Taylor Davis and the Flame of Findul

by Michelle Isenhoff

  Swain pushed Elena toward the tractor trailer in front of him. “We have a long hike in front of us. It’s still miles to the trailhead. One of you will drive us there—now—while I hold the boy to make sure you do as you’re told.”

  Without any other choice, the two angels climbed into the rig and Ranofur started the engine. I watched them drive away, unable to stop them.

  I sank to my knees on the cold, damp earth, my head bowed and hands covering my head. My entire team had been taken. Only I, the least effective of them all, was left to attempt a rescue. Our mission was doomed.

  I wallowed in the dirt for several long moments before pulling myself wearily to my feet. It was utterly hopeless, but I had to go after them. I had no other choice.

  With the light of day, I could see my destination. The slopes of Mount St. Helens rose before me like the hunched shoulders of a headless giant. The explosion several decades ago had blown the entire top off the cone. I couldn’t see the crater from this direction, but I could make out the little wisps of smoke rising up from the underground furnace. Findul had started early this morning.

  I returned to the tent to gather what I might need. Since I’d missed the ride to the trailhead, I’d have to hike the whole way. I packed my Schmiel belt full of granola bars and water bottles, grabbed extra gloves and a first aid kit, donned my new pair of hiking boots, and prepared to follow the roadway signs to my destination.

  As I took one look back at our tent, the rising sun cast my shadow over the invisible tarp. I could pass for one of the thousand hikers who climbed the peak each season. I looked so common, so unimpressive. What chance did I have? How could I ever hope to bluff my way into the volcanic forge and free my friends?

  I had a sudden inspiration. It would involve the release of the bikers, but it was a risk I was willing to take. I figured they were in no condition to make trouble before the cops arrived anyway.

  After folding up the Schmiel cloak, I pounded on the door of the bath house. “I have an offer to make.” I could well imagine how cold and wretched they must be feeling. “I have a fire, food, the means to brew coffee. I’ll let you out on one condition.”

  “Name it.” I think it was the Jolly Green Giant.

  “I want clothing from you that will fit me.”

  “Done.”

  I grasped the cable Ranofur had twisted into a lock. Using all my strength and the help of a fist-sized rock, I managed to loosen it enough to release the smallest prisoner, a wiry little fellow with a long white beard. In a matter of minutes, I was clad in a sopping Harley Davidson T-shirt and leather jacket, which were only a couple sizes too large, along with a red bandana to wrap pirate-style over my hair.

  The little man happily donned my dry parka. Together we attacked the cable on the bath house door and let out several dozen blue and chattering Harley dudes who quickly ransacked our small camp. The fire was soon blazing, the food devoured, and all four sleeping bags settled onto the shoulders of the larger men.

  The little fellow didn’t join the others. Instead, he pierced me with a look of keen intelligence. “You’re after the Gray Admiral, aren’t you?”

  I jerked involuntarily and stared at him in shock. “How do you know that?”

  His eyes were smothered in wrinkles when he smiled. “His spell didn’t touch me. I remember everything. He’s a devil, all right. You’ve got your work cut out for you. My name’s Hellfire.”

  “Taylor,” I answered, shaking his offered hand.

  “I’m a Baptist preacher.” He let loose a high-pitched cackle at my further astonishment. “My late wife and I, bless her, used to enjoy motorcycling together after I retired. Bikers are a tight bunch and right quick to embrace a fellow rider, so I got to know a few of them over the years. They’re rough fellows, and I couldn’t help but do a little preaching once in a while. But they took it good naturedly and nicknamed me Hellfire.

  “Well, about four weeks ago I was asked to do a funeral for a gang member. I was under strict orders to not preach too long or hard,” he cackled again, “but an old preacher never gives up a shot at lost sheep, so I accepted. During the luncheon afterwards, a fellow in a gray naval uniform strode in looking for volunteers for some job or another in exchange for these real pretty knives.”

  He held up a short, curiously shaped dagger. The blunt side was cut into a row of jagged teeth, and the entire blade was made of red-tinged metal.

