by Diana Estell
“You were created by the law and are likewise bound to it,” said Magethna, serenely composed, pointing to the fence in front of them, for even if Lady Savila wanted to, she could not pass through the gate.
Barrier or no barrier, Lady Savila removed her coal-black double-edged sword. The hilt was an image of her dragon-self, while the cross bar resembled her wings. The Shadow Kings’ misty drawn blades resembled her sword, but her blade was more active. Waves pulsed through her blade and seemed to bend to her mood. A presence unto its own, the sword swirled in hues of scarlet, seeking out blood to quench its angry thirst.
“The law is in place for now, but one day you will call me master, and you will bow to me. You and the pathetic Bennetts will remain on your knees and will not move,” said Savila.
“Humble, isn’t she?” Dagon murmured.
A muffled snarl lifted her lip. Her body readied to strike.
He said nothing, pleased to add more fuel to his sacrificial fire. From experience, he knew she enjoyed supplying the fire to all who defied her.
She sang in hissing sounds. The words and eerie melody grated and made him cringe, like those nasty lemon drops. The Shadow Kings and Dagon sheathed their swords in preparation for what was coming. No swords would be raised in homage.
“You can approach us now,” said Magethna, standing in front of Mark’s bedroom window.
Savila dissolved through the gate, steam hissing behind her as she moved toward Magethna.
“You cannot deny me what is mine by the law. The blood of humanity is by rights mine. You are only delaying the inevitable. My patience dwindles as my sword thirsts. You know it is by my sword that blood will spill, thus propitiating the laws of nature. I did not set these laws, but laws they remain, and laws will be obeyed.”
“We know the laws and saw them set. You were not there, so do not think you can challenge us on its constitution, for you will fail. You are allowed only what the law requires,” said Dorian.
“The law requires ...” Her finger shot up fast, red polish now mimicking the flow of blood, glistening in the moonlight. Her skeletal finger pointed to Mark’s bedroom window, “That boy will come to me.”
“You do not order time,” said Magethna.
“I have re-ordered time.”
The Seraphs tilted their heads as if listening to something.
“He is in your domain, but his life is to be spared,” said Dorian.
To Dagon, the Seraphs danced to Savila’s tune with the laws she re-ordered.
“Yes, it will be allowed and what a perfect day, a day of remembrance. Poignant, is it not? That still leaves my sword parched and the laws of nature dangling precariously. The Stone comes with the boy.”
“The Stone stays,” said Dorian.
“For now.”
No further discussion was necessary. Lady Savila turned around, her billowing train flicked up sharply as she dissolved back through the gate. She hissed to the kings.
Dagon stood frozen in place. His mind raced, protected from eavesdroppers. His emotions were numbed. Frost bite would set in if he stayed numb too long. Pain was better, for when one is numb, they cease to care. Exposed and vulnerable, one would be easily manipulated by the desires of the devious. What he really needed was another cigarette, to take another calming drag.
Savila began to shake in a hazy blur as a tornado-like vapor surrounded her. Steam moved over the curves of her body. With one swoop of her hand, she changed back into a dragon. The piece of fabric from her dress changed into a crushing tail. The dragon wings flapped, picking up speed. Her head reared back and thrust out fast, causing fire and ash to expel from her mouth. A roar thundered from her mouth, shaking the ground. The dragon flew quickly into the air then plummeted into the gorge and was gone.
After Savila left, an intense light raced down Forest Avenue, moving through the gorge. The ground violently rocked. Gravity tore at the light, sucking it beneath the ground. Once again, Dagon’s attention rested on that fleck caught in the gorge. The shaking diminished with the shrinking intensity of the light. Grinding to a halt, the ground sealed shut.
So much for that light. Just another piece of dust buried in the ground.
What a grim reminder of his own existence. He did not want to be hidden away, but to live above ground in the open with Mary. Thinking of her and what he had to do meant one thing: sacrifice.
