The Lost Dragons of Barakhai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Collins lowered his mouth to his hands and sipped at the remaining dregs of water. It carried no taste at all, not even of the bracken that raced downstream into the caverns. As a budding scientist, he knew the human eye could not discern even the most lethal pathogens in the world, but he found assurance in the clarity and lack of taste of Barakhai’s water. Uncertain when he would get his next chance to drink without having to watch his back, he sucked down several handfuls of water, feeling like a young gazelle at a communal drinking hole. Cheetahs and leopards also knew the scent of water.

  *Ready?*

  Though pointless and unnecessary, Collins appreciated the question. Prinivere knew exactly how unprepared he felt, how he felt incapable of truly steeling for any mission this important and peppered with so many unknowns. He resisted the urge to say, “Ready as I’ll ever be.” Prinivere might never have heard the phrase spoken, but his thoughts would betray its triteness. She understood he felt hopelessly ill-equipped and unready, emotionally as well as physically, yet she had already given him all the appropriate pep talks. From the moment he stepped into the cave, Benton Collins was on his own.

  *Not quite.* Once again, Prinivere read his mind. *Don’t forget my roar.*

  In the flurry of more recent concerns, Collins had let that slip his mind. He smiled at the reminder. Had Prinivere not mentioned it, he might have got caught running in terror from the sound along with any inhabitants within hearing.

  Collins tried one last desperate measure. “Can you keep in touch with me? With your mind-talking thing, I mean?”

  Prinivere made a huge movement Collins interpreted as a shrug. *I can try. But it’s not likely to penetrate the magic. And I can’t stay here long either. Like us, the king has many spies, but he pays well for their loyalty. Also, I’m the only one who can bridge the gap between thoughts in human and animal forms. The others may need me, too.*

  Certain he would catch no easy breaks, Collins had anticipated the answer. “I’m ready,” he announced.

  *Cover your ears.* Prinivere trudged to the cave mouth.

  Collins obeyed and cycled the reminder of Prinivere’s harmlessness through his mind. This time, the roar barely stiffened him, though it echoed eerily through the caverns. He loosened his grip and shrugged his backpack onto both shoulders. Though accustomed to stylishly carrying it on one, Collins found practicality and ease more compelling than image here. He marched boldly toward the cave.

  *Good luck. All our hopes go with you.*

  Collins did not bother with a reply. He scooped up a large sandstone, then stepped into the mouth of the cave. It opened onto a cavern the size of his apartment, dimly lit by sunlight funneling through the opening. Craggy out-croppings shadowed corners that might hide any number of man-eating beasts. Stalactites jutted from the ceiling like pointed teeth, and Collins felt as if he had just stepped into the jaws of the largest carnivore of all.

  Korfius barked wildly.

  Glad for the excuse, Collins exited the cave. He stepped back into daylight that seemed extraordinarily bright. For inexplicable reasons, he expected to find himself in some new and strange location, utterly alone; but the scene looked exactly as it had mere moments earlier. Prinivere’s neck glided toward him, and Korfius jumped up on him, knocking him to the ground and covering him with doggy kisses.

  Prinivere remained silent, avoiding the obvious question. No flimsy excuse could work against a mind reader. She knew Collins had faced no clear danger.

  Collins extricated himself from the dog and clambered to his feet. The silence bothered him, so he asked the obvious, in reverse, “Why did I do that?” He anticipated something profound from Prinivere, about how only he could answer that, so her actual words surprised him.

  *You forgot to say ‘good-bye’ to your dog?*

  Collins liked Prinivere’s answer better than the one that came to him: Because I’m an infernal coward. He knelt, this time preserving his equilibrium despite the attention from the overeager puppy. He caught the fuzzy face between his hands and squeezed it like a seldom-seen aunt might at a family reunion. “Korfius, I just want you to know I love you. And, no matter what anyone else says, you’re the best dog a guy could ever have.”

  Korfius cocked his head to one side and whined.

