Darius and the Dragon's Stone

by D. L. Torrent

Darius faced Mr. Athus as he stood at the edge of town. He glanced back toward the direction of his home—and mother. “You’ll watch out for her, won’t you?”

  “Of course, I will.” Mr. Athus tried to smile, but his face became grim as he looked at Darius’s hand. “Perhaps I was wrong in asking you to do this. Maybe we can find a way to remove the mark and—”

  Darius placed his hand gently on Mr. Athus’s arm and smiled. “And what? I survive while Brandor dies? You have no one else to send.”

  Mr. Athus sighed and patted Darius’s hand. “Darius, why you have been chosen for this task, I do not know. But you are strong, and I have no doubt that you will find your way.” Deep lines creased his forehead. “I’m sorry no one in the village would offer you their horse. Stubborn lot! Fools at that, but since our wizard left, they have been suspicious of everything outside the village, including you and your mother.”

  “I’ll manage. Besides, it’s one less mouth to feed along the way.”

  Darius’s attempt at humor did not lighten Mr. Athus’s mood. He continued to frown and shook his head. “I can’t offer a great deal myself, but I want you to take this.” Mr. Athus reached inside his cloak and pulled out a small pouch that jingled with coins. “It’s not much—”

  “I can’t possibly—”

  “Yes, you can.” Mr. Athus placed the pouch in Darius’s hand, clasping it closed with his fingers. “I can’t send you off without something, and I’m quite certain your wages will not suffice. Oh, and…” He let go of Darius’s hand and again reached beneath his cloak. This time from under his robes, he pulled out a sturdy sword, polished and expertly made, and handed it to Darius.

  “A sword?”

  “It was left behind by the wizard. I’m sure he would want you to use it now.”

  Darius’s eyes were glued to the sword as he accepted the intimidating weapon. Its blade was long, broad at the handle and thin at the point, with a subtle ridge running the full length of the blade along the center of both sides. He examined it carefully, and when he looked down the length of the blade, the forged metal resembled the shape of a diamond—a diamond with four distinctly sharp, distinctly deadly edges. It was a formidable weapon.

  The shaft itself was tightly bound with a thin piece of black leather, and embedded in the very end of the grip was a rough yet completely clear stone. When Darius ran his hand over it, an obscure force tickled his palm, and he stared at it in awe.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said.

  “I daresay you never will.” Mr. Athus handed Darius the sheath. “Now it’s yours.”

  Darius returned the sword to its sheath, pausing a moment as he stared at the wizard’s instrument. He nodded and fastened it to his waste, having no idea how to use it. Strangely, it seemed natural having the blade hang by his side.

  “And I have one last thing.” Mr. Athus removed a book from his bag and handed it to Darius. “I’ve always taught you things from books. Books give knowledge, some useful and some not. Let us hope this is useful.”

  Darius stared at the cover and read the elegantly inscribed words. “Spells, Old and New.” He looked up at Mr. Athus with questioning eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  Mr. Athus shrugged. “When I was searching for the sword, I found it, and I had a…feeling. I don’t know. Maybe some of its words can help you defeat the darkness that has taken our book or, at the very least, allow you to have a better understanding of words that might be directed at you.”

  Darius placed the book in his bag with his other belongings and shook hands with his old friend. “Thank you, sir, for everything.”

  “No. Thank you.” Mr. Athus smiled. “Take care of yourself, Darius.”

  It was the first time Darius had seen Mr. Athus show any sign of hope since the book had been taken. He breathed deeply. “I won’t let you down.”

  Mr. Athus nodded, and Darius turned, never looking back. He knew his friend’s eyes followed him, but they both remained silent until distance forced each to take their own path—alone.

  Darius shivered as he left everything that was familiar and headed for the only known source of dark magic, the Drach Mountains. Once there, he had no idea what he was going to do or even what he was looking for. A fiery beast that appears from a rip in the sky is not a common occurrence, and he could only imagine how it would sound should he find someone along the way and ask, “Excuse me. Have you seen any fiery beasts about? The kind that leave red marks embedded under your skin and steal books?”

