by Bryan Davis
“Build a fire. When they see the smoke, they will come. They have keen eyesight and will notice a rising column of smoke.”
Adrian reached into his trousers pocket and withdrew the flint stones his father had brought. As he shook his loose fist, letting the stones tumble within, he searched the area for other trees. Several green saplings stood here and there, plenty of wood to create a smoky fire, but starting them would require something older and drier.
“Okay,” he said, nodding. “I’ll do it.”
After chopping down eight saplings and collecting fallen leaves and needles, he piled them on the river’s pebbly bank. Then, he gathered handfuls of grass and pushed them underneath the pile. It took a few minutes to ignite the grass with the flint stones, but the flames finally caught and began to spread. Soon, a blazing fire erupted, creating plumes of white and gray smoke.
“Do you think that will be enough?” he asked.
“It should be.”
Adrian put the hatchet in its sheath and refastened his cloak with its leather belt, still damp from the river. As the wind whipped the fire into a frenzy, he stayed close, hoping to dry out a bit more as he watched the sky to the south. A single white puffy cloud interrupted the sea of deep blue, nothing to prevent the dragons from detecting his signal.
While he waited, Cassabrie hummed a new tune, this one more melancholy than the others, perhaps a dirge for a funeral. It seemed appropriate for the occasion—flames calling for a potential executioner. His shoulders sagged. The wordless song’s influence weighed him down. This Starlighter was powerful indeed.
Soon, a reddish brown figure took shape, a dragon bobbing with the beat of its wings. “Do you see it?”
“I do,” Cassabrie said. “He is a guardian, not the most powerful of dragons, but also not the least. He is dangerous.”
“What should I say when he gets here?”
“Tell him that you surrender to the mercies of Magnar, and you request representation from Arxad.”
Using his foot, Adrian shoved the raft into the river. No sense in giving the dragon a clue as to how he had arrived or where he had come from. “What kind of representation?”
“Arxad acts as legal counsel for slaves who break the law and ask for his help. Usually they are guilty, so Arxad does little to protect them, but if we make the appeal, the guardians have a legal obligation to acquiesce.”
“But couldn’t he just kill me? No one would ever know that I made the appeal.”
“Yes, he could.”
“I see. Another risk.”
“You guessed correctly, but many of the guardians are sticklers for the law, so your chances are good if they fail to notice your weapons.”
Adrian watched the approaching dragon. With a sword and hatchet at his disposal, his arms yearned to reach for them and make ready for battle. But that would ruin everything. This dragon meant fast transport. Battle would have to wait.
The dragon stormed down from the sky and landed in a flurry. “What are you doing here?” it bellowed.
Cassabrie spoke up. “Tell him you intentionally signaled him. Show humility.”
“I made the fire to signal you,” Adrian said, bowing low.
“Tell him you’re surrendering to him and you appeal for Arxad’s protection.”
“I humbly surrender to you, good dragon, and I appeal for Arxad’s protection.”
“Oh, do you now?” The dragon looked Adrian over, his head swaying from side to side. “How long have you been wandering? You are too well-fed to have been gone long.”
Adrian raised his hands to tighten the cloak’s belt again but quickly lowered them. Even though it had loosened, drawing attention to it might be a bad idea. “Your observation skills are keen. I have been here less than a day, and I soon realized that I need to be with my people.”
“How did you escape? Where did you breach the wall?”
“Well … you see …”
“Tell him you will explain everything to Arxad,” Cassabrie said. “He is your counselor, so to him alone you will confess your actions.”
“I beg your pardon, good dragon, but I must appeal again to Arxad. He is my counselor, so I will make my confessions to him.”
The dragon looked him over again for a moment before rumbling, “So be it.”
“Ask him his name,” Cassabrie said. “It might help you later.”
Adrian repeated his bow. “By what name may I address you, good dragon?”
“Zerath. Why do you ask?”
“So …” Adrian had to think fast. No time to wait for Cassabrie’s advice. “So that I may tell my fellow humans about your merciful ways.”