  Collins hugged the mongrel close, kissing the warm fur of his neck. “Now,” he whispered in Korfius’ floppy ear, “go with Prinivere.”

  Korfius whimpered again.

  Without further words, Collins headed back into the cave. Again, the dimness swallowed him, and he waited for his eyes to fully adjust. The rocky prominences and concavities of the entryway formed a mad chaos of hiding places, and Collins imagined a deadly man-eater behind every one. Since they became people at intervals, these carnivores would have none of the wariness of humans shown by the wild, gun-hunted creatures of his own world. Seized by the sudden urge to leave one more time, to reassure Korfius and request one last roar from Prinivere, he glanced at his watch. It was after eight o’clock. Shocked, he looked again, staring. He had less than four hours to find the dragons, rescue them, and use them, if possible, to save Zylas. That motivated him. Pausing to scrape a huge “1” on the cave wall with the piece of sandstone still clutched in his fist, he hurried around the walls, seeking breaks.

  A third of the way around the cavern, Collins found what he sought. A slitlike hole opened onto darkness. Deciding on his marking strategy, he put another “1” at this exit. If he marked all the doors, he would know where he had been and where each fit in the pattern of his search. It seemed wisest to number by caves rather than openings. That way, he would know if he had returned to a place he had already explored.

  Loath to leave the light, Collins looked for other ways out. Unless he marked all of them, he ran the risk of performing double searches or of getting himself lost in familiar territory. Amid the stones and crags, he discovered only one other exit from the cavern, a wider, jagged hole that would admit him far more easily than the other. Collins could fit through either without much effort, but he thought it best to stick with the wider openings, more likely routes for dragons. He tried not to think about the fact that these would also attract larger carnivores of other varieties. Neither opening from this cavern could wholly stop even a creature as large as a tiger, but the slit might compress the big cat’s whiskers enough to deter it. Chalking another “1” at the side of the opening, Collins walked into the deeper cavern.

  As Collins passed through one crude “room” to the next, his shoe sank into something soft and squishy. Warmth trickled around his shoe, and the explanation wafted to his nose. Dung. From the feel of it under his sole, it seemed fresh. The deeply buried hope that the carnivores might have hunted one another to extinction instantly evaporated. Prinivere’s roar might have chased them from the front caverns, but he had no idea how long the effect would last or how far they might have run. Fingers shaking, he seized the recorder at his belt and fumbled with the play button. The silence erupted into another roar, a pale shadow of the first one yet terrifying enough. Ahead of Collins, nails scrabbled against stone, clearly retreating.

  Collins slid off his pack, then groped through it for a torch just as the second recorded roar broke the stillness. Taking one of the rag-wrapped sticks in hand, he fumbled the matches. Silence descended around him, broken only by the hiss of the recorder, now playing blank tape. He lit the torch, jammed the rest of the matches back into his shirt pocket, and clutched the torch between his knees. Hands free, he stopped the tape and poked the rewind button, realizing its use would slow him down immensely. Frustrated by dwindling time and the irritating reality of the situation, he took the torch back in hand. It cleared the darkness in a ragged circle that left him longing for overhead lamps. It seemed a wonder that every man and woman of Barakhai had not gone blind.

  As Collins walked, ears attuned for movement, vision glued to the uneven ground, he realized several things. First, he had no way of knowing whether or not the Barakhai
ns saw clearly. He doubted they had the technology to create functional glasses. He also knew his own equipment had serious, previously unconsidered limitations. He could not remember the last time he had changed the batteries of the tape recorder, and a constant play and rewind cycle would run them down swiftly. The thought became an obsession. He needed to play the roars frequently enough to keep predators at bay yet not so constantly that he ran it out of power, slowed his pace to a frustrating crawl, or allowed the descendants of criminal carnivores to become accustomed to the sound.

