The Saint of Dragons

by Jason Hightman

  The great doors opened. Cats leaked out of the open doorway. There were hundreds roaming the interior of the home. Simon, Alaythia, and Aldric came into a great hallway with multiple stairways leading up.

  “They’re here,” whispered Alaythia, and now Simon could see the beetles up the staircase—blue, yellow, brown and green ones swirling the banister, weaving together.

  Aldric climbed the stairs, Simon and Alaythia close behind, crackling beetles under their shoes.

  Simon heard strange noises from the second floor.

  Eeer, tikky, tikky, tikky. Eeer, tikky, tikky, tikky.

  At the top of the steps was a hall, and then a wide room with many chairs and couches, a large chamber made into a cozy living space, all of it filled with cats.

  And something else.

  Quickly, Aldric shoved Simon to one side, behind the doorway. Alaythia dashed to the other side.

  There were three Dragons in the room ahead.

  Three.

  In his huge armchair, the Russian Red Dragon was looking lazily at his two unusual guests. Across from him was the Parisian Dragon, making that odd noise—eer, tikk, tikk, eer, tikk, tikk—and near him, the creature who had asked for the meeting: the Dragon of Venice. They were not in conflict. They showed no signs of aggression. Simon looked to Aldric. He was dumbfounded.

  “Mon Dieu, my aching jaws…” complained the Parisian Dragon, turning to look at the door, “the Knight may have found us out.”

  “Don’t be sssuch a withering worm,” sneered the Venetian. “Not every little thing is because of the Dragonhunter. You are sssafe, for the time being.”

  “This is right,” nodded the Russian. “If he comes near us, he will never get past the doors without our sensing it. If it’s the Coast of the Dead you worry about, my men are always watching the area, at a safe distance. If the Knight survives it somehow, they will shoot him down. The only worry is we may not get to burn him to death ourselves.”

  Aldric eased up at the door and said in a voice Simon could barely hear, “Wait for the right time….”

  In the room, the Dragons sat together as the cats at their feet pawed at stray beetles.

  “Oui, I am sure you are right,” the Parisian Dragon was saying, “it’s just nerves. Tik, tik, tik. Our gathering has brought strange feelings upon us, has it not? It is hard to tell anymore whether this is this or that is that. Tik, tik, tik. Our magic is like a woman who does not like to be awakened early: spiteful and confused. There is much to fear in our coming together.”

  The Russian grunted. “The fires concern me greatly, Venetian.”

  “Oui, monsieur, and me as well,” said the Parisian, “it gives one the chills, no?”

  Even the Venetian looked uncomfortable. “Yesss, it issss unfortunate.”

  Peeking around the door, Simon saw the occupants of the room as they truly were: Dragonmen. His ability to see through Serpentine magic had grown considerably since the last encounter. Near the reddish, wolflike Russian were two reptilian forms: one was blue-yellow and sickly thin; the other, tall, green, and water-drenched. The Parisian and the Venetian. They were speaking English.

  The Russian, stroking a cat, leaned forward in his chair. “You say this is merely ‘unfortunate’?” he growled. “I think it is worse than that. Our fire is not listening to us, comrade. You’ve witnessed it yourself. We have no control over what it does, and all because we are together. This is grave danger of the highest order!”

  Simon put his ear closer to the wall. They feared their own fire?

  The Parisian nearly trembled. “Eeer, eer. Think what would become of us if the firelings wanted more. What if they were set loose?”

  “We shhhhould be ssssensssitive to the dangersss here,” said the Venetian. “But let usss not overestimate the risksss. I control my fire, Russki, you should be able to control yourssss.”

  “Watch your tongue, comrade,” said the Russian, his teeth bared. “This is my house you’re speaking in, not yours.”

  Simon readied his crossbow. Through the crack in the door, he had a clear shot at the Russian’s chest. Aldric remained still. From the other side of the entryway, Alaythia glimpsed the meeting as a discussion of men: a tall, scarred-face Italian, a hefty, tired old Russian general, and a thin French intellectual with sleek, designer, robelike clothing.

  “I am not sure the massster would appreciate your tone of voice,” said the Venetian.