  Still, he remembered vividly the crimson light that rained down around the tower and hoped that he might find its source in the mountains and ultimately find the book.

  A long day of traveling, and thinking, left him with no more clarity, and now he stood silent before a damp, swampy mire. Darius sighed. For hours, he had watched it coming as he gradually descended upon it, its vastness preventing any reasonable route around. He stared out at the bubbling mud. He’d read about it in some of the books Mr. Athus had given him, but the words did not prepare him for the expanse that now lurked before him. Large trees and dense shrubs grew out of the wet ground, fed to engorgement by the nutrients they drank in this place, but to Darius it was poison. He touched the cured skin pouch that held his water, thankful he had filled it at the last creek crossing.

  Darius whistled a breath through pursed lips. Weaving about like a scrambled web were thin, sloshy paths, barely wide enough for secure footing. He placed one hesitant foot on the slick ground and proceeded forward, careful not to slip into the depths of the slime. He had read that creatures unknown slithered about below the iridescent surface, and he had no desire to awaken them to his presence.

  By evening, his boots were soggy, adding unwanted weight to his fatigued legs, and he was thankful to spot a small clearing of raised ground, protruding invitingly above the sea of muck like an oasis in a parched desert. Surrounded by trees, brush, and vines, he believed it would be a safe enough place to rest his weary body for the night.

  He tossed his pack against the base of a moss-covered tree and began gathering some kindling. Once he piled the sticks just so, he tried to start a small fire, but the moist sticks and twigs refused to allow a flame to take hold. Defeated, he sat shivering. The ground was cold and damp. A spring rain had cooled the air, and the night came with much discomfort. Sitting on a rotting log at the edge of the small clearing, Darius thought of home and the comfort of the small room with the tiny fireplace. How he wished a fire blazed to warm his body and calm his confused mind.

  He pulled out some dried meat and began chewing. He stared off toward a distant place he couldn’t see, blocked by the trees of the mire, to the distant hills. Somewhere beyond those ridges lay the Drach Mountains, his destination. Shaking his head, he dropped his face into his hands and began rubbing his temples. He had no real plan. Somehow, he hoped he might simply steal the book back, unnoticed and never having to use the sword, which now lay undisturbed on the ground beside him.

  He finished his bland meal and pulled his blanket over his shoulders, trying to get comfortable atop a pile of damp leaves. Closing his eyes, he pretended he was asleep in his own bed, but his fake sleep was soon interrupted when a flapping sound violently stirred the air in the trees above him. Darius sat up and silently unsheathed his sword. He’d been mindful of creatures of the mire, but he hadn’t thought about animals of the air. What bird’s wings could cause such wind, or was it only a delusion of exhaustion and the twilight of sleep?

  A heavy thump shook his oasis, and he knew this was not a dream, though he would welcome a nightmare to the vibration of footsteps shaking the ground beneath his body. His heart pounded against his chest so hard that he felt he was being beaten like a dusty rug. The sound of trees cracking and wet soil squishing beneath large steps soon revealed an enormous shadow creeping into the small clearing. When the figure emerged into full view, Darius could not believe what loomed before him—a dragon.

  Darius wished he
had read his new book. But he did know something of dragons—that if it so desired, he would soon become a nicely cooked meal for the beast. How pathetic he stood as he wielded the sword, a serious blunder in his incompetent hands, but it was all he had. And as he stared up at the dragon, defeat showered down on him, failing Brandor and his mother all in less than a day.

  The dragon circled in front of Darius and then sat down. With its enormous, clawed hands, it dragged some dead limbs into the small pile Darius had already made in his attempt to start a fire. Then, with a single breath, the dragon set a fire to blaze in the cold of night.

