Key of Living Fire (The Sword of the Dragon)

by Appleton, Scott

  Ilfedo pushed a creaking gate open, followed the stone path, and climbed the stairs. The Nuvitor squawked as it landed on the iron fence.

  Standing on the porch that fronted the building, Ilfedo drew his sword, holding its blade in front of his face. A half circle of small panes adorned the upper section of door, and white trim outlined the otherwise dark wood.

  The house creaked, and something howled in the house next door. Ilfedo jumped and growled at himself. It’s only the wind, you fool! He knew, however, that not the slightest breeze disturbed this underground world.

  Ilfedo faced the house. He knocked and waited.

  A soft cry sounded from within, and he grasped the door handle. The lock clicked, as if someone had released it. The strange thing was, he didn’t hear any footsteps and certainly no breathing.

  Grasping the knob, he pushed the door open and stepped forward into a pitch-black home. He was standing in the foyer with an oak staircase rising to the second floor on his right and a narrow hallway to his left. His sword should have lighted the room with no problem, yet it didn’t. Several paintings of middle-aged men and women hung on the wall, one large one in the stairwell and two smaller ones along the hall wall. The air smelled thick, and everywhere he looked he seemed to gaze through a smoky haze. A small table stood against the wall with the contents of its open drawer spilled over the floor.

  A child cried from the dark rooms ahead.

  He swallowed hard and slowly advanced into the hall. The door creaked behind him and clicked shut. He swung around, a cold chill spreading from his back to his fingers as the darkness of the house closed around his sword. The Living Fire burned on, yet its light was absorbed by the darkness so that all he could discern was the blade. Glancing down, he found the light of his armor diminishing.

  He stepped forward, but the woman’s face in the last picture on the wall faintly glowed. Sweat broke out on his forehead. His feet rooted to the floor. The face blinked its glowing white eyes and opened its mouth, revealing a row of sharp teeth. He swung his sword at the portrait, and it clattered to the floor in two pieces. The face opened her mouth in silent laughter.

  He could see nothing around him save for the split portrait glowing at his feet until the figure of a thin man rose out of the hallway’s end. Up it rose, glowering down at him. A cold, slimy goo brushed his hand and slipped off as Ilfedo slashed his sword through the air around his body.

  His hand stung where he’d been touched. His fingers spasmed. He very nearly dropped his sword. He split the face with his sword, but the halves merged again. The being’s white eyes riveted on his face, then glanced at his hands.

  The dragon ring pulsed red, and the tiny creature growled, standing on his finger and spitting fire at the face. The amethyst eyes radiated their purple light, and the white-eyed face opened its mouth, sucking in ribbons of energy from the dragon ring.

  Ilfedo’s mind went back to the night he had fought the specter of Death in front of his home. The feeling he’d had then—that feeling of being utterly powerless—was exactly what he felt now.

  The door behind him slammed open at that moment. Pink light dimly lit the hall, and the face in the portrait on the floor faded until it was no longer visible, as did the being in front of him.

  Strong arms grabbed him around the waist and dragged him back down the hall and out the door. Ilfedo’s vision was foggy, as it had been in the house. He discerned the form of a short man in a pink robe running back up the porch steps and leaning into the doorway, pulling the door shut. Hefting the board back across the door and holding it in place, the man viciously hammered it back in place with his booted foot.

  “Fool!” he yelled. His beard brushed the ground as he bounded down the steps and kicked Ilfedo’s side.

  Ilfedo shot to his feet, kicking the other’s out from under him. Then he loomed over the fellow, his vision clearing, and held the tip of his now-blazing blade within inches of the man’s chest.

  “Wh-wait a minute here.” The fellow rolled to the side and stood to his feet. His grizzled face looked the part of fury personified. “I just saved your life, stranger! I saved your life! And now you want to gut me? What in heaven and hell is wrong with you?” He punched Ilfedo in the stomach. “Fool! God be my witness that I went in there to save you at my own peril.”

  Ilfedo rubbed his sore stomach and sheathed his sword with a flash of fire that caused the little man to retreat a couple of steps.

  Pulling his curious pink robe around his shoulders, the little man frowned and held out his hands. “Take this slow, sir. I wasn’t trying to rile you.”

  “Then you shall treat me with more respect, sir, for all you have done in our short meeting is rile me.”

  “Fair enough.” The man shook his head and, turning about, walked into the street.

  Ilfedo followed, and the Nuvitor leaped onto his shoulder. “Wait!” he commanded.

  The man kept walking. “I would gladly wait if I thought you could be trusted. But you, stranger, have done little to convince me you are not a sword-wielding maniac. Now, if you want to talk with me, walk with me.”

  “Walk? How can you walk? There’s a child stuck in that miserable house!”

  “A child!” The man spun around and returned to the gate, gazing at the dilapidated building. “Is that—is that why you went in?”

