still have another way to fight for them; you have only this one. You go with Melissa. I will guard the entrance.”

  Samir bowed. “I will remember your courage.” He grabbed Melissa’s arm. “You had your last kiss. Let’s go.”

  All strength left her and she let herself be dragged into the darkness. She had just enough wits to pull the flash out of her robes and click it on and shine it so she could get one last look at his face. When the light down the tunnel disappeared, Shoroko kneeled, replaced the spent clip in his rifle, retreated into the tunnel thirty feet and lay flat to wait. He listened as the soldiers crept closer, but made no attempt to shoot.

  A soldier standing to the side of the entrance stuck his arm in and played a flashlight about. “One dead. No sign of the other three. They are trapped.”

  “Go in after them!” barked their commander. “Two wounded doctors and one boy with a rifle should be no match for you!”

  Four men tore the boards off the entrance. Wi
th the extra light, they saw Shoroko. Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! It was the last thing they ever saw. He jumped up and charged from the tunnel entrance. With his first shot he took out the commander. Then he sprayed bullets in a wide arc and took out five more men. When he was halfway to the nearest helicopter he got a lucky shot and hit the fuel tank. Whatever rejoicing he had planned was cut short. The first bullet struck his leg, the second his arm, bringing him to his knees and knocking his gun from his hands. The soldier shooting at Shoroko pointed his weapon for the killing shot. Click. Empty. Shoroko picked up his rifle one-handed, propped it against his body, swiveled it to point at the man and pulled the trigger. He missed. In agony, he lifted his bloody arm and rested the gun on it, aimed and pulled the trigger. Click. The soldier’s terror changed to frenzy and both of them raced to reload. Shoroko was faster. He fired and the man went down. Shoroko looked down and saw blood coming from his chest. I guess he didn’t miss after all. He slumped to the ground. If there were more bullets, he didn’t feel them. Dr. Kozi had died days before, and now his body followed suit.

  Shoroko had his big chance to save his damsel in distress, but Melissa was still in danger, and now there was no way to get to her again. When he awoke, his mind was filled with the memory of gunfire, the smell of burning fuel, and the dread that he would face such weapons again. It was an hour before dawn. “Orokolga, let’s move. Death isn’t sleeping, so we shouldn’t either.”

  While with Melissa on her home world, despite the danger, his heart had been flying. But with the arrival of death’s angels in metal birds with deadly stings, his heart had been grounded. They had lost the air.

  * * *

  April 20th. Rampart.

  Fewer clutches were sent up for night duty, since only bats, nocturnal birds or the naturally migratory flew after dark. They used fire instead of ribbon, stopping at refueling stations hourly. Dancing streaks of fire lit the sky, but Melissa no longer felt like dancing or flying. She’d doubted whether the time she spent in the Sudan, with Shoroko’s spirit inhabiting Dr. Kozi’s body, was real or a dream. Her doubts were gone. They were together, and now they were not. If he survived the death of Kozi’s body and returned to Kibota, he’d be nearing the advancing front of the migration from the south with Orokolga. The Golden Dragon was a hlisskan. She would survive. He would not.

  She stared at the great, crystal orb suspended before her. White Talon’s memories surfaced, all alike fuzzy, except one. The death cry of White Talon as she spewed fire upon the orb, desperate to see her Silverthorn again – that memory was pristine. With identical desperation, Melissa did the same. Shoroko, Shoroko! She wanted to see him again before he died. Around and around the globe she walked, discharging her fire. Was it skill that activated it? Passion? Need? It didn’t matter, because its depths reawakened, but it revealed not Shoroko, but a mesa, worn by erosion, standing apart from the tip of a mountain range. Creatures were streaming up to it. It was the Census Stone.

  The olissair paced around the sphere, and the scene rotated, affording her a view of the stone from every angle. When she stopped, the image zoomed closer. By and by she examined every corner of the stone and the low ridge connecting it to the mountains. When she found its door, the globe went dark. The secret way into the rooms beneath the Census Stone was clear, but Melissa didn’t care. She wanted to see her man.

  One last time she approached the orb, but it refused to show her heart’s desire. All it depicted was the canyon beside her cave. In frustration she followed it. She tried to maneuver it east and south, but instead it went north and west, deeper into the Talon Mountains. As dawn lit the topmost peaks, and waterfalls glistened in the first light, she saw four clutches of weary Reds flying through the canyon back to the fountains to meet their replacements, led by Lofty K'Fuur. A mass of birds and pterosaurs flew out from a side canyon and swarmed the Reds. Rukhs, eagles, giant bats, vultures and dactylaries fastened their claws onto each lissair and brought them down. Battered upon the rocks at the foot of the canyon, she saw the outnumbered Lissai fumbling to open their flasks. No way are Red meds as strong as my blue flame.

  Melissa had a choice. She could rouse the exhausted Claws cramming the cave. She could raise an alarm. She could have, but didn’t. Nobody trusted her, and she would show them. She’d rescue K'Fuur’s clutch and save the hatching grounds and…

  Shoroko had died for her. True, he expected to live again, but he died for her. After her selfishness and jealousy, she wanted to believe she could be heroic. Or was it that she was convinced her dream of happiness with Shoroko was dead and she couldn’t live without that hope and wanted the birds to consume her in their savage hunger?