  With his sword pointed squarely at the dragon, Darius’s eyes were fixed on the beast. Its powerful body was covered with blue, leathery scales, the color of a clear, dark night. In the glow of the fire, drops of water glistened on its skin like stars. Its head was large, with impressive jaws that came to a blunt point where sharp teeth were visible behind thin, sleek lips. Its nostrils flared, and its almond shaped eyes glowed white in the firelight. Tufts of feathery fur created eyebrows that extended up like long, pointed ears, flowing over the crown of its head. Its wings were tucked along its sides and partly covered its massive hind legs. Its front arms were only slightly less impressive than its back legs, its hands strong with sharp claws. Along its back were two parallel ridges, extending all the way down the long tail, which was now curled around its thighs. To finish it off, spikes protruded from the end of its tail, and Darius was sure that with one swift swing, he would be skewered and hung to roast over the fire.

  “Much better, don’t you agree?” the dragon rasped.

  “You…You talk?” asked Darius, still awkwardly holding the sword.

  “Of course I do,” answered the dragon. “Now, would you kindly lower that sword before you hurt yourself?”

  Darius peered at the dragon through squinted eyes, the sword swaying slightly as the weight pulled at his arms. He tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat like a dried piece of bread. He stared at the dragon with a thousand unknown questions swimming in his head, but only one reached his lips. “Aren’t you going to eat me or something?”

  The dragon appeared to grin as it tilted its head, one of the feathery brows raised. “I could, if you’d like. But my preference is not for human flesh. Now would you please put that sword away before you manage to sever a limb? Your limb, that is.” The dragon’s smile faded back to a nonchalant pose, but Darius did not move. “As you wish, but do not blame me if you cause yourself harm. My name is Prydon.” The dragon lowered its head and peered deeply at Darius. “So tell me, Darius. Why have you left the safety of Brandor?”

  “Brandor? What do you know about Brandor? And how do you know my name?”

  Prydon laughed; at least that’s what Darius thought he heard. “I know more than you realize. But you, my friend, appear to be quite confused about a great many things. Tell me, what do you know of dragons that you would continue to threaten me with a sword—a wizard’s sword at that?”

  “I…” Darius paused, staring dumbfounded at the dragon yet unable to alter his expression.

  “I thought so. There is much you do not know of dragons, but you will find out in time. For now, accept that I am a friend, and I will help you find your way.”

  Darius stared at the fire, tempted by its warmth, and hesitated before lowering his sword. Accepting that he wouldn’t even know how to use it against such a massive beast, he returned it to its sheath and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, waiting for a deadly blow. After a moment, he opened one eye to discover the dragon flicking some dirt from beneath a claw and shaking his head in disbelieving humor. Darius’s tension eased, and he crouched near the flames, soaking in the warmth like a sponge.

  The dragon moved closer, his face lowered near Darius’s hand. “You have been marked.”

  “So I’ve been told, but no one knows what it means.”

  “I do.”

  Darius’s gaze shot from the fire to the dragon, his stuporous state dissolved to determination. “You do? But…how? I mean, you’re a dragon…”

  “I am a dragon. And I am also the one who can answer your question. But before I do that, I must know all that has happened in Brandor.”

  Darius settled his sights on an orange flame and began telling Prydon all the events that had transpired since the book was taken: the fiery beast, the shrill sound it made, the village meeting, Mr. Athus’s concern, his mother’s fear, and finally the mark that now mockingly encompassed his hand like the threat of a bully on a playground, daring him to attempt to discover its secrets.

  “I fear that this is only the beginning. The mark you bare is that of a dark sorcerer.”

  “I’ve been told that as well, but that still doesn’t tell me what it means.”

  “It means you must face Klavon.”

  “Klavon?”

  Prydon glanced at Darius’s hand. “Klavon is the sorcerer who is responsible for all of this and for the mark on your hand. And that mark must be removed.”

  Darius looked down at the dark streaks that wound like vines around his hand, dancing in the reflection of the fire, and then he turned his eyes to Prydon. “How?”

  “You must defeat the one who gave it to you. You must defeat Klavon.”

  “You mean…kill him?” Darius’s hand shook as he stared again at the marks. “What happens if I don’t? I mean, I was hoping to just steal the book back.”

  “That mark will stay until you have defeated it—defeated Klavon. If you do not, that mark will eventually poison your heart and you will suffer a terrible fate.”