His thoughts streamed through his mind too rapidly, making him edgy and possibly vulnerable. Taking no chances with Mary’s life, he ate another lemon drop. Crunching and shivering violently, goosebumps popped up all over his body, causing him to shiver again. The foul candy tasted worse than the one he last endured, if that could be possible. He would have eaten nails if he knew it tasted better. At least the benefits outweighed the taste, his mind closed for business.
Lighting a cigarette, he took a deep drag, letting the nicotine do its work. His tension eased, blown away with his exhale. He was now ready to do what he had to, and with this, he walked toward the Abyss. Mr. Cool and Sledge, who had flanked him at Mark’s gate, halted, unable to go any further. After inhaling one last drag, he flicked its light out. Red and silver ashes floated to the ground like cursed fairy dust. The ground opened, and he walked down into the Abyss. He swallowed a lump in his throat just as the ground swallowed him into darkness.
6
Power of Blood
The light above rose over his world of night. Darkness had its good qualities; he could hide his reason to live for Mary. A man with a will is harder to kill.
Black glass, made from volcanic obsidian rocks, glowed along the path. Each step created multiple mirrored images of himself, which he didn't enjoy.
He approached the door to the Throne Room. Two shadow soldiers guarded the entrance. Each held two vaporous blades which overlapped the door. In unison, the two shadows pulled up their blades, letting Dagon enter as they bowed.
The Throne Room was expansive and rectangular. The glass floor held gruesome swirls of blood pulsing underneath it which coincided with Savila’s temper. Eerie strips of partially burnt cloth hung from the rough black concrete walls and ceiling. The burnt strips were her trophies, with frayed edges subtly swaying. After she killed her victims and burnt their flesh into shadows, Savila had her prisoners hang the cloths. The oldest and most sacred to her were the burnt reminders of immortal obedience from her Seraphic kin when their bodies submitted to her will through fire, flame, and ash. The glory of the Shadow Kings’ transformation hung above her throne.
Savila said nothing at Dagon’s entry. Silence messed with his composure. His emotions screamed in his body. Savila enjoyed toying with her subjects like this; he knew this all too well.
Her fingernails drummed the armrest. Her jaw clenched. Her throne reflected a carved graven image of her dragon self. Wings with clawed fingers wrapped around her, curving inward to form arm rests. Her hairpiece of broken glass glistened, reflecting the blood under the floor.
He would not hang his head in shame. He would not give her the satisfaction. For Mary, for himself, he straightened his body and walked over to his throne. The scarlet color from the blood under the glass reflected and swirled on the surface of his black onyx throne. Blood in this context was a warning, submit or be destroyed. Trying his best to hide his edginess in the haunted house, he sat and occupied himself by shining his armrest.
“It is one thing when you are above, and I call you, but it is entirely another thing when you are in my dominion and yet you keep me waiting.” Her acidic words cut the air around them. Her hand clenched into a fist and struck her armrest, and the swirls of red in the floor echoed her violent mood. Savila rose from her throne. Her train followed her, gliding over the red swirls beneath the glass. “They thought King Lunion still lived. Why did you inform them otherwise?”
“Where do you think that they thought he was? On holiday?”
Savila slowly moved to the side of his throne, her train barely moving, and she brought her
thirsty blade to his neck. His mind escaped to Mary.
“Your existence hangs by a thread.” Savila barely raised her voice. Real, unquestionable power did not need to be loud to make its point. “I gave you your power and can easily take it away. I gave you the choice of power by sealing your title over humanity, bound by the ruby of your investiture. For that reason, you and your mate will co-rule by my side, and yet, this is how you repay me? I have no master in my dominion, for I am the master.”
She leaned in closer to his ear, causing him to grip his armrests. He focused on imagining the intense blue of Mary’s eyes, bracing himself against Savila’s cruelty. Savila may not have raised her voice, but the raised sword sliced his skin, drawing blood. He showed no outward signs of pain, though the blade burned, blistering his throat with the fire of its sharpness. Her sword drank from his wound, bringing his blood up the blade and into the hilt. The parched skin of her wrinkled hand regained its youth, which continued up her arm and rejuvenated her entire body. She flung the excess onto the floor, adding to the swirling blood underneath the glass. She took her left hand and placed it over the wound.