  She flew into the mountains. The hatching grounds were three hundred lisstai this side of where the Reds fell. She would fly past the grounds to see if they were still secure before coming to the Reds’ rescue. The White River was just a brook at this elevation. Feeling empty, she ascended to two thousand feet, where she could drink the sun before it warmed the valleys. When her wings glowed faintly green, she was ready. She focused her telescopic eyes on the canyon ahead, found the mouth of the cave at the hatching grounds and stared. K'Fuur and his Reds stood there. They were bloodied and their wings too injured to fly, so they’d fought their way all that distance on foot. With claw and tail and tooth they pounced on everything that moved toward the cave. That everything was tens of thousands of carrion, with more joining the feeding frenzy every minute. One by one, Reds collapsed from exhaustion, blood loss, and pain. She went into a steep dive, fearing she’d be too late. As she dove, she saw the downed Reds reach for their flasks, pierce the cork with a claw, pop it out, and chug its contents.

  Within seconds, the downed lissairn were on their feet, with multiplied strength and fury. Several were able to fly again, and in seconds the battle turned. Birds by the score were cut down with necks snapped by tail whips, or flung against rocks, or gobbled up by other birds. Sheets of fire proceeded from almost empty gullets and burned thousands of birds instantly. The uncontrollable fury scattered the horde and they dispersed, flying east, rejoining the migration and leaving off their assault for good.

  Then the Reds’ hearts failed and they fell. Melissa landed and ran to each, showering them with healing blue flame, but it was too late. All were dead, except one: K'Fuur. She mended his wings, fetched him water from the stream, and closed his wounds. While she was doing this, she noticed his flask remained full.

  He awoke, raised his head, saw the bodies of his slain klatch-kin, and closed his eyes again. That was not enough to stop the tears.

  “Their bravery and devotion exceeded my skill at healing,” said Melissa. “Your hlissak shall receive my report of how honorably they acquitted themselves.”

  A low growl escaped from K'Fuur’s throat. “You shall make no such report.”

  Melissa shrank back. What? Did their leader expect more from his wings? Could Anspark be so cruel?

  K'Fuur took his flask in his claw, removed the stopper and poured the contents on the ground. “The hlissak is my friend, and he is my master. Today I showed how poor a friend I am. Tomorrow, how can I continue as his servant?”

  Melissa did not understand. She tried to sniff him, hoping Silver intuition would emerge and explain his attitude. All she smelled was the tonic K'Fuur had poured on the rock. A familiar smell was masked by other scents, but unmistakable. It was poison. It was the maddening fluid she’d fought to remove from the life of their world. “Why? Why did you take such a risk? Madness and genocide! That’s what this will lead to!”

  “Anspark wants us to be strong! Do you hear me? Strong! Not weak. We were to drink only when all other hope failed. He didn’t tell us what it contained.”

  “But you suspected.”

  “He is the only person I told! It has to be Anspark, but it can’t be. I have known him over a century. He is hard, but fair, and our people have been ably led. I could never believe that he would…” K'Fuur turned around, to face away from Meli
ssa. “You refuse to take the easy way when it is offered, Melissa K'Naribo. You’ve earned the right to command, but I am unworthy to follow. I cannot serve Anspark anymore. Tell me where to fly, and there I will fly. Tell me what to carry, and I will carry it.”

  “Can I tell you what to say?”

  “Yes, but I do not want to say it.”

  “Turn around and face me,” said Melissa.

  K'Fuur turned.

  “What is the poison? Where did Anspark get it?”

  “It was taken from the guilty Hand, Orjay. Do not fault yourself for being unable to heal my friends. They are under a curse, and the Grantor was compelled to withhold his gifts.”

  “What did he take from Orjay?”

  “His blood.”

  * * *

  Melissa and K'Fuur stood before the cave mouth alone. More birds would come, but no more Reds would be there to defend against them. Why didn’t I enlist a contingent of Whites? Why did I think I could do this alone? She looked at K'Fuur. Anspark tried to win this battle on the strength of Blaze alone. He thought he was this world’s savior. Silverthorn thought he was Kibota’s savior. She held out her own claws. I thought I was its savior. How many impressive talents had been given to her? Would twice as many suffice? Ten times? A hundred? I am not God.

  The enigmatic voice spoke inside her head. You are learning.

  Melissa was no longer surprised to hear the words. Neither did she pounce with demands or questions. All around me are willing to die to save the ones they love. Last night Shoroko joined them. I refused when you told me I had to die like a seed being planted. The gifts you gave me would be better employed by another.

  Do you question my generosity? Listen. When a doctor saves a life, it is saved. It is humility to know what is too big for you to save. It is gratitude to know what you can save with the resources entrusted to you, and to do it. You need to ask yourself, what am I supposed to save? The Reds failed because they chose whom they would save, and chose poorly.

  A wind rose, tossing up a cloud of white blossoms. They floated in a stream along the canyon wall, and their perfume masked the odor of the morning’s carnage. Melissa sat with her thoughts, until the silence was unbearable. “K'Fuur, what are we protecting? Who are we supposed to save?”