  “Raybold steel,” I gasped.

  He looked at me keenly but didn’t ask for an explanation. “I noticed that as soon as the fellows accepted the gift and wrote down their name, they started acting funny. I can’t explain it, exactly. They still spoke and moved freely, but there was a new deliberateness in their motions that just didn’t seem natural. So I followed along and pretended to be one of them. Wasn’t too long after they all started out on a journey that ended in—”

  “—Eureka, California,” I finished and handed back the knife.

  “Keep it,” he said, with another sharp glance. “I don’t know exactly what the Gray Admiral had planned, but he’s an evil customer. If you’re opposing him, I’d be pleased if you’d consider me an ally.”

  I waved to the mob destroying my campsite. “What about them?”

  He chuckled. “They’ve woken from hangovers worse than this. They’ll be fine. The cops will have a time of it, though. Not one of them remembers a thing since the funeral.”

  I studied the preacher for any sign of falsehood, for the unnatural gleam I’d seen in my enemies’ eyes. I saw nothing but a kind-hearted old man. I decided to trust him. “The Admiral’s name is Bartholomew Swain,” I told him. “He took my friends. He plans to capture the fire that will destroy the Earth.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What can I do?”

  I shrugged. “I have to go after him. I need Swain to think I’m one of you.”

  “You look too young,” he said and smeared a sooty five-o’clock shadow across my face and chin. After darkening my hair and eyebrows the same way, he announced, “Not perfect, but it’ll do.”

  Just then I caught sight of flashing lights through the budding trees. I grabbed the Schmiel cloak. “Quick,” I motioned, “under here.”

  Hellfire and I dodged underneath the tarp and slunk away as a line of thirteen police cars pulled up in the parking lot beside the bath house. Through the fabric, we watched pandemonium erupt in the camp. The bikers couldn’t answer any questions, and they resisted any attempts to remove them from the fire. Several called out their desire for an attorney. Handcuffs came out, and the Jolly Green Giant and a few others were soon on the ground.

  During the chaos, I kept my eye on the lead vehicle. Swain had said it was several miles to the trailhead. “Have you ever stolen a police car, preacher?”

  “Never, son, and I don’t intend to today. But I’ll help you borrow it if you’d like,” he grinned.

  It was an easy matter to slip past the line of vehicles, empty except for one officer calling for back-up, and sneak over to the first one. Between us, Hellfire and I spread the tarp over the car without revealing more than our own feet. No one even noticed as an entire vehicle was swallowed into thin air. Hellfire took the wheel, slid the car into gear, and inched out of the parking lot. Fifteen minutes later we pulled up next to the tractor trailer at the base of the mountain.

  “I wish I could go farther,” the preacher told me, “but these old legs will never make the trip up the mountain.”

  “You’re sure you can return the car unnoticed?”

  “With this cloak? Easier than converting a condemned man,” he replied. “Then I’ll check up on my friends and see if I can run any legal interference. Who knows, maybe I’ll add a few to my flock yet. Good luck!”

  I waved at the sound of the invisible car pulling out of the lot and turned to face the mountain.

  Lesson #26

  Jules Verne Wasn’t Far Off the Mark

  The peak looming above me looked close enough to tou
ch, but the trail map promised five miles of rugged terrain. I set off up the Monitor Ridge trail at a good clip, hoping to eat up as many miles as I could before the morning grew warm.

  The hike proved steep and rugged but didn’t require any Spider Man skills. It grew colder the higher I climbed. After about a mile, I found a bolt from Elena’s crossbow. I don’t know how she managed to wriggle it out of her pack without Swain noticing, but it assured me I was on the right track.

  After another two miles, the ground grew thick with ash. It lay over the snow in a gray mat and gusted from the heights. It coated my hair, stuck to the sweat on my face, and clogged my nose. I removed the bandana from my head and tied it around my nose. The ash also revealed fresh footprints.

  Swain was moving quickly. As I crested the tree line, I could see no sign of my friends. But Swain, I realized, could see no sign of me, either.

