by Toni Kerr
“Tell them to drop their weapons,” Donovan said calmly. “We’ll come back at a better time.” He gripped Tristan’s head and forced eye contact. “Do not shift in front of these people. Pull yourself together long enough for me to transport—”
“What are you doing to the poor kid?” asked Lazaro.
The battle within was lost.
Tristan took a deep breath and reveled in the fresh scents of the magnificent outdoors. Loud noises exploded all around, disrupting the harmonious magic, creating a slight sting against his armored scales.
Guns and gunshots.
Guns and a green man.
Sure enough, the green figure was waving his arms at the gathering of gun-wielding creatures. Humans.
Something of a laugh purred up his long throat. No walls of enchantment could keep him on the ground this time. He spread his wings and took two short strides, lifting himself above the trees as the roaring cheers of foliage escalated.
The gunfire wouldn’t stop, nor would it bring him down. He pushed his wings harder for more lift, only to feel the sting more fiercely. His wings weren’t holding the air like they should, with what seemed like hundreds of bullet holes ripping through the skin.
A faint weight on his back drew his attention—the green one. The gunfire ceased.
He banked left to where reaching tree branches could remove the odd human. But the man vanished and reappeared higher on his neck, gripping the more narrow plates of armor with a stronger hold.
He curled his wings inward and dove toward the ground, curious at the metal objects on wheels colliding against each other in their haste to clear a path.
Tiny people screamed in terror as he tried to extend his aching wings. But before he could crash to the strange surface, he was hurdling through a dense forest along a camouflaged castle, tumbling into the trees before he could shift directions. Trunks were severed and the bones in his wings cracked.
The green man lay unmoving on the ground.
He stabilized his footing and backed out the way he’d come, mindful of his wings, thanking the trees for their sacrifices, and limped to the nearest clearing. His bloodied wings were barely functional, but he had little choice when two humans appeared next to the steps of the strange castle.
The cave was barely big enough to fit in comfortably. He collapsed the entrance with stone and snow for his own safety and protection. The freezing night air prevented him from flying farther, but also had the effect of numbing his tattered wings.
He curled himself into a ball and sought out his surroundings. A pack of wolves howled in the east, surrounding a crowd of rabbits trying to huddle in a decaying stump. A few owls perched in the crook of a nearby tree. The human pursuers were following a false trail to the lower elevations, barely within range of his senses.
Food and water would have to wait until his wings were healed enough to carry his weight. He licked the torn edges, using the healing nature of his own saliva to ease the pain, and let himself sleep.
Fire.
Something in the darkness awoke him from his dreamless state—a human word whispered in the stillness. His joints were stiff and his wings felt nearly frozen, but something in his chest burned. Perhaps there were more gunfire wounds than he’d realized.
Fire, Tristan.
Troubled by the familiarity of the words, he scanned the mountain and found no trace of the two-legged creatures.
The body hungers food, the flame hungers release.
Something about the idea of fire made him uneasy, confined in such a tiny cave. He exhaled sharply, unable to define a specific reason not to. The walls sparkled in the sudden light and steam filled his nostrils.
It took a few more attempts before he could succeed with flames again, but he soon realized the heated rocks would keep him warm, and they would dry out the musty dampness seeping into the flesh beneath his scales.
He sighed, content within the warm walls, and drifted into a deeper sleep.
After two passings of the moon, footsteps resounded in the rock beneath him. He rolled his head to the side and listened; two, maybe three humans were crossing the land in the valley, five miles out. He groaned and went back to sleep, unable to muster the effort to care one way or another.
When he woke again, the humans were not within range. He stretched his neck and tested each wing joint, satisfied with the healing progress. Most of the holes had closed and the bones felt fused.
He could sense the sun rising on the horizon, and knew with absolute certainty where to go.
North. Now.
It should be an easy glide with a ten-thousand-foot drop to sea level, then he’d need every ounce of strength to cross the water. Unless he flew high, relying on updrafts to keep his lift. But doing so would require waiting a few more hours for the heat of day and there wasn’t time.
Doubt flooded his mind. He needed food before a day of flying, especially if he truly intended to cross the sea. He flexed his claws into the ground and the boulders to the entrance moved aside. His bad shoulder cramped almost instantly and the icy air and intense sunlight stung his eyes.
No time to hunt. No time to wait for darkness.
The humans with their green-man tracker would spot him if he stayed in the area for too long. He took a deep breath and fully extended his wings, retracted and expanded them again to loosen the joints, then created his own lift along the side of rocky mountaintop. The hunting party would see him easily if he rose too high, surpassing the mountain into the bright skyline.
The temperatures warmed as he glided toward the lower elevations. He didn’t have the strength to go for coasting altitude, and instead soared as close to the ground as treetops would allow.
With the white snow far behind, a white misty shadow was more visible against the darker greenery. It stayed just behind him on the edge of his vision, mirroring his movements. His only proof that it was not his own shadow was the simple fact that it did not exist in relation to the sun.