  Collins shuffled his feet, raising the torch to examine the walls of the second chamber. This one proved smaller, with only a single exit into an oblong cavern that seemed more like a corridor than a cave. He eased inside, then marked it with a “2.” The closeness of the walls brought a sensation of tomblike enclosure that sent a shiver through his body. At the same time, he appreciated its narrowness. It left no space for anything to slip past and behind him, and he could easily and simultaneously explore both stone walls with his fingertips.

  In this manner, Collins plunged deeper into the ancient caverns, pausing at intervals to play the recording of Prinivere’s roar. Occasionally, he thought he heard a scrape or a scrabble, a hiss or a whisper bouncing from walls with impossibly complex acoustics. Torch after torch burned to a nub as an hour and a half slipped by without the need for Collins to enter any area twice. He had abandoned several openings in favor of others, six or seven to his count, leaving them marked and wondering if he had mistaken a better choice for a worse one. A few scattered bones littered the stony pathways, and Collins passed these without a second glance. He preferred not to waste time identifying any dead creature. Anything but fish were ultimately human, and none of these were fish. He had enough trouble noticing bones in a fish fillet on a plate six inches from his nose.

  Needing a break, Collins sat on a crag to consider his plan, wedging the torch and flopping his backpack down beside him. He had no idea how far the caverns might span, but random wandering was beginning to seem pointless. He considered shouting for the dragons but worried about what else might choose to answer. Even if Quinton had trained them to come when called, she probably used names she had given them. He hoped Prinivere’s roar would draw them out, if only from curiosity, yet he realized it might just as likely have the opposite effect. Raised by humans, the young dragons might find the sound as fearsome and terrifying as he did. So far, he had come upon nothing living, only the occasional sound of something unseen scuttling into the darkness.

  Knowing time was not on his side, Collins sighed, took the recorder in hand, and hit the rewind button for what seemed like the hundredth time. He started to his feet, twisting to get his backpack.

  The movement saved him. Something immense crashed into his shoulder instead of his throat, hurling him onto his stomach. Rocks stabbed his ribs and hip. Air exploded from his lungs. Momentum sent him flying across the cavern floor, rocks tearing and hammering his clothes and flesh. Claws sank into his back, and hot panting burned the back of his neck. Breathless, he found himself incapable of screaming, and agony destroyed all rational thought momentarily. Only one idea managed to wriggle through Collins’ shock: I’m going to die.

  Adrenaline pumped through Collins like acid, driving him to action. He gathered his hands and knees under him, attempting to crawl, but the thing remained with him, clamped to his back. Teeth closed over the rear of his head. Pain screamed through his scalp. He gasped in a series of ratcheting breaths. Warm blood trickled down his neck and spine. He eeled sideways, yawing violently, trying to dislodge a creature that seemed to weigh at least as much as he did. It rocked, keeping its balance with agile ease, though the wild motions did slow its assault. Every movement sent pain stabbing through Collins, but he dared not stop long enough to give the creature an easy shot at something vital.

  Collins finally managed a scream, though he still harbored no hope that any creature of Barakhai would instinctively run from humans. He gave an abrupt twist that brought him halfway around and freed his arms for the battle. The teeth jarred loose, tearing away furrows of hair and scalp with a pain that brought tears to Collins’ eyes. He flailed at the creature. His right fist struck something solid and furry. Still winched around the recorder, his left caught the creature a smashing blow across a whiskered cheek. The recorder shattered in his fist, pieces skittering through the cavern. The animal tumbled to the ground, and Collins surged to his feet, seeing it for the first time in the dim outer reaches of the lantern’s glow. Tawny and cat-shaped, it launched its muscled frame at him again.

  Cougar. Dizzy and slowed by his wounds, Collins threw himself sideways. Puma, mountain lion. The bulk of the creature crashed against his side, tossing him like flotsam in a gale. He scrabbled to regain his footing, desperate to find it before the cougar found him once more. He stumbled backward over a stalagmite, tripped, and fell. The unexpected motion foiled the graceful animal’s attack again, and it went sailing over Collins. Shadows danced on the ceiling, and he found himself hemmed in by stone formations. He needed to act swiftly or die, and his mind raced, strangely clear. He had read more than his share of nature stories and preferred animal shows on public television to anything “prime time.” He tried to recall any detail about cougars that might help him now.