“Uh-oh,” Cassabrie said. “That was a mistake.”
Zerath reached out with a wing and slapped Adrian across his cheek, knocking him on his side. “Tell your fellow humans about that!”
Adrian dabbed his cheek with a finger. Blood. Not much, but the wound felt like fire.
“Get ready,” Cassabrie said. “Fasten your cloak tightly.”
With another flurry of wings, the dragon rose into the air and flew in a low, tight orbit. Just as Adrian refastened his cloak, the dragon snatched the back collar with his rear claws and lifted him into the air.
Adrian held his cloak against his body, making sure it couldn’t flap in the wind and expose his weapons to any dragon watching from below. If several of the beasts patrolled the wall, surprise would be his only chance for survival.
As they flew higher, the wall came into view on the horizon. It stretched out of sight to both east and west, but at this distance there was no way to tell how tall it was or how well guarded. Below, the river tumbled into a waterfall, meeting a north-flowing stream that did the same from the opposite side of a canyon. A brown rectangle appeared in the flow—their raft. It eased toward the brink of the waterfall. After pausing for a moment at a protruding rock, it bent toward the shore and beached itself, at least for the time being.
Adrian imagined falling off the raft and plunging into the canyon with the roaring water. He shuddered. For some reason, that picture raised more terror than did the reality of being dragon prey.
“Are you warm enough?” Cassabrie asked. “Don’t answer verbally. Raise a finger if you would like more heat.”
Adrian shook his head. The cloak was warm, and the combination of the fire and the encounter with the dragon had brought plenty of heat.
He raised his hand to his lips and kissed his ring finger, hoping that would communicate his feelings. Since she was missing that finger on both hands, surely she would understand as he shouted his thoughts. I love you, Cassabrie. I’m glad you’re with me.
THIRTEEN
DREXEL walked up a flight of stone stairs and emerged into a new world, a rocky, desertlike land, mostly flat, except for a mesa in the distance and a forest in another direction. A hint of light just above the tree line grew in brightness, signaling the approach of dawn.
Turning, he examined the structure he had exited, another mesa. Perhaps forty feet in height and a couple thousand in circumference, it stood out in this vast flatland like a wrinkle on otherwise smooth skin.
He checked the photo gun at his hip. It was wet, but it would probably dry before he needed it. And the journal? He reached into his tunic’s inner pocket and withdrew the leather-bound book. The cover was moist, but the pages seemed unharmed. The instructions leading to the crystal remained intact. Soon, he would use it to reopen the portal and take the Lost Ones home.
He let his gaze run across the brightening sky. No dragons. If they really did fly, maybe they had not yet awakened. Perhaps soon they would fill the air and begin their slave-driving ways. But where were the slaves?
Something moved far away, a line of activity near the distant mesa. Slaves heading to work? There was only one way to find out.
Drexel jogged in that direction. Getting there before the dragons showed up might be his only chance to talk to the slaves.
After wading thro
ugh a shallow stream and covering about two miles of terrain populated by dry grass, stunted trees, and an occasional lizard, he arrived. A small girl walked through an arched entryway into the base of the mesa, her head low and her bare feet shuffling, apparently the last of the line, a water carrier perhaps. Surely she was too small to drill for gas.
Drexel followed her into the cavelike tunnel, staying far enough behind to keep out of sight. As he skulked behind the girl, the tunnel, narrow and dark, concealed him in shadows. Soon, she stepped over a low shelf of rock, signaling the end of the tunnel, and walked into a more brightly lit chamber.
Stopping at the shelf, Drexel peered into a cavern. Six men and five children, three boys and two girls, all wearing torn and dirty trousers and tunics, sat on the floor in a circle. Various tools lay strewn about—hammers, chisels, ropes, pails, and drills. A hole in the ceiling directed a shaft of light to the stony floor behind them.
He licked his lips. A familiar bitterness coated them. Extane.
One man spread out his arms and said, “Are we all agreed?”
The other men nodded, a few murmuring, “Yes,” or “We are.” The children, most kneeling, nodded as well.
