Born Of Fire

by Heather McCorkle

reached a certain age. Iron was one of the few things that made it easier.

  One eyebrow lifting, Camilia shifted Aiden into the crook of her left arm. “Don’t make this harder on yourself Shannon. You wouldn’t want Aiden to get hurt now, would you?” she asked.

  Brandishing the crowbar in one hand and the glow of her power in the other, Shannon took a step forward. “Course not, which is why I’ll fight ye till me last breath.”

  Crowbar raised, she lunged at Camilia, letting out a fierce cry as she did so. Camilia lifted an arm that glowed red to block the blow, and Shannon made her real move. She lashed out with her power, encircling little Aiden in a golden glow, and used it to yank him from Camilia. Legs thrashing and lungs working hard with frantic cries, the baby flew through the air and landed safely in Shannon’s arms.

  A wordless cry of rage issued from Camilia as she threw a bolt of red power at Shannon. The iron of the crowbar absorbed most of the power, but enough slipped around it to shove Shannon back a step. Movement out of the corner of her eye drew her attention to another possible threat.

  Two figures fought in the glow of the burning car, one wielding a reddish-orange power, the other wielding green.

  Kevan’s alive! The thought renewed a bit of Shannon’s strength as her attention snapped back to Camilia.

  But Camilia wasn’t there. With the light of the fire glaring in her eyes, it was nearly impossible for Shannon to see in the darkness. She shifted her sight so she could see the energy of living things instead of objects. To her left, a red glow flashed dangerously close. She raised the crowbar but her arm and shoulder took the brunt of the blow. Hot pain poured through her, making her muscles convulse. Her hand opened and the crowbar started to slip, but her fingers closed around the end of it just in time.

  Out of her peripheral vision green energy flashed, letting her know Kevan was still alive and fighting. This time she resisted the urge to turn and look. Instead she stumbled back, letting Camilia think she’d hurt her more than she actually had. Taking the bait, Camilia advanced on her. Cradling the now quiet Aiden securely against her, Shannon only half-faked a stumble as she stepped off the asphalt back onto the grass.

  Red energy glowed around Camilia’s hands, reflecting off her eyes and the many teeth her two-wide smile revealed. She lunged for Aiden and Shannon swung the crowbar with all her might. The blow missed Camilia’s head but connected solidly with her shoulder. Eyes widening, Camilia shrieked in pain and stumbled from the impact of the blow. Shannon raised the crowbar high for a final blow but a horrible scream halted her in mid-motion, the familiarity of the voice pulling her attention in the direction of the sound.

  On one knee, dangerously close to the burning car, was Kevan, head held in one hand. A shadow flashed by him and suddenly Virgil was behind him. He wrenched Kevan’s head back with one hand and drew a gleaming knife across his throat with another. Agony scorched across Shannon’s throat as if it had been her who had received the death blow. As a bonded couple there was no way to avoid feeling what he felt and part of her didn’t want to avoid it. With Kevan dead she didn’t know if she wanted to live.

  Her screams rose into the dark of the night but they weren’t alone, Aiden cried with her as well. The sound of his little voice, so strong and desperate, renewed her will to live, and to fight. Dropping the crowbar, she pulled power up from a reserve she hadn’t known she possessed, and pitched a ball of golden energy at Camilia. It struck her in the chest and sent her flying back. Shannon advanced on Camilia’s groaning form but her foot slipped in something and she went down. The breath shot from her lungs as she came down hard on her back, holding tight to Aiden rather than trying to break her fall. It hurt like hell but she didn’t care; he was safe.

  The horrible press of Camilia’s power reached her a moment before the woman stood over her. Shannon tried to sit up but a wave of dizziness kept her down. For all Aiden’s miraculous healing, he couldn’t replace the blood she’d lost and now it was catching up to her. Tears burned her eyes. She lifted her head enough so that she could kiss Aiden.

  “Live well, me son. I love ye,” she whispered to him. She started to repeat the words in Irish but a searing pain exploded in her chest, turning the words into a cry.

  Camilia hovered over her, her hands wrapped tight around the crowbar that was shoved into Shannon’s chest. The last sight Shannon saw on earth was the green/golden glow of her infant son’s power as he tried in vain to heal her.