  Shadows. Collins glanced wildly around him, trying to locate the animal before it pounced again. Shadows come from light. It was not a cougar fact, but any animal would shy from fire. He dove for the source of the shadows, seizing the torch on the move. The cougar bounded after him, catching him a paw blow to the head that sent him skidding across the uneven ground, senses reeling. He let the force take him where it would, clutching the torch like a lifeline. Then, at last, memory surged to the fore. Men had hunted cougars to dangerously low numbers because of one fatal flaw: unlike other large cats, they never stood down dogs. Toy poodles had been known to tree the fiercest, most massive males. Once hunting dogs caught the scent of one of the now rare cats, the outcome was inevitable. Collins only hoped Barakhain cougars suffered from that same instinct.

  As the beast flew toward him, Collins held his ground. He thrust the torch into its face, barking madly in his best imitation of Korfius.

  With a yelp of pain and surprise, the cougar threw itself sideways, rolling, its fur alight. Turning on its heels, it screeched off into the deeper caverns.

  The torch dropped from Collins’ suddenly trembling fingers. His head buzzed, making coherent thought all but impossible. He dragged himself toward his backpack, seized it, then hauled it to his chest until it lay balled beneath him. Agony screamed through his whole body so that he found himself incapable of focusing on any one injury. Something pattered steadily to the stone. Blood, he realized, but it took another few beats to add, my blood. His consciousness swam, and he fought to anchor it with the terrifying knowledge that if he blacked out, he was cougar chow.

  Staunch the bleeding. Collins did not need medical training to know that no first aid mattered more. Attuned to any sound that might herald the cougar’s return, he pulled the tatters of his T-shirt tight across his back and head, knotting it over his chest and brow. The myriad abrasions and cuts over his ribs, abdomen, and limbs hurt but they did not require tending yet. His body could handle them. He tried to stand, instantly pummeled to the ground by vertigo. Still clutching the pack, he inched his way across the floor. Returning to Prinivere seemed the wisest course, though it would lose him all the ground he had attained. She could heal the wounds that hampered his every movement. Yet, Collins realized, he would have to find her first. Backtracking seemed at least as far as pushing onward, and he doubted she still waited for him at the entrance.

  Collins lowered his head, driven to move but certain haste would only assure that he lost consciousness and, ultimately, lead to his death. Despair rushed down upon him. He was alive but gravely injured. His task had seemed nearly impossible before, now it had become even more so. But he also knew that the young drag
ons held the key to rescuing not only Zylas, but now himself as well. He had little choice but to push on and hope for the best.

  Chapter 9

  THE cart lurched toward Opernes Castle, drawn by a buckskin horse now disguised as a tea-brown, dusty mule. In the driver’s seat, Ialin forced himself to grip the rope reins securely in both hands and concentrated on not fidgeting. He wore the face of Eshwyn the merchant, but he had known from the start that he could never pull off that deception for long. Aisa perched on his shoulder, and Vernon hid in a deep pocket, both as convinced as Collins that the plan was precisely as it seemed. The mind reading dragon had to know the extra layer Ialin had devised, but she feigned ignorance of his secret with the ease of long practice.

  On the far side of the moat, a pair of male guards challenged from the parapets. “State your name and business.”

  Ialin met the gaze of one with trained steadiness and dutifully imitated the merchant’s voice. He willed his body in place, winching his hands to white fists to keep from wringing them. So far, jettisoning his own nervous habits preoccupied him more than any attempt to pass for the other man. “Do not play games with me, Shirith.” He continued to stare at the guard to his left. “Wittmore.” He indicated the other with a tip of his head. “You know who I am.”

  Both guards smiled. Shirith spoke first, “Certainly we know you, Eshwyn, but not that rickety wreck you came in.”