  “You serve a master, not me,” said the Russian. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

  Aldric’s eyes narrowed. “A master?” he whispered.

  The Venetian’s eyes burned with indignation. “If you wish, you can perissssh with the rest of our enemies. But that hardly seemsss sssensible.”

  “We came to hear a plan, no? Eeer, tikk, tikk, tikk,” said the Parisian, calming the others down. “So let us hear it, Monsieur Brakkesh.”

  The Venice Dragon was about to answer, when suddenly a shot flared across the room. The cats screeched and scattered. The Venetian was hit in the chest with a flaming arrow.

  Simon clenched his fist proudly. Direct hit.

  “What are you doing?” Aldric looked furious.

  “I had the shot. I took it,” said Simon, knowing instantly he’d done something terribly wrong.

  The Venice Dragon roared, fists clenched, arms bristling with muscle.

  The arrow’s flames spread all over him as he painfully shook them off, like an angry dog flinging bathwater. The fire scattered into what appeared to be puddles of flames.

  The other Dragons rose to their feet, ready to kill.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  THE FURY OF FIRE

  THE VENETIAN CLAWED OUT the arrow and came thundering across the long room.

  “We can’t run,” said Aldric. “Rush them!”

  In a move that shocked Simon as much as the Dragons, Aldric rushed forward into the room, firing his crossbow.

  Two bolts left the bow. Both hit the Venetian. The infuriated Dragon fell back just a few steps.

  The other two Serpents were stalking Aldric.

  Simon had followed him in, but now he stood before the hideous things in gut-wrenching terror. Alaythia came in, shield raised, apparently to protect him. The Dragons snarled at them both.

  Alaythia felt her lungs go empty as the Dragons dropped their cloaking magic, and she saw them in their true reptilian forms.

  The Russian opened his fist, and a sudden wind threw Alaythia back against the wall with brute magical force. He tried the same for Simon, but the boy slid back only a few feet, willing himself not to move.

  Aldric threw down the crossbow, lifting his shield and sword.

  In panic, Simon shot at the Russian Dragon. The arrow hit its arm. The wolfish creature howled, and the voices in his head echoed the pain.

  Lowering the bow, Simon raised his shield instinctively. To his shock, the shield fired arrows as well. Some device inside it shot smaller, dartlike arrows. Three of them sank directly into the Parisian, who screeched with rage.

  Then its eyes fixed on Simon.

  It was coming for him now.

  The Russian joined in the assault. Both of them rushed at the boy as the Venetian clawed at Aldric. Their howling was deafening. No matter how bizarre and eccentric they might have seemed, the predators were stunning when on the attack. They were not a bit human anymore, and all Simon could register in his brain was the rush of two massive, snarling animals.

  And they were wickedly fast.

  Aldric had his sword up, and slashed into the Venice Beast—which screamed in rage as the fireblade cut into his shoulder. But the creature shook off the pain and gnashed back at the Knight’s shield.

  Alaythia was being thrown about by magic, as if by gale winds, and she tumbled onto the beetles at the stairs.

  Meanwhile, the Paris reptile never lost his speed, and its bony arms whipped around the boy’s shoulders, pulling him down. Simon struggled free, but his shield clattered away. Now
he was trapped by the French one, and the Russian one was close behind.

  Aldric avoided the Venetian’s snarling face and jabbed with his sword, the blade flickering with serpentfire. But he could not disguise his fear for his son.

  The Venetian saw this. “Yes—take the weaker one,” the Venetian hissed, “and the Knight will lose all heart for fighting.”

  The Dragon of Paris snapped at Simon, who fell back against a wall.

  Tikka-tikka-tikka-tikka…

  The boy thrust his crossbow up to protect his face, and the Dragon’s jaws clamped onto the bow, struggling to get it loose. Simon tried to use the weapon, but he couldn’t get his fingers into position.

  The boy stared in horror at the Dragon’s wild eyes. Liquid fire, like blue paint, dribbled from the Parisian’s mouth. It steamed when it hit the floor.

  “Dad…” Simon tried breathlessly to call for help.

  The Dragon pulled his teeth from the crossbow, saying something to Simon in French, a string of insults. Simon kicked him and pushed himself back, free.