  Aiden & The Dragon

  16 Years Later…

  At the tangy scent of blood and charred flesh, Aiden’s horse began to crow hop and dance beneath him. When they came across the first blackened human skeleton the stallion squealed and bucked until he was forced to dismount or be thrown. The moment his feet touched the scorched earth, the beast reared, tore its reins from his hand, and ran off with its tail up in the air. That’s what he got for bringing a fresh, untried warhorse that had undergone very little training.

  That thought stuck in his mind as if something was off about it. Wait, a warhorse, why did he have a warhorse?

  The acrid, parched air stung Aiden's throat with each forced breath and dust puffed up as his booted heals met with the blackened earth. The sight of the leather boots, intricate designs weaving around them, gave him pause. Where were his hiking boots? His gaze traveled up to his breeches, his chainmail armor.

  His, what? Part of his mind realized he was dreaming and he relaxed. He’d take a warhorse, primitive clothing, and scorched landscape over reality any day.

  Silence tightened around him like a shroud. Shrunken and twisted trees arched overhead, blocking out what little sunlight managed to filter through the cloud-choked sky. A sword hung like a dead weight against his side, not heavy due to its sturdy make, but to its dark purpose. Even realizing its purpose didn’t take away from the pleasant escape of the dream.

  Blood seeped into his mouth from his cracked lips and he spit to get rid of the coppery taste. The ache in his legs, combined with the thirst that set his chest on fire, made it feel as though he'd been walking for days. Maybe he had, he couldn't remember. And he wasn’t about to try. Best not to disrupt the dream or he’d wake up.

  White gleamed in the black path ahead. At first he saw only one spot, but as he drew closer there were more, scattered across the landscape like paint flung from an artist's brush. As he came upon the first spot a gasp tore from him and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. The vacant eyes of a human skull stared up at him. The spots of white were all skulls, more than he could count.

  Stepping carefully around them, he strode down the pathway with lance held loosely in one hand and shield in the other. But there were too many. Bones crunched under foot, making him cringe. His stomach heaved and bile stung the back of his throat but he swallowed it down. When his quivering legs threatened to betray him, he stopped and sank down onto a fallen log, dropping his lance and shield to grasp his armored helm in both hands. Shaking his head, he reached beneath the face shield to scratch at the sweat that dripped from his smooth chin. A moment later he stood and began to pace.

  Honor and glory had driven him to venture forth on this near-impossible task to defeat a monster that had long been terrorizing him. Many had gone before him and they had all perished. That was a bit too close to the truth but apparently his unconscious mind couldn’t come up with anything better. He slapped his gauntleted fist into his hand and resisted the urge to fight the dream. Returning to the moss-covered log, he began to caress the cool hilt of his sword, savoring its rough texture for what may be the last time. Digging his booted toes into the dark soil, he reached beneath the thick braid of his black/brown hair and wiped the sweat from his neck.

  Best to see it through, no matter where it led him. The respite from reality was worth it. He rose to his feet and gathered up his lance and shield.

  An eerie sound played upon his frayed nerves as he marched down the path with his shield clutched tight in one white-knuc
kled hand, lance in the other. He tried to concentrate on the rhythmic sound of his breathing and ignore the strange noises, but to no avail. His own heartbeat betrayed him by keeping time with a sinister song. His blood chilled and a winter breeze danced up his spine at the realization of what he was hearing.

  The birds were singing a chorus of the death march with the wind whistling along. A moment of panic washed over him as he feared for his sanity, but he laughed it off and kept marching.

  As if irritated by his indifference, the birds began to sing louder, the wind whistled more fiercely, forcing his damned heart to speed to the rhythm. Trees far too big to be swayed by such a wind danced in strange harmony, their dead, black branches reaching up to the cloudless sky as if to beg for release. Sweat poured from beneath his helm and his breath came in ragged gasps as he fought the instinct to turn and run after his disloyal steed. Then, as abrupt as the snap of one’s fingers, the song ended and the trees stilled.

  In a way he cared not to contemplate, the silence was more frightening than the eerie song had been. In one step it became cold and murky, the air thick and nearly impossible to breathe, tasting of charcoal and darker things. Something caught his foot and he plunged to the blackened