“When a patriarch dies,” the first man said, “the Code tells us to weep for a day, but to celebrate the life he lived here and his new life hereafter.”
“And the prophecy,” a girl sang out. “It’s another day closer to coming true. The Starlighter will come back.”
The man reached out and rubbed her mop of scattered dark hair. “Yes, Cassandra. Thank you for another reminder. It is one day closer. Maybe even today she will come, and the man in whom she dwells, whether a warrior, a prince, or a beggar, will lead us to freedom at long last. Today we will weep, so let us maintain silence throughout our labors. But keep in mind that our dear friend is already free. While we weep for ourselves, let us celebrate for him. His chains have already been torn asunder.”
“Are we going to have lessons?” Cassandra asked. “I memorized all my vocabulary words.”
He patted her on the head. “Good girl, but not this morning. We will pick up where we left off tomorrow.”
While the slaves rose to their feet, Drexel drew back into the entry tunnel and pressed against the wall. A Starlighter dwelling within a man? What could that mean? Clearly they were expecting a rescuer, a man carrying the spirit of a woman, and they didn’t know what he was supposed to look like. Could the situation be any better?
He touched his photo gun. A prophecy. A rescuer. Might he be the prophesied one without even knowing it? But what about this Starlighter person? Who was she?
Slowly reaching into his tunic’s pocket, he felt for the genetic keys. Pinching one, he withdrew it and set it in his palm, a finger, still well-preserved by the druggist’s chemicals and closed off at the base by a cauterizing seal.
The night he collected the fingers reentered his mind. When he crawled into Marcelle’s bedroom and set the sword over her and her mother’s throats, he had hoped to take Marcelle. Killing and dismembering a little girl would require less effort, but when her mother volunteered, fear and a desire to finish the job had overtaken him. It would be better to snuff out an adult witness and trust that a little girl’s memory would never be able to identify him. How many times had he regretted that the two were sleeping together that night? The fear of being found out had haunted him ever since.
Yet, this time, a new thought came to mind. A Starlighter? Even as Marcelle’s mother begged for her life, trembling on her knees, a strange light glowed in her eyes. Hands clasped and skin slick with sweat, she had cried, “Please. Do to me what you must. I will cooperate. But do not return to my daughter. Spare her life and her innocence.”
Drexel scowled. Stupid woman. He wouldn’t commit such a revolting act. Adultery? Child rape? Despicable. The very thought was beyond nauseating. She would be the sacrifice, the lamb who would lose her life to save countless others. How could he violate a holy vessel in such a base way?
Yet, as she begged, her eyes continued to glow. What was it? At the time it seemed to be a reflection of the moon in her tears, but now …
“A Starlighter,” he whispered. Didn’t the moon shine even more brightly as he plunged the dagger into her heart? Even as each finger broke away from her hand, hadn’t her blood sparkled? When she gasped her final breath, didn’t the glow in her eyes radiate, so much so he had to close her eyelids to keep the beams from signaling for help?
As he gazed at the finger, he smiled. The timing of this epiphany had to be Divine Providence. Like the guiding stars, everything was lining up. Not only were the eight jewels the key to entering Dracon, they would be the sign for the slaves that he was the anointed deliverer, and with the Starlighter’s fingers pointing the way, he and the Lost Ones would march home in triumph.
Drexel peeked into the chamber again. The laborers had dispersed, leaving only the children in sight, each one carrying a pail. They stood in a line as if waiting to take a turn looking at a big hole about twenty paces away.
He walked in and stooped next to the closest child, the little girl they had called Cassandra. With tangled dark hair and tattered trousers and tunic, she looked like one of the street urchins in Mesolantrum. “Where is the man in charge?” he asked.
Cassandra let out a little gasp. “Who are you?” She quickly covered her mouth with a dirty hand, apparently remembering her vow to stay silent.
The other children turned and stared, but they didn’t make a sound.
