Knight of Flame

by Scott Eder

  Forge. Cot. Tools. Ore. Weapons. Nothing has changed. And yet…it feels so empty. Lifeless.

  I let her down.

  Jester stomped to get Dev’s attention.

  “What?” Dev asked, his tone sad and tired.

  The little stone man insistently pointed at the trough then at the anvil then at Dev.

  “Look, Jester, I—”

  The little guy crossed his arms and realigned his mouth in a wavy line.

  “Determined little bugger, aren’t you.” Dev sighed. “Alright, what do you want to make?”

  Jester eyes sparkled as he shrugged.

  Keep it simple and quick. Maybe this will make up for some of the time I spent away.

  Dev checked the items on his wall—swords, axes, knives, and other items of destruction.

  “How ‘bout a golden knife?”

  The muncle’s mouth angled down.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘no’.”

  Why do I always gravitate to something that can kill? Stillman said that Lancelot focused on love and beauty. Maybe I can try the beauty thing for a change. But, what the hell do I know about that?

  “Tell you what, let’s start working and see what happens. Okay?”

  Jester hopped to his feet and stomped to the other end of the anvil.

  Leaning over the empty trough, Dev called his element and focused the energy into his hands. They glowed red and whooshed into flame. Eyes closed, he felt the metal, gauged the heat. He didn’t want to liquefy it, only change it enough to shape and sculpt. The nugget softened in his hand as he cranked up the heat. Applying pressure, he played around and shoved one thumb into the clay-like mass. Like a small child, he shaped it into a ball, flattened out a pancake, rolled it into a thin strand of spaghetti, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, found that spark of insight and fun that he’d been missing.

  Wren always said I was too serious when I worked. What would she think of me now?

  The golden pasta disappeared into a wadded up mass. Twisting and turning the golden mush, he pondered his next feat of artistry. Slowly a shape formed as Dev’s fingers coaxed it from the lump of gold. He smoothed his thumb between its floppy ears to round the little dome if its head.

  Voila! A dog. Wren always wanted a dog.

  A lopsided golden dog, with one ear longer than the other and a tail long enough to make a monkey proud, stood on the anvil. Maybe it’s half monkey and half dog. Its shoulders were too thick and it’s haunches too thin.

  Dev eyed the silly looking beast. It was the first he’d ever tried to make and, while it wasn’t a masterpiece, zoologists should be able to identify it as some distant relative of the canine family.

  “What do you think?” Dev looked at Jester.

  The little guy walked around the dog, patted its backside. When he looked up, a huge smile stretched the line cross his block.

  “We need to give him a name.” With Jester’s approval, he leached the statue’s heat and completed the cool down in seconds. “How about…Rex?”

  Jester shook his head.

  “Spot?”

  Thumbs down.

  “I know, Mikey.”

  Jester mulled that one over then nodded.

  “Good. Mikey it is. I want you to take good care of him, okay?”

  The muncle nodded, slow and serious, and clutched the little golden dog to his breast.

  “Sorry I was gone so long.” Dev patted Jester on the head and moved to the stone cot as the events caught up to him. He lay back and stared at the ceiling, reliving the events and the losses.

  Wren…

  In the solitude of his Forge, the Knight of Flame swung his arm over his eyes and wept.

  Chapter 42

  THE SHADOW DRAGON GLIDED THROUGH HOT night air redolent with stagnant water and sulfur as Alexander searched the ground for a recognizable landmark. Nothing but blurry patches of browns and grays, with an occasional scrub oak cluster adding a touch of dimension, filled his sight. There had been no sign of house, building or road for thirty minutes and he wondered what Gothrodul had in mind.

  I’m taking you to my lair, the dragon responded.

  Alexander cursed his carelessness at leaving himself open to the curious mental predations of the dragon.

  Whatever for? The last thing he wanted was to wallow in the dragon’s den. It was a place for his brother, Thargen, not him.

  A change of scenery, perhaps, the dragon offered.