“You see? I can be merciful,” said Savila, healing the wound.
Her mercy overshadowed by the unmistakable warning in her words. He sat struggling to hold on to his mental oasis. Quite simply, he was being punished. His high rank did not spare him the penalty of what Savila deemed as insubordination. Her back-handed attempt at mercy only made the punishment crueler. The blood loss made him more alert, but not as in control as it normally did. Yet seeing his blood on the floor gave him strength. He changed the mental image of his bloodletting to that of donating blood, making it more palatable for his mind to wrestle with. A blade at your throat makes you take stock of your life quick and think fast. Unwittingly, she helped him.
The gentle, swirling waves of his blood moved under the glass.
“They know so little. This only shows how limited the power of the Golden Land is.” She smirked. “The boy’s dream went well then, just as I thought it would.”
He said nothing, nodded his head, and stared into space.
“You will provide a written agreement that your mate will lure him in.”
This horrible command didn’t completely take Dagon off guard. He half expected it. Mary did not have to be involved in Mark’s capture. Savila relished in causing him deep misery and delighted in smashing all options of hope, just because she could. He squirmed in his seat. “How long do I have?”
“Four grains of sand.”
“A month?”
Savila smiled. Her answer confirmed he had just one month.
“Well then, you must present your plan to me before the stroke of midnight. You have a lot at stake, Dagon: a life for lives, as it were. Before you are dismissed, I offer you one caveat, which will aid you in conjuring up a plan. The boy’s family spends Memorial Day each year at their friends’ house, surname Glynn.”
Dagon arose from his throne and headed out. The shadow soldiers brought their swords up, saluted him as he passed, and closed the entrance behind him.
Savila remained on her throne, watching Dagon walk down the hallway. The sound of his heels echoed along the glass, emphasizing the hollowness in his soul. His mind remained blank. Closing her eyes, she watched him head to his private quarters, then poof, he became invisible to her.
Savila imagined herself sitting like a black widow, motionless. In the hunt, humans might think that the spider slept, but this would be folly, for her still appearance would be deathly deceiving. Her limbs felt loose and relaxed. A trap in disguise. Tightening muscles aroused her senses as prey drew closer. Without warning she would strike, taking her victims by surprise. She cared not for the outward body, which dangles, but for the life within which thrashes and squirms, fighting to live.
With this, Savila relished how humans instinctively feared creatures that hide in the dark. Her mind saw this truth in an ancient storybook, The Princely Stone, passed down to Henry by his father. A gift from those pesky Seraphs, Dorian and Magethna. The book, with its loud voice, now lay closed and still in Mark’s room as it should. Savila despised the book, though it had its uses. Its current function was to terrorize children with a monster humanity had tried to sanitize. Their naivety only made her evil more fun and easier to sink into the hidden recesses of their souls. “After all, they’re just stories.” Savila laughed.
The three Shadow Kings appeared out of the rough concrete wall. Once inside the Throne Room, they stood at attention while Savila came toward them. The train of her dress moved over the glass as waves of blood carried her toward them.
“We heard everything, Lady Savila,” said Lamel.
“Blood speaks, my kin. The sands are falling into place. As the great gathering commences, we shall smite all who oppose us and bring the Golden Land to its knees.”
“How many grains of sand must fall before Lunion is avenged?” All the brothers’ hands touched their swords.
“The hour is upon us, and the sands will bind to the king I chose. An ancient memory reborn.”
“We long for this,” said the Shadow Kings.
“Dagon cannot rule without a title. You are bound to the blood, and Dagon must be made to see reason,” said Lamel.
The two brothers of Lamel nodded.
“There will be a day of reckoning: a day where the blood to which I am bound will be written in stone.” Savila’s hands curved into the air and clenched into fists. She brought them down to her sides and continued. “I will erect a monument greater than all the pharaohs of Egypt and the emperors of Rome. My monument will seal everything that was, is, and is yet to come.”