  The Dragon spit tiny gobs of blue light at the boy, which splatted the wall when he dodged them.

  The Dragon was preparing his fire.

  Tikk, tikk, tikk, tikk.

  Alaythia screamed, crawling to get to Simon, but she was being dragged away across the floor by Serpent magic. Her fingers scratched the floor as the wind pulled her back.

  The Parisian opened his jaws, and they were filled with blue flame.

  The Venetian spat at him in Dragonspeak, stopping him with a warning.

  Aldric’s eyes lit up. He spotted a weakness now.

  He swung his fiery sword back and forth. “Afraid of the flame?” he taunted them.

  An intense quiet burned for a second. The Dragons shifted on their clawed feet, wanting to strike. Staring at the boy, the Parisian kept his jaws wide, the flames there awaiting escape. Simon stayed still, back against the wall, wondering if he could reach his shield on the floor.

  “They won’t hurt you, Simon,” said Aldric, eyes on the Venetian, “they’re afraid.”

  The Russian Dragon turned to him and bared his teeth, a steam drifting out eerily. He leaned back his long snaky neck and prepared to sling fire.

  Aldric smiled. His plan was working.

  “No. Do not raise fire againssst them,” said the raspy Venetian, “it cannot be controlled.”

  “I want him dead,” the Russian howled.

  The Paris Dragon inched closer to Simon. “I want him dead,” he whispered. “I want him gone. Eeer, eeer, eeer…”

  Alaythia was crawling back into the room. She could feel the Russian Dragon’s magic ebbing away, his reptilian mind distracted with Aldric.

  “He will die with the ressst,” wheezed the Venetian to the Parisian. “But if you attack now, your fire will go mad with rage. We might be burned along with him.”

  “We don’t know that, comrade,” the Russian interjected, slashing a razorclaw at Aldric. “Now is our chance. Three of us against him.”

  Aldric smiled at the Venetian, who glared back, sorely wanting to rip him to shreds.

  “Three of ussss here creates the danger,” the Venetian said, as close to pleading as he could ever get. “Our magic growsss unpredictable. Ragemagic will occur—”

  Aldric lashed out with his sword, once, twice—testing the Venetian’s will. He laughed defiantly. The Russian saw this and snarled.

  “NO ONE MOVE,” barked the Venetian.

  The Russian remained unsure. His furry head tilted this way and that, the rage inside of it quarreling with its own logic. He was close to Aldric. One good fiery blow, and the Knight would be dust….

  “Eeer, tikky, tikky. I hate children,” hissed the Paris Dragon, teeth bared at Simon.

  Simon’s heart, already on overload, hammered harder.

  “You’ve alwayssss been careful, Tyrannique,” the Venice Dragon said. “Don’t lose your head now.”

  “You’ll all lose your heads,” threatened Aldric, “one way or another.”

  As he spoke, Alaythia had picked up her shield and raised it, tapping the rune inside—which sent arrowdarts flying straight into the Parisian, who screeched in fury.

  And let loose his fire.

  At the same time, the Russian spat fire at Aldric—a thick jet of pure red flame. The fire swept over Aldric’s shield, spilling onto the Venice Dragon, who roared and screamed with pain.

  Across the room, Simon threw himself out of the way of the Parisian’s dragonfire. The fire was blue and yellow—just like the Parisian’s skin—and when it hit the ground, it spread out in every dazzling shade of blue and gold imaginable. The flames looked like paint that had learned how to flicker.

  The Parisian Dragon blew several quick blasts, but Alaythia had rolled over to Simon, using her shield to protect them both from the flames. Simon could not believe the heat. One of his sleeves had been torn, and the hair on his arms was singed away, loosing a sickly smell.

  He watched as the blue and yellow fire grew, stretching over the floor, reaching toward Aldric and the red fire near the Russian. When the two rivers of flame met, a screeching of many voices came forth.

  “Ragemagic!” cried the Venetian.

  From out of the pooling flames figures rose—built of fire—four from the blue and yellow inferno, four from the red. The firelings screeched madly, full of hate for each other.