  The three-quarter moon hung bright in the sky. Atop the dragon, Alexander felt he could reach out and touch it. Not out of any romantic sense, of course, but to take it down, bury it and leave the night in darkness as it should be.

  The bloody thing is almost as bright as the blasted sun.

  The dragon banked left and angled for the formation of squat buildings huddled beside the first hill Alexander had seen since his exile to this cursed place.

  Welcome to one of your outlying facilities. The dragon touched down in the central square of the complex. Abandoned pick-up trucks with “Seagren Chemical” emblazoned on their doors lined the outer wall of a long, half-circle shaped metal shed, the largest of the four buildings.

  Gothrodul loped toward the end of the building. Its ungainly movement forced Alexander to hug the dragon’s neck or get thrown from his perch between its furled wings. Another smell intruded, this one as familiar and welcome as Shadow itself…Death.

  This had better be worth it.

  The segmented metal door had been ripped from its track and discarded. Even so, the dragon had to duck and crawl through the opening designed for industrial-sized vehicles to get into its makeshift lair.

  More than death assailed Alexander’s nostrils within the confines of the metal structure. Overpowered, he nearly gagged. But that clear sign of weakness would be unacceptable, so he covered his nose with his sleeve against the intense rot and decay fouling the air. He slid to the ground and nearly tripped over the severed head that had distanced itself from the rest piled in the corner.

  That would explain the smell.

  “So this is where you go when you are not serving me. Again I ask, why are we here?” Alexander studied the slaughterhouse decor. A hand here, a foot there, if he gathered the disjointed parts, he might find enough scraps to stitch together a single malformed entity. No time for puzzles or sewing, he moved on to the ancient world map stuck to the floor with a mixture of old blood and dirt.

  There is something I wish to show you. Gothrodul indicated the map on the floor that stretched across the entire width of the shed, some seventy-five feet. Big splotches of fresh blood and bone fragments decorated various regions, but the dragon did not make for those. Instead, he angled for the Americas.

  We all have our secrets, Shadow Lord. I am about to confess one of mine.

  Secrets? Curious, Alexander pinched the strange material upon which eight great land masses had been inked with painstaking care, and found it thick and supple, like the hide of some great beast. Within each region, an unfamiliar symbol glowed.

  “What is it?”

  Human flesh. The effort cost me a hundred years, but was worth every minute. Have you heard of the Last Clan?

  Alexander rubbed his temple. It is going to be a long night. “No.”

  Do you see those symbols? Gothrodul waved a clawed foot over the map.

  “Of course. How could I miss them?”

  Each one represents a dragon clan. One clan per region. Within our own lands, dragons are, for the most part, social and willing to work together for the strength of the clan. However, if two different clans meet, they will fight until one or both are destroyed. There is no middle ground. That, Alexander, is what dropped Atlantis into the sea. Gothrodul pointed to a landmass in the southern Indian Ocean that Alexander could not remember seeing upon any other map.

  “As fascinating as this lecture on dragon wars may be, why fly me out here to tell me now?”

  I will get to my point soon, but to understand the
magnitude of what I am going to tell you, you must understand the big picture.

  “Hurry it up then.”

  Nine clan symbols for nine clans, the dragon continued.

  “There are only eight land masses. You said one per land mass.”

  The ninth symbol represents the Last Clan or the Secret Clan. Dragon legends speak of a clutch of eggs hidden away against the day when the last of us roam the planet. Consider it a safeguard to ensure the survival of dragon kind.

  “And your point?”

  Have you found my services of value, Shadow Lord?

  “Yes. You have been most effective.”

  What if you had access to more? Ten or twenty or even fifty loyal dragons fighting for you?

  What indeed? The concept sent a thrill to Alexander’s dark soul.

  This story of the Last Clan was passed down from sire to younglings for eons. Most believed it only a myth, but some knew different, knew it to be the truth.

  “Why have you not come forward with this before?”

  I was unsure of the location, but now I’m close to finding the Last Clan. I believe they are here, in North America.