“I am a very special friend.” Drexel gestured for the children to gather around. When the five had made a tight circle, he spoke in a hushed tone. “It is noble of you to honor your departed patriarch with silent prayers, and it seems that your grief will soon transform into joy. You see, I am the rescuer you have prayed for. The Starlighter is within me.”
Cassandra’s eyes widened, but she stayed silent. The tallest of the children, a bare-chested boy who appeared to be about twelve years old, whispered, “What do we do?”
Drexel rose to his full height and extended his hand. “What is your name, son?”
The boy shook Drexel’s hand. “Orlan.”
“Well, Orlan, if you will take me to the man in charge, we will begin our plans to end your slavery and take you to freedom.”
Orlan looked at the sword on Drexel’s hip. “How can you defeat the dragons with that?”
“Shhh.” Drexel set a finger to his lips. “Maintain your silence for now. Just take me to your human master.”
Orlan gestured with his head for Drexel to follow. The boy stopped at the edge of a pit, perhaps a hundred paces in circumference. A ledge skirted the pit, wide enough to allow two people to walk abreast between the hole and the surrounding wall.
Drexel looked down. No voices rose from the darkness, only the sound of clinking metal and soft grunts. Six greenish lights floated far below, like fireflies, though jerking, usually in time with the staccato sounds.
As he lowered himself to his knees, Drexel looked around. The hole in the ceiling cast a light that angled against the wall, not providing enough illumination below. The miners likely carried a flameless source of light they could discard later in the day when the sun’s position in the sky provided a better angle for natural lighting.
He licked his lips again. The bitter film was thicker now, more intense. Extane likely saturated the air, explaining their need for keeping flames away.
As he set a hand down, lowering his body to call for the men, his fingers touched a tube that led into the pit, parallel to a long ladder that faded into the depths. Made out of twisted cords of fibrous plant material, it snaked in the other direction through a hole in the wall. In fact, five other tubes ran along the ground and fed through the hole.
Drexel lifted one with a finger. An air tube. With the extane so dense, the miners likely couldn’t breathe without a fresh supply from outside.
Orlan knelt next to him and gave the air tube a gentle tug. A louder gru
nt sounded from below, and a few seconds later, a man appeared, climbing the ladder. A dirty gray mask covered his mouth, with the end of the tube attached at the side. Wearing a three-day beard and a kerchief around his sweaty neck, he stopped with his hand on the second rung from the top.
He took off the mask and nodded, his features tense. “Greetings, stranger. My name is Jacob.”
Drexel took note of Jacob’s apparent anxiety. After all, how often did strangers visit a slave operation? The friendliest tone possible was in order. “Greetings to you, as well. I am Drexel.”
As the children gathered around, Jacob stepped out of the pit and set his hands on his hips. “Orlan, why are you not carrying stones? Ghisto will be furious if you don’t make morning quota.”
Orlan hustled to a large basket at the edge of the pit and began transferring rocks to his pail. The other children did the same, but they kept looking at Drexel, wonder in their eyes.
After smiling at the children, Drexel turned back to Jacob and looked him over. He appeared to be a no-nonsense sort—stern and clear-eyed. Perhaps he would be sensible and agree to the plan.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Jacob said, now more at ease. “Your name is unfamiliar. Are you a village worker?”
Drexel set a hand on his sword’s hilt. “Not exactly. I have come from a faraway land, and I hope to be of service to you.”
When Jacob’s gaze shifted to the sword, his brow dipped low, and his muscles flexed. “Why have you brought a weapon? What is your intent?”
Drexel cleared his throat. “As I said, I am from a faraway land. Wild beasts populated my path, so I needed a weapon for safety’s sake.”
“You speak in a strange manner, so I believe you’re from far away, but how can you be of service?”
“I think I can help you with this operation. I assume you’re mining extane gas.”
“Extane?” Jacob shook his head. “We mine for gas, to be sure, but it’s called pheterone.”
“Just a matter of synonyms. I recognize the bitterness in my mouth.” With a casual glance toward the hole in the ceiling, Drexel raised his brow. “How many other mines are there?”