  After three hours of hard climbing, I neared the rim of the crater which was drifted high with wind-blown snow. At this point, the tracks I followed curved around to the east, skirting the edge of the precipice for nearly a mile before disappearing in a bare, wind-scourged ledge of rock. Cautiously, I approached the lip of the volcano.

  The snow-filled crater lay open like a bowl of lumpy, curdled milk. I sat on the lip of the drop-off and tugged a granola bar and water bottle from my belt. I wiped my face with the bandana, which came away black and gray. I was pretty sure my smeared-on stubble had traveled across my whole face. The air was sharp and smelled of sulfur.

  There were signs posted everywhere warning hikers to stay out of the crater, but far below I could see four figures tracking across the ice and ash. Smoke roiled from vents in the center, but Swain kept his hostages at the edge of the bowl. As I watched, they slipped into the cliff face and vanished from sight.

  I mentally marked the spot, using a scrubby bush as a reference. When my lunch was finished, I slipped down the narrow track as quickly I could and arrived at the point where my friends disappeared. I found nothing but solid rock.

  I double checked my bearings. The bush was there, scraggly and wind-swept. Swain had led the others into the cliff at a point just beyond it. I backed up and examined the entire stretch of rock. Not a crack. Not a fissure. I examined it up close and found nothing large enough to stick my hand through. I was at a dead end.

  I sat down. Where had Swain led them? Had they walked through the rock as Ranofur and Mike had walked through the wall of Swain’s office building? Swain was still a physical man. I didn’t think he held such power. Elena certainly didn’t. Any attempt to get her through by supernatural means would call down our enemy. I glanced nervously overhead and pulled out my sword, but my belt was quiet.

  Where had everyone gone?

  Just then I noticed a black lump at the base of the cliff about twenty yards to my left. Not gray or dun colored but soot black. I rose to investigate.

  It was Mike’s Raiders cap.

  There had to be a door. I rushed the rock face with renewed vigor, tugging at outcroppings and kicking uneven surfaces in an attempt to locate the catch. I ran my hands over the rock till they bled. Then I began tapping the wall with the hilt of my sword, listening for a hollow sound.

  I tapped all the way back to the ball cap, where the rock faded on contact like an image disappearing from a computer screen. I jumped backward in astonishment, and the rock eased back into view.

  Timidly, I touched the point of my sword to the cliff. It disintegrated, opening into a narrow crevice. I slipped through without a thought, and the rock faded in behind me. The tunnel was utterly dark. I reached out a hand. The entrance was cold, solid stone.

  I fought down a tremble of panic and fumbled with my belt. The built-in flashlight soon cast a reassuring ring of soft white light. I touched the rock wall with my sword and the light of day grew until it overpowered my flashlight.

  I turned my back on the entrance.

  Within a few steps, the tunnel narrowed and descended rapidly. I had no way to judge distance underground, but the minute hand on my watch completed several laps as I trudged onward by the glow of my belt. The temperature climbed steadily. I saw no one and heard nothing but my own footsteps until I reached a solid metal door at the end of the tunnel.

  It was locked.

  Immediately, I drew my sword and touched it to the metal. Nothing happened.

  I shifted uncertainly from one foot to the other. It was positively tropical in the tunnel now. Hellfire’s coat felt like a leather sauna, and I was pretty sure I had rivers of sweat swabbing white streaks through my five o’clock shadow. But I didn’t dare take off my disguise.

  Now what? I hadn’t hiked for eight hours only to give up and go home.

  I sank to the ground, leaned my back against the door, and pulled out another bottle of water. Even the rocks felt warm to the touch. Warm and dry, as if all the moisture had burned away. The sulfurous smell was stronger here, though the air remained free of smoke and ash.

  I emptied the water bottle in a few large gulps and tucked it away. Had any human ever ventured this far into the mountain before? I chuckled as I thought of Jules Verne’s classic story, Journey to the Center of the Earth. I hadn’t foreseen this when I read it last semester.