His glide leveled out at the base of the mountain; his wings became too heavy, too fatigued to do anything but hold the course steady. The misty shadow darted ahead and veered to the right, but it was too late to consider the action as a warning to change course.
On the ground, in a perfectly square field, humans were running toward the wooden boxes they called homes. Bells were ringing and a mechanical horn blasted a long warning cry. His heart pumped strength to the tips of his wings and he raised his elevation to make it over the next line of trees.
A small bay came into view, along with several islands offshore. Three boats, swarming with people, were making their way to the deeper waters, while on a wooden path built over the water, more people were pointing up at him.
A light gray blur spiraled in front of him. Where are you going, Tristan? asked the tiny creature.
North. Why do you call me that? It was the second time he’d heard that word and it bothered him greatly.
It is your human name. Do you have a different name now that you’re a dragon?
Tristan pulled back with curiosity. He hadn’t expected to have a conversation with this little female creature, and it certainly wasn’t from his own species. What did she mean by ‘now that you’re a dragon’? Hadn’t he always been a dragon?
As he thought of his past and destination, an image of a girl named Dorian came to mind. His left wing buckled at the strain of the new angle. He righted himself and got back into a more comfortable rhythm of motion. The water was approaching fast, along with another fleet of ships carrying humans and dying fish. If the fish were for him...an offering of peace and safe travels.... It couldn’t be possible. Not from humans.
He aimed for the fleet of ships in desperate need of sustenance before his journey.
Can’t you see they are arming their weapons? the little flying creature said. Are you trying to get yourself killed? There are too many for one dragon, and if you continue on your way, they will still follow and kill you.
&nb
sp; They are already tracking me.
You’re leaving a trail. Was that not your plan?
He took a second to glance behind him, noticing the spray of blood trickling from his torn wings. Why would that be my plan, little one?
They are your friends, great one. And me, Pink.
I am not great, nor are you pink. He thought for a moment, leveling his flight path parallel with the water. He couldn’t remember befriending humans, yet the thought didn’t sound untrue. What else was he forgetting? Much, it seemed. He had no past. My mind is un-well. As is my strength. Do you have suggestions for me?
He would heed her advice and forget the ships, but he would still have to pass over them as he headed north, as the most energy-efficient route.
You are unfed, Tristan. Come back to land and prepare for this journey to the north, then all will be well.
I have not the strength to gain height, nor turn. I must continue to the nearest island.
They will help you get to the north. Landon says you cannot swim.
He lost his wing rhythm again, falling thirty feet closer to the rolling sea before he could steady his wings enough to hold air. He hadn’t considered the water. Why would it prevent him from swimming? There was a chance he could land on one of the many vessels below, but they were overcrowded with humans. Besides, the water had a soft, gentle appearance to it. This Landon, is he someone we trust?
Landon, yes. But not those humans up ahead. They cannot be trusted and already plan to do you harm. You must only trust those in the Makai—they have vowed to keep you safe.
Why have they made such a vow?
The humans on the nearest vessel were taking aim with metal pipes of various lengths. Weapons. Guns. The green man had shot him with a gun before, yet he was to be trusted now?
Before he could alter his course, a human male clung to his neck, much like the green man had done. Tristan spiraled downward, burdened by the weight near his head and annoyed by the audacity.
“Tristan, we have a plan!” The human’s grip was slipping as Tristan put more strength in his wings to regain control. But the name distressed him once again—his apparent human name. He could not be one of them. A creature moved by violence, greed, and power, no matter what damage it inflicted upon others.
They were shooting him now, from the ships below. Every encounter he had with the humans seemed to involve blasting guns. Metal balls ripped through his wings and thudded into his chest. After several hits, the balls of metal ricocheted off an unseen force inches from his body. It was a confusing concept to grasp.
“Turn back!”
Trust him! Shouted the little one, racing to the man’s outstretched hand.
A very straight branch with a metal blade sliced the air in front of him. He dipped hard to the left to avoid a collision, only to become entangled in an attached vine. The human was no longer riding as a passenger, falling to the sea below.
As he considered diving to catch the creature, a second bladed branch pierced the leathery skin, close to his body. The vine, ‘rope’ he recalled, yanked tight. The bladed end fell useless toward the ground and became twisted on the dangling rope beneath him.
He picked up speed to break free of the tether, ripping the gash in his wing wider until the rope itself was pulled tight.
Fire burned in his chest. He spotted the ship connected to the other end of the rope, clear by the way it tugged toward him with each thrust of his wings. Five small explosions came from other ships, and suddenly the human was clinging to his neck again.
Having seen the poles coming, he dropped in elevation to give himself room with the leash, and easily maneuvered around them. But as they passed, they exploded a second time, transforming into a net of ropes and barbs that covered him from above.
He would not be pulled down by a bunch of tiny humans.
His wings curled in tight, intent on rolling to put himself above the net. But the barbs were like hooks, tangling the net around him even tighter.
And then, as if by magic, the net and knives vanished.