  Aldric ran across the flames to Simon. The flame-figures parted; some flew to the wall, watching with gleeful insanity, without any eyes.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” said Aldric, pulling Simon and Alaythia away. But three blue firelings flew to the door with a screeching cackle, blocking the way out.

  The Dragons were in turmoil, too—they had fled to the back of the room.

  “Death to the Knight,” the Venetian howled. “Rage upon him!”

  The firelings snickered with an evil delight.

  The fire had burned nearly all of the floor around Simon and the others. Parts of it began to cave in, revealing a long pit beneath it.

  Suddenly, the floor gave way—and dropped Simon and Alaythia into the deep, dark pit. Aldric was still clinging to the wood shards remaining on the floor, dangling over the abyss.

  The Russian’s eyes widened and he laughed. “I see you’ve found my bear pit.”

  Aldric’s grip weakened as the fire flashed around his hands. The firelings stood over him with joyous anticipation.

  “I throw starving bears into the pit and watch them fight,” purred the Russian, “savaging each other…or wolves, dogs, people, whatever you like.”

  “Let the firelings have it today,” said the Venetian, and he shouted to the fire-figures, “Dare not fight amongst yourssselves…. We leave you these mortals to feast on.”

  We’ll take the mortals, crackled a voice in the Dragons’ heads, and we’ll take the palace, too….

  The Russian Dragon’s face curled into dismay.

  “Let it pass, Monsieur,” whispered the Parisian. “Let them take it and we’ll go without a fight.”

  One of the red firelings jabbed a long hand at Aldric’s chest. Scorched, the Knight screamed and let go, falling into the dark pit.

  Simon was relieved to have him there. The pit was a giant wooden arena piled high with wolf skulls, bear skulls, and carrion of unknown origin.

  The firelings crouched on the edge of the pit, laughing.

  Behind them, the Venetian smiled to see Aldric hit the ground, and something caught his eye. Alaythia had her hand on her coat pocket, on a shape hidden within. She was protecting the White Book. Suddenly, Simon saw it rip from the coat and fly into the air, as the Venetian called the Book to his hands. He’d found it.

  Aldric yelled in rage.

  “Eat them, comrades,” said the Russian to the firelings, and he stared down at the pit, saying something in Russian.

  The Paris Dragon laughed and replied to him in French.

  Simon’s eyes widened. He
caught the words. A strange phrase. But there were other concerns at that second, as the firelings had begun crawling down toward them in the pit.

  The fire figures crawled on all fours, down the sides of the pit, like men imitating spiders. Their obscure faces were grinning behind their flames.

  Simon had never been so scared.

  Aldric lifted up his shield—all of their tools had collapsed into the pit.

  “What good is a sshield against fire?” sneered the Venice Dragon above. “I leave you to your sssscreams, Knight of the Old Order. Keep your weaponsss. They will do no good against the firelings…”

  …which were, at this moment, yearning to torch human flesh. Above the crawling shapes, Simon saw the Dragons turn and scatter, rushing away through the smoke like cockroaches from light. Gone.

  “GET YOUR SHIELD!” Aldric bellowed. Simon plucked his shield from the ground, holding it up as the firelings leapt down upon them.

  Simon could see Alaythia react to something, as if a gnat were whispering in her ear. It was the firelings. Only she could hear them. Mortal morsels, mortal morsels, they chuckled in her head. Don’t you like to play with fire?

  “Stand together,” Aldric ordered. Everyone stood with their backs together, shields out, as the fiery men moved around them, enjoying the game.

  They’re mine, said a blue fireling.

  You can’t have them all, said a red one.

  I’ll fight you for them, muttered some others. You can eat their ashes.

  “I hear them,” she said in a way that terrified Simon even more. “I hear them in my head.”

  The firelings laughed uproariously.

  Aldric seemed to be out of ideas. The pit was deep, and it was made of wood, with ugly oak carvings of bears and wolves and deer built into the walls, all the way up its steep sides. Everything would burn, all too well.

  Surrounding the Dragonhunters, the firelings began to scrape their fingernails over the shields. They pushed and shoved at each other as well, blue against red, hissing and crackling in hideous competition.

  Huddling down in the darkness behind the shields, Simon could see nothing except the ceiling.