  “Where?” An army of dragons…

  I cannot enter the lair of the Last Clan without my…sister.

  “Sister?”

  Yes. We are the last. Only a mixture of our blood will unseal the gate. The time has come for the birth of the Last Clan.

  With an army of dragons, I could subjugate my brothers and destroy my enemies. Not even my father could stand against that kind of force for long.

  Alexander’s shadow stretched over the Americas. “And where is this sister?”

  Therein lies the problem.

  “Oh?” Alexander turned to the dragon.

  “She is of the Knights Elementalis.”

  Chapter 43

  IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME. CASSIDY leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her breasts, and watched the world spin. She rested her feet on the unopened medical kit. Wren gave her life for me.

  The mood in the Womb was somber. Hunched over the shadow orb, Cyndralla plumbed its depths as she teased her long unkempt braid. Red and black stains marred her usually pristine white raiment. Magnus slouched in his chair, chin on his chest, eyes closed, hands clasped in his lap. His axe leaned against the table. Dev hunched over, elbows braced on knees, and flipped Cinder from one hand to the other.

  Stillman sat in his customary spot, deep grooves lined his milk-white face. Half-lidded eyes, distant and haunted, stared more into the past than the here and now. Back iron-rod straight, he sat on the edge of his seat, fingers laced on the table, stare unfocused.

  “The Mavens were an abomination,” Stillman broke the silence, “constructed of the vilest shadow magic. Twins, Triessa and Agridda, beautiful little girls brimming with energy. They had messy brown hair and a penchant for mischief.” He smiled to himself, lost in the memories. “When they were three, their father presented them to his father as a gift. It was that monster, the Gray Lord, who twisted those lovely young girls, transformed them into powerful creatures of Shadow.”

  And I thought Alexander Gray was bad.

  “Triessa got the body, but less power. Agridda, though, became a being of pure Shadow. Extremely powerful. Nearly impossible to hurt.”

  “So how do we fight something like that?” Magnus asked. “My axe did no good. Everything I cut off found its way back to her.”

  “I thought my flame did some damage at first,” Dev commented. “At least she seemed to retreat into the darkness, but that might have been a tactical move on her part to make us think she had left.”

  “Probably,” Stillman agreed. “Cyndralla, what do you see in that ball of yours?”

  “Nothing yet.” The Knight of Air looked up. “I need to open it, see what makes it tick, but I will not do that until I have it under a shield in my lab.”

  “I’ll work with you. Between your magic and my alchemy, we should be able to crack that egg,” Stillman said.

  “What about that shadow bitch?” Magnus rumbled to his feet. “We need to destroy her, and Alexander, and whomever else stands with them. Hit them now.” He grabbed his elemental weapon. “They wouldn’t be expecting us to attack. We know Gray is behind this. We can take out his headquarters and be done with him.”

  “I’m in.” Dev lent his support, but his voice lacked his usual enthusiasm. If the shadow maven took out two of their number, how could the rest of them hope to stand against her and her father on their home turf? The plan was crazy, ridiculous, but it was better than sitting back doing nothing.

  “No,” Stillman spoke up. “While I support the idea in spirit, we cannot lose sight of our greater purpose.” Voice calm, collected, and so very cold. “We must develop a counter to the orb’s deadly magic as quickly as possible. Gray and his minions will escalate their plans, thinking us too weak to stop them. We don’t have much time.”

  The commander paused, covered his face with a shaky hand, and took several deep breaths. Cassidy had used the same technique numerous times on the job when she didn’t want to let her emotions out in front of a mangled patient or concerned parent. It did the trick for her, bought her enough time to mask her feelings. But when Stillman dropped his hand, the calm Precept’s façade fell away, revealing the anger and agony of a grieving father.

  “Make no mistake. I want this bastard and his vile spawn as much as you do. And we will get him.” His shoulders trembled. “But not until we know more, until we’re ready. I will lose no more to this darkness.” Strength gone, he sat back down.