  “I’ll die?” The pulse of the streaks that infested Darius’s hand and wrist throbbed as if laughing at him.

  “There are worse things than death.” Prydon said, adding some logs to the fire before he continued. “Klavon is a dark sorcerer who has done evil things. He killed your father—”

  Darius stumbled as he quickly jumped up, and had it not been for Prydon’s steady claw on his shoulder, he would have taken a painful swim in the flames. “You know of my father? You know of my father’s death?”

  “I do.” The dragon paused and pulled a log up behind Darius. “Sit. This will take time. Your mother never told you how your father died?”

  Darius sat back down and rested his back against the log, lowering his head and kicking a stick into the fire. It sizzled and popped as the moisture was forced from the wood. “No. She refused to speak about it. I guess it was too painful.”

  “Painful? Perhaps, but your mother is very strong, if shortsighted. I suspect she was trying to protect you from the same fate as your father. A motherly instinct, no doubt, but she cannot protect you from your own providence. Now you must face the same evil that drove you and your mother from your home.”

  Darius listened, waiting for the story he’d always wanted to hear. Heat glazed over his face like hot coals pouring across his skin, but the source was not the fire that burned in front of him. It came from within as he anticipated, or perhaps dreaded, the words that would come out of Prydon’s mouth.

  “Klavon was always jealous of your father. They grew up together, best friends, or at least that is what your father thought. When the time came for them to enter the Valley of Wizards—”

  “Valley of Wizards? What’s that?”

  The dragon scratched his cheek with one long claw. “Hmm. Did your mother tell you nothing of where you came? Of who you are?”

  “As I said, she wouldn’t talk about it. She’d simply say, we were where we were safe.”

  “Yes, you were safe in Brandor, but no more. So I shall tell you all I can. The Valley of Wizards is a place where the young wizards, after years of training, go to receive their blessing.”

  “Blessing?”

  “Blessing…or perhaps curse. The Valley of Wizards is a place where wizards of old dwell when their time in this land has passed. It is they who can read the heart of a wizard, reflected in two stones: one in their sword, giving them strength in bat
tle, and the other in their staff, giving them the power to wield spells beyond compare.”

  Darius touched the sword’s handle. “Is that what this is?”

  “Yes, it is. You have a wizard’s sword, but that stone…a dragon’s stone…will not help you. It will only help the one for whom it was intended.”

  “I guess that’s good to know,” said Darius. “But you were saying…”

  “Your father and Klavon trained for years, and when it was their turn to enter the valley, your father returned with stones adorning his sword and staff as clear as the purest water. Klavon, however, did not.”

  “Crimson? Like the rain that fell in Brandor?”

  “Yes, exactly. You see, the color of the stone granted a wizard reflects his true nature—whether he is good, kind, compassionate—cruel, oppressive, evil. Crimson proved to all that Klavon was bitter in his heart, probably from the jealousy he had, for so many years, allowed to consume him.”

  “You said he was jealous of my father, but why?” asked Darius.

  “Your father’s strength, his kindness, his integrity. Perhaps it was your mother’s love for your father. Perhaps it was all of these things that fed his jealousy, and I believe your mother recognized more than most the true nature of Klavon, watching the two as they grew up together. Sometimes it is easier to perceive the truth from a distance, as an observer. In any case, Klavon vanished, never to be seen again until that final day when Klavon returned and killed your father.”

  “So…my father was a wizard?”

  “Yes, Darius, and I believe that is why Klavon has marked you, for his own purposes, though I do not know what those purposes are.”

  “You never said what would happen if the mark isn’t removed. You said it would poison my heart—a terrible fate, but not death.” Darius rubbed one prominent, wide vein of red.

  “Are you certain you want to know?”

  Darius replied, “Not particularly, but I think I should know, don’t you? I mean, after all, it is my heart.”

  “That is true.” Prydon bowed his head, his brows coming together. “You will become like the evil that has attacked you. You will be lost to all you hold dear, subservient to Klavon for all eternity.”