  Rising to my knees, I tried to peer through the lock. It was a wide slit, the only irregularity in a perfectly smooth surface. No light came through the keyhole or through any crack around the edges. Either there was no light on the other side, or there was no way for that light to get through.

  I ran my fingers around the edges of the door. The metal felt warm, but I couldn’t discern where any panels met. The entire surface felt like one smooth piece. In the white light of my Schmiel belt, it seemed to glow faintly pink.

  Should I pound on it?

  I quickly rejected the idea. It would ruin my element of surprise and probably anger whoever came to answer, if anyone did. It might even get me killed.

  I pressed an ear to the metal and heard only dead silence.

  I studied the smooth, undetectable metal of the door. A week ago I’d never heard of Raybold steel, but now it was becoming as common as copper. I carried several weapons forged of it, and just that morning Hellfire handed over another. The fact that Swain’s whole army had been issued those identical Raybold daggers made me wonder how many others carried the deadly metal.

  I pulled the new knife out of my belt and fingered the jagged teeth. My eyes narrowed. One of my weapons had opened the first door. My hands trembled as I inserted the knife into the lock. Click! The mechanism turned over and the door opened noiselessly.

  The tunnel was dark and continued just as it had before, only now the air trembled with an intermittent throb of distant machinery. I slunk along the wall, every synapse in my body on red alert. The air grew more stifling. The rumbling increased. After another mile, the tunnel broadened and pulsed with a hellish orange light.

  I slipped into a chamber that looked like the inside of a steel mill. I shaded my eyes against the intense glow of molten rock. From the floor rose massive machines and structural supports strung together with thin ribbons of ladders. Giant pipes hung from the ceiling, interlaced with a thick network of catwalks and conveyor belts sturdy enough to move the tons of ore stashed in bins the size of railway cars.

  A river of lava roiled up from a pit at one side of the room, flowed through a chasm down the center, and fell away into a black void at the far end, back into the heart of the mountain. In the center of the chamber, the river split in two and flowed around a large, circular island. And on this island stood ten massive cauldrons, all filled with a pulsing, white-hot brilliance.

  I’d found the forge of Findul.

  Sweat poured from my face as I surveyed this massive industrial center. The rock walls echoed with the roar of machinery, the hiss of steam, and the creak of the mountain. The deep thrumming of the lavafall vibrated in my chest. And then I spotted a cage suspended from a grappling arm on the near side of the ceiling. />
  A cage filled with my friends.

  Lesson #27

  Arrogance Can Lead to Serious Burns

  Mike slumped on the floor of the cage, his legs crossed beneath him. Elena sat beside him still wearing her ball cap. She had threaded her parka through the bars to block the heat radiating from the lava flow. Ranofur paced his tiny prison like an oversized inmate. And in the corner, with his head leaning against the iron bars, stood a brawny, strapping angel who made Ranofur look like a small fry. It was my first look at the missing firesmith. For some reason I could not understand, none of the angels could pass through the metal of the cage.

  I stripped off my bandana and waved it over my head, trying to attract their attention. Ranofur saw me first. He muttered into the ear of Findul and then discreetly pointed me out to the others. Mike straightened and his face lit up before Elena elbowed him into a more sober expression. The eyes of all four were fixed on me, some more obviously than others.

  Before I could even attempt to free my friends, I had to find Swain. I mimicked searching for him with my hand over my eyes then made a questioning gesture with my hands. Ranofur took my meaning right away. He nodded his head at a point near the central island. I crept into the room, edging around the massive bins of pinkish ore.

  Rounding a bend, the entire island came into view. It was accessed by a metal bridge that spanned the lava flow. Swain stood before the bridge on a raised platform that served as a control room, confident and in command. He had removed his cap, but his uniform remained fully buttoned even though the air had to be 120 degrees. The river alternately burned his face with a fierce orange glare then left it in deep shadow.

  My moment had come. I smeared the soot over my face and tied my bandana back in place. The fate of the mission boiled down to my ability to convince Swain I was one of his minions. Only then could I get near enough to strike. It would be the crowning role of my life.