The human clinging to his neck wasn’t alone. Another human male was with him, and the green one. He would have growled at being captured in such an undignified way, but they did seem to be responsible for freeing him of the net. Only a single rope was wrapped around his neck now, one they could all hold onto.
“Fly, Tristan! I’ll cook you a massive steak!”
Tristan laughed at the thought, then frowned, unsure why any sort of stake would be cooked, and why the concept of such an event had been amusing. A second meaning of the word nibbled at the back of his mind, holding his attention. A human meaning. He had a human side to his thoughts. Memories poured in.
The fast approaching water fueled the confusion with fear. Guns were still shooting. Small motor boats were parting from the ships, racing towards the inevitable crash site. He extended his wings to save them all, only to have them disintegrate in a cloud of red mist.
“Destroy the blood!” someone shouted.
Why? Tristan thought, smashing against the unbelievably hard sea.
18
THE GREAT COVER-UP
BLOOD POOLED like a dark cloak, blocking the light beyond.
Alone. Frozen.
His seared flesh burned as he sank farther into the icy abyss.
Several motor boats circled above. Two humans were waving their arms, kicking their feet to stay at the surface, shouting. “Don’t shoot!”’
Is that all it took? A simple request?
He tried kicking his feet to join them, but nothing moved. The boats idled and the two men were pulled from the water. Where was the third man? There should be a third. But he was too far down in the deep water to see clearly.
Cold, dark fear weighed against undeniable loneliness. He couldn’t move his arms to balance himself, in a constant state of falling. “We’re heading down to the training room,” echoed a hollow voice. “The doctor will meet us there.”
The words were unfamiliar, but the voice non-threatening. The rhythm of the fall lulled him back to the blissful unawareness.
The next time he opened his eyes, he was lying under a canopy of bright yellow birch trees. However, the trees were silent, which could only mean one thing. They were Samara’s trees.
His vision shifted and the color was replaced by monotones. He blinked away the thoughts of imprisonment, unable to feel bitter or grateful over the situation.
The blanket around him held an artificial warmth. Even his body felt unnatural, like something he would have to get used to if he expected to survive.
Human voices talked quietly nearby.
He shed the blanket and felt the cool tingle of air against his unarmored flesh. Soft fabric hung from his hips, but his feet were bare. He walked from the cot through the trees to where a large group of people sat around a circular table.
They had no guns, but all eyes were on him.
The green man was among them, but they weren’t speaking in a language he recognized.
It was all he could do to keep his eyes open, and he regretted leaving the blanket behind. He examined his frail fingers—weak and vulnerable. Too exposed.
What did these people expect from him?
The green man stood from the table and closed the distance, crunching through the leaves. He had a name…Donovan. With the thought, an onslaught of memories shoved into him, condensing the air in his lungs into something he couldn’t expel. He should have run, except Donovan had a hold of him. His vision flickered between black and white, and color. He needed the color, and focused on that.
“You can do this, Tristan,” said the green man. Donovan. No, the green man. They were the same and the words were starting to make sense. The name was his.
“Be human for now, a dragon later.”
Could he choose between the two?
His fingers wrapped around the wooden staff. Samara’s staff—her way of helping him control the unreasonable amount of power he couldn’t ac
tually control.
Donovan gave him another firm shake at the shoulders, sending a jolt of pain down his spine. Why did everything have to be so painful? Pain and stairs; the bane of his existence.
“Stop, Tristan,” Donovan said between clenched teeth. “Stop thinking you’re a danger to us all. You aren’t.”
He’d actually forgotten the reasons keeping him locked up, the reasons the room shouldn’t be filled with perfect strangers. Fear constricted every following thought and Donovan’s grip tightened.
“The sooner you accept this,” continued Donovan, “the sooner we can all get back to business.”
He could prove he was a danger, but held back, unwilling to be reckless. He longed to go back to sleep, where nothing would matter and no lives would be at risk. Victor could get married and have children, Landon could take care of Pink and find her the flowers she needed. Donovan had Jessie.
“Fifteen minutes, Tristan. If we have to do this in small chunks of time, so be it. But we are running out of time. Understand? If you must, sit at the table.”
Tristan eyed the table and shook his head.
“Fine. Lazaro is willing to meet with us again on our turf, but I will not have him come here. Your mother will not be invited to the rendezvous, and Lazaro has agreed to these terms. He also made a public statement to the press in Vienna that we were using his property to film a documentary on the myths of dragons, a project funded solely by Alexander Christoph, yours truly, until now. Are you getting all this?”
Tristan nodded, dumbfounded by the entire twisted tale.
“A life-sized remote controlled dragon, created by Alvi and Victor, was on display for 24 hours and all injuries incurred by the filming have been covered, along with Pain and Suffering for those who were especially traumatized. We were not expecting the mechanical dragon to fly beyond the property, and therefore saw no need to warn the public in advance of the filming. In fact, we’d hoped to keep the entire production under wraps until the film’s debut in about six months, assuming Mr. Christoph continues to fund the project after such a horrifying public-relations disaster. Currently, there is 3.6 million dollars in public donations to keep the project running.