  The words stung like the moment he was seized by the fiery creature, but this time it was his heart that burned, not his hand. “So, now what? What am I supposed to do?” Darius tried to hold the tears swelling in his eyes. He failed.

  The dragon turned away, as if trying to allow Darius privacy in his pain, and spoke softly. “I will see to your training as your father would have. You will become a wizard and fight Klavon. It is the only way to stop this curse and save Brandor…and yourself.”

  Darius didn’t know what to think. His father was dead because of Klavon, and now the only town he’d ever known was being undone. And he had been charged with finding the book and returning it to Brandor as quickly as possible. Yet…something told him the dragon was right.

  But as quickly as he felt he could trust Prydon, a soft, warm breeze blew against his ear, stark against the cold night. It stirred in his mind like a storm blowing across a sea, churning and growing.

  “Your town is dying,” came the soft whisper of a girl’s voice. “Your mother will be next. Beware tricksters in the night. He means to sway you from your true path.”

  Darius shook his head violently. A balmy breeze swirled around his body, building his confidence in a blanket of warmth. Suddenly he became enraged.

  “Are you kidding me?” Darius sniffed and wiped the tears from his eyes. “I don’t have time to train! I need to get that book back now!”

  Prydon tore around to face Darius, his tail slicing a clump of trees at the ground. He stared at the boy as if surprised. Then he shot back, “You would fail if you attempted such a feat. You are untrained and unarmed—”

  “I have this sword, don’t I?” A blaze of anger flooded Darius’s cheeks and his eyes flared.

  “That sword is useless to you. I doubt you could so much as cause a scratch to Klavon.” Prydon stood tall above Darius, his brows curled in anger. “Do not be foolish.”

  Darius grabbed the sword once again and aimed it at Prydon. “Foolish? How dare you! It’s not your heart that’s in danger.”

  Prydon stomped the ground causing Darius to wobble. “This curse will not consume you quickly, unless you allow it! You have time to be trained properly. Months even, with proper discipline.”

  “Months? Brandor doesn’t have months! Besides, how would you know that? You’re no wizard. But…but I am, and I’ll find a way. I have a book on spells. I’ll learn those.”

  “You’re coming with me to be trained!” demanded Prydon.

  “Oh, no, I’m not!”

  Prydon threw his head back, shooting a streak of flame into the dark sky. When he finished, he snapped his jaws at Darius. “Son of Thyre? No, a foolish child! I offer my help and you refuse. Instead, you choose death? Or maybe worse! So be it!” Prydon swung his tail into the fire, sending the burning logs out into the wet mire.

  “Hey!” Darius yelled, as he watched the warm flames extinguish and the logs sizzle out of sight beneath the dark water.

  Prydon roared, and Darius almost fell backwards trying to avoid Prydon’s spiked tail as he swung around. With the flap of wings, a cold wind blew on Darius’s face. Prydon pushed up from the ground and was soon swallowed by the sky…and the sound of the dragon’s wings faded into the darkness of the night.

  Darius walked to where the fire had been. The ground was still warm, and a few burning embers remained. He quickly grabbed some sticks, but again the moisture would not allow the coals to bring a flame to life. Darius sighed and raked what was left of the coals together with one of the sticks. He huddled closely and thought of the dragon. Why didn’t he understand? How could he waste time when Brandor and his mother were counting on him?

  A cold mist began to fall, and for a moment, he wondered where the warm breeze had gone. With a final fizz the coals darkened. Darius stared at the sky where the dragon flew away, wondering if it were anywhere near, lurking behind some cluster of trees, waiting for Darius to admit fault and beg him to return. Anger again swelled inside of him and he spat hard on the ground.

  “I don’t need him,” he snapped out loud, hoping Prydon would hear. “I have my book and this sword.”

  But the dark of night kept him from reading, and the rain fell even harder. Darius curled up on the ground where the fire once blazed, the warmth quickly fading, and pulled his blanket over his body. Tears came once again, and Darius chided himself for such a childish display. He lay there motionless, except for the shivering caused by the damp cold, until exhaustion—and doubt—overtook him.

  Chapter Five

  The Pile of Bones