  “Not at first. I knocked, and the door unlocked, apparently, by itself. I can’t explain it without sounding crazy, but inside I heard a child—”

  A tear welled in the old man’s eye, and he gazed at the ground. “That is how it always used to be. But it hasn’t happened this way in a very long while.” A Dewobin fluttered onto the man’s hand, and he glanced at it, yet his gazed returned to the house. “So many homes gone, even the church.” He jerked his thumb at the bent-over steeple. “When I was a youth, I laughed at old wives’ fables of our city’s curse. Now I weep. For the dark truth of it now stalks us constantly.”

  As he stood talking to the man, Ilfedo heard a child’s cry, as if in his mind. It was soft and pleading, as if hoping he had not given up on it.

  Then the old man looked up at him and said, “You were a fool to enter one of these buildings. Even though that sword you carry startled me, it wouldn’t startle them. It was a neat trick, fire rushing up your blade. But they fear nothing and want nothing. This is all a game to them, a game of death.” He shook his head. “So what are you? Foolish or ignorant? I can see by your attire that you are from the wealthier end of town.”

  Ilfedo raised his eyebrows. “No, I am from the surface world. Why, do the wealthy inhabitants of your city have armor such as this?” He drew the sword of the dragon from its sheath.

  As fire bathed Ilfedo’s body and armor clapped onto his chest and arms, the man stumbled back, eyeing Ilfedo up and down as if for the first time. His eyes startled wide open and his countenance brightened. The Dewobin fluttered off his hand and ascended to its fellows high above the city. “I-I . . . you are . . . from the surface, you say?”

  The man whooped. Running and tripping on his robe, he raced down the street. Ilfedo started to follow, then turned back to the house as a child’s cry faintly reached his ear. Cursing the man for running off, Ilfedo summoned Seivar to his shoulder. His heart burned for the innocent child. He would do all and anything necessary to rescue that child out of its nightmarish prison.

  Far down the street, past a myriad of other dark but less broken homes and businesses, the long-bearded fellow ran. He was at least half a mile away when he turned up the steps of a white church. The building, unlike the others, was beautiful and unmarred. Ilfedo gazed upon it, reminded of the magnificent homes and buildings in Gwensin. Then he shed the image from his mind and faced the house. If no one else was around to face this task, he would.

  Dropping to his knees, he prayed to his Creator for guidance. His body trembled. The horrifying faces of the house’s ghostly occupants had drained his soul of light and hope. How could God allow such h
orrors to exist? Why not purify the world of all such things and leave only the good and pure?

  Because you want me to recognize my need of a Master. You want me to trust in your power, not my own. You want me to learn to reject the evil and love the good, fighting to my last breath to preserve it in order to grow my soul. He rose and barreled up the porch steps, smashing the door down with a single blow from his blazing sword.

  As if sensing what he was about to do, a haze of smoke spilled out of the house and over his feet. Cold seized his leg muscles, and he stumbled back down the steps. Facing the house and stroking Seivar’s chest, he bit his upper lip. “Can you get inside, my friend? I need a distraction.”

  The bird cawed, stretched its wings, and flew into the house.

  Ilfedo ran after it, rolling into the hallway. The door righted itself behind him and hovered back to its hinges, slamming closed. Once again darkness crowded him. A face of mist formed and opened its evil mouth, taking on a slight glow. The light of his sword dimmed, and he up-slashed with his sword, closing his eyes and remembering how he had forced the Grim Reaper into physical form.

  Opening his eyes, he concentrated the power of the sword into his free hand. He grabbed the ghost’s throat and smiled as his finger closed around it. The ghost’s eyes bulged as he stabbed its heart. The being sank to the floor, and he looked down at it. It was a man again. He could only imagine what had transformed a human being into something so cursed. He smashed the door down with his sword. As the door crashed onto the porch, he stepped over the man’s body.

  “Release the child,” he called into the darkness. “You cannot fight me, so do not try.”

  He waited to no avail. The house remained as silent, as dark, as it had always been. “Hello! I am here to help you, child. Make some noise if you can so that I can find you.” He stepped onto the broken portrait and glanced around. Nothing. Not even a child’s scream.

  Then the pictures, all of them, appeared in the dark. Smoke rose through the floorboards. Smoke that stung his eyes. Real smoke!

  He dropped to his knees and yelled as he raised the sword above his head and struck it against the floor. Wood chips flew as he repeated his action again and again. “What good are you to me, sword, if you cannot now blaze? Show me the power given you by the prophets.” Suddenly the sword seized him; he felt it. His whole body billowed with strength, and at the same time, the forms of a man and a woman slipped out of the portraits and stood before him. Their mouths opened in silent words he could not discern, and the hall walls turned to ice.

  Whispers and murmurs, evil and low, sounded from the house’s unseen chambers. Demonic and vindictive whispers filled his ears. They slashed at him with their hands, and he focused the sword’s power again, grasping first the woman’s wrist. It turned into vapor, but he concentrated harder, the Living Fire lashing around her wrist and holding it together.