  “So now what? Wait until you and Cyndy break this thing open? Gray could be doing all sorts of things out there while we sit around with our thumbs up our asses. This is absurd.” Magnus strode from the room, big axe over his shoulder. “Call me when you’re ready to fight. I’ll be sitting around being useless somewhere else.” Disgust hung thick in his voice.

  Dev followed quickly after his friend. “Let me know how I can help with the orb,” he threw over his shoulder.

  “Strange,” offered the Knight of Air, “I would have expected that outburst from Develor, not Magnus.” Cyndralla scooped up the orb and left without another word, leaving Cassidy alone with Wren’s father for the first time.

  She placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, sir. It was my fault. If I—”

  “You may stop there, Ms. Sinclair.” Stillman’s tone was soft and sad. “Do not wear the mantle of blame. That creature of Shadow is at fault. It was she who took my daughter’s life. Not you.”

  “But—”

  “Not you. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His words made sense. Agridda killed Wren. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that if she hadn’t been there in the first place, Wren would still be alive.

  “Good. Spend your thoughts and energy in a useful way and figure out how we can defeat her.”

  “I will.”

  I promise.

  * * *

  Blue, green, and yellow liquids bubbled and frothed in separate vials on the counter next to a pile of yellow powder. The shadow orb lay half-buried in a mound of salt beneath the soft pink light of Cyndralla’s protective shield. Stillman stood to one side, swirling the smoking contents of yet another potion, this one purple.

  The Knight of Air pierced the shield with an ash wood rod and tapped the hard outer shell of the orb as Cassidy approached the counter.

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asked. She played with a few leftover grains on the table that had come from the barge. “What did you call this stuff?”

  “Magnus called it perlite, said it was some kind of insulating agent,” Cyndralla said.

  Hearing that word again struck a chord with Cassidy. It rang that familiarity bell, but the specifics eluded her.

  “The sulfide solution is ready, as are the other acids,” Stillman said.

  “Good.” Cyndralla took the proffered vial with the purple liquid
and breathed over the opening. The potion glowed for a second before changing to a light, bubblegum pink. With a nod at the result, she upended it over the orb. It splashed over the surface and ran down the sides to puddle in the surrounding salt.

  Cassidy noticed both Cyndralla and Stillman watching intently so she struck a similarly intent pose. Nothing happened. The orb remained closed and unharmed.

  “One down, three to go.” Stillman sighed.

  Perlite…perlite. Why is that familiar?

  “Let’s try yellow.” Once again, Cyndralla breathed over the top. When the potion turned an awful puke-green, she poured it over the orb. The smell matched the color, made Cassidy step back lest she coat the orb with her own potion.

  Don’t try that one again. Bleh. Aside from the intense smell, nothing happened.

  Stillman handed the pretty blue one to Cyndralla next. This turned brown and smelled like shit. Even Cyndralla balked.

  “Oh, Stillman, that one’s atrocious,” Cyndralla complained and waved her hand in front of her face. Before dousing the orb, she held her nose. If the liquid didn’t penetrate the shell, maybe the smell would.

  Stillman laughed. It was good to hear him find a moment of humor.

  “Heh, when I was a boy, we used that to fertilize the olive trees.”

  Fertilizer? That’s it.

  “Hey, I remembered why ‘perlite’ rings a bell.” She filled them in on seeing the chemical company reps in the lobby of Gray’s office building and found that they had been bought out by Gray’s company. “There has to be some connection.”

  “It might be worth a look. Talk to Magnus. He’s looking for something to do.” Since they didn’t get any kind of internet or cable in the Cradle, she would have to travel back to the world.

  “I’m on it.” Cassidy left with a little more spring in her step.

  A research mission. Finally, something I can handle. Now…where did they put Magnus? Wait. That won’t work. The big guy probably doesn’t have any gateways for Tampa. His were probably tied to his band’s tour bus or a recording studio. Need Dev. Where is—

  “Oh.”

  Dev rounded the corner. “Any word from Stillman? Did they figure it out?”