“After the Boy is taken, the Golden Land may try to aid in saving humanity.”
“I have foreseen this. Their efforts will only raise me to power and nothing more. Bonds of old will be crushed and then made new. Lamel, you will assist Lord Dagon after he delivers his plan to me.”
All three reached inside of their vaporous garments, pulling out three gray stones. Presenting them to her as if they were jewels, they bowed their heads.
She took the stones one by one and placed them onto Lord Dagon’s throne.
“Stones from a recent earthquake ... you did well,” said Savila.
“All will be as you have ordered. What do the thoughts of Dagon’s blood say?” said Lamel.
“He’s in love, but love has a price,” said Savila.
“And what is this price you speak of?” asked Ligon. “His bonded mate has been thinking about the childhood plans she made.”
“These plans have been elusive because of her insurmountable sufferings,” added Listian. “The beauty is Lord Dagon will dutifully pay the price which his love requires, perpetuating deep emotional grief.”
The Shadow Kings delighted at the seeds of guilt and despair, which Savila had cultivated in Mary’s life. Their sprouts festering, Savila cut new furrows even deeper than before. Their root system buried deep into Mary’s soul, choking out the nourishing benefits of hope.
In a blur, Savila brandished her sword and flicked another drop of Dagon’s blood onto the glass floor. The Shadow Kings dissolved back through the wall. Savila sheathed her sword, watching the new addition swirl and blend with the old, the fabric of her dress caressing the glass as she moved back to her throne. She sat, eyeing the fabric trophies above her head, licking her lips.
Patting her sword, waves of blood chained to her thirst pounded the glass beneath her. Tilting her head, she smirked as she waited for the boy to be her prisoner of death. Dorian and Magethna will be rendered helpless, seeing no option but submission.
With this delicious thought, she pulled out one of the shards of glass from her hair, holding it up in mockery of the Seraphs. Her kin had forged all the vials of the eternal flame which hang on the White Tree in the Golden Land. The One Voice forbade anyone to pluck a vial from this tree, for fear of death. Blood from the glass floor reflected through the shard as she twist
ed it back and forth in her hand, allowing the memories it held to flow through her.
The Battle of Agincourt, France, 1415
“King Lunion desires your title,” whispered Savila into Dagon’s ear. She caressed his neck with the tip of an arrow.
Dagon didn’t even flinch as she drew blood, his full attention on the battlefield before them.
Savila eased the arrow into his hand, brushing her fingertips against the fletching. “Let fly,” she murmured, stepping back.
Dagon nocked the arrow and obeyed. The arrow sailed straight for King Lunion’s heart. At the last moment, a cry caused him to turn. The arrow grazed Lunion’s shoulder then it struck the owner of the warning cry, a soldier running toward him. In a blast of gray smoke, Lunion simply evaporated. Without a word, Dagon turned and left the battlefield. The soldier lay screaming in mortal agony, his conquest for kingship denied in this life.
In a veil of secrecy, she offered the dying soldier a chance for immortality. With his last breath, his soul entered her dominion. In her dragon form, she flew to the soldier’s castle where she found his infant son sleeping.
Savila stroked the boy’s curls, flowing over her fingers, turning her nails black as ebony, when the boy’s mother entered the room.
“Who are you?” The woman quivered.
“You must know this day would come. You bartered your son, so your husband would be king.” Savila patted the boy’s head. “You have a selfish mother.”
“I changed my mind. You can’t have him!”
“Your husband’s earthly body lies dead. Kingship, though denied in his life, will be restored in another. In my thirst, you will die. Your son will rise to be a king through paternal blood.”
“No! Please … I’ll give you anything!”
“Yes, you will.”
Black acid smoke moved over Savila’s sword as she slashed and burned the skin at the lady’s throat, killing her. The infant awoke. Silently, he stared at Savila as her sword drank from a gurgling fountain of his mother’s blood. Sheathing her sword, she took out an arrow from within her cloak, dipped the arrowhead in the woman’s blood, then placed it back inside the cloak.