  Her whole body materialized and her eyes widened. He shook his head as she sank to her knees. Pointing back down the hallway, he said, “Leave now and seek repentance from whatever brought you to this state. I will offer this escape only once.”

  She stumbled to her feet, pulling her ragged skirts around her, and ran out of the house. He could hear her weeping.

  Grabbing the next ghost, Ilfedo forced him into physical form as well. The man grabbed Ilfedo’s throat with both hands and kneed him in the stomach. Yet the sword of the dragon blazed, and so did his armor. Rising out of his hands, the weapon thrust the man through. As the man fell, Ilfedo grabbed his sword and walked to the hallway’s end.

  Ilfedo found a door, opened it, and pointed his sword down the stairwell. Lying at the stair’s base, a little girl slept. An old man held his hand against her cheek. He pulled his hand back and straightened, pushing oily strands of long gray hair from his eyes. He smiled up at Ilfedo as four ghostly human figures swirled out of the mist covering the basement floor.

  “Welcome, stranger. Welcome indeed!” The old man placed one bare foot on the lowest step and gazed down upon the child. “Beautiful, isn’t she? The perfect picture of innocence.” He held up his hand and pointed at Ilfedo. “Ah, but wait! We both know that you have not come for my pleasant conversation. And we both are aware that you are unlike any human being in this city.”

  Ilfedo tensed, readying his body for a sprint down the stairs. He would snatch the child and get out of this place.

  “In fact, you are not even from this place . . . Are you, Lord Ilfedo?”

  Ilfedo stopped short, and three more ghosts emerged from the stairwell, rising through the steps to stand between him and the old man.

  “How do you know me?” Ilfedo asked.

  The man turned as if he were a top, arms spreading as he smiled at the ghosts. They bowed at him, then faced Ilfedo again. “God has his way of communicating through prophets. I merely imitate that, in my own way. I know that you faced the Grim Reaper, Razes, and even the king of sea serpents. But though you are a skilled warrior, you have faced nothing like me! I have anticipated your arrival because it was long-ago prophesied, and today I will test you in a way you have not been tested before.”

  Spitting on the stair, Ilfedo grasped his sword with both hands. “Stand aside. Allow me to fetch the child. If she is unharmed, I will let you live.”

  The man raised his bushy eyebrows. “Here, in my house, you will be given no choices except to proceed with the test or to leave. If you leave, your destiny is your own. But if you wish to save this child from these spirits, then you will do so according to my rules.”

  Ilfedo took a step down the stair. “I am taking the child, and then I will go.”

  The old man stood there. He did not appear to do anything, but the stairway extended, doubling the distance to the child. Ilfedo stopped and narrowed his eyes. He could blast the stairs with living fireLiving Fire, dropping himself into the basement. By doing so, however, he would leave no way to climb out of the basement. “What are your rules, old man?”

  Clapping his hands, the old man kicked the stair step. “Excellent! The rules are these: You will descend one step at a time, you will only take a step when I say so, and you will wait ten seconds before picking up the child. Swear this to me by your honor.”

  “I swear,” Ilfedo said.

  “Very well.” The man waved his hand, and the stair shrunk to its original length. “Lord Ilfedo, you may descend the first step.”

  As Ilfedo stepped down and stood on the step, the air warmed and he began to sweat. When he was instructed to descend to the next step, he found it hotter. The temperature increased with each step, as did the length of time he was required to linger. Sweat poured off his body, and he growled as he stepped to the halfway point.

  “You are doing well, Lord Ilfedo.” The old man stepped back. “Now, take another step.”

  Stepping down again, Ilfedo cried out, for the heat increased. He felt as if he’d been placed on a heated pan and thrown in a furnace. Hold on, he told himself. Endure! The child matters more than my own comfort. Then he saw . . . saw the child’s body soaked in sweat.

  With every step he took, he not only raised his temperature, he raised hers. If he proceeded to the stair’s base and waited the required ten seconds, she might not survive. “Why you—” He clenched his fist. “You said I could fetch her.”

  “Ah, so now you see!” The old man pointed at the child and stepped back. “It is getting rather hot in here.”

  The ghosts drifted across the steps, silent laughter written on their faces.

  “Now you are tempted, aren’t you, Lord Warrior?” The old man stepped back again, farther into the dark recesses of the basement. “I had hoped you would not realize until too late, but now it seems you have bound yourself by an oath and cannot fulfill your mission. If you break your vow, this stair will extend and extend and extend until she is far, far beyond your reach.”

  The sword cooled in Ilfedo’s hands, and for an instant he felt relief. “I will not break my word,” he said
. “Continue, old man!”

  “Step down, please.”

  Ilfedo did so. This time, as the heat increased, he closed his eyes and focused on the sword. He willed it to absorb the heat. The sword seared his hands, then it cooled again and the temperature dropped. He smiled as he took another step and repeated the process. The stairwell refused to overheat as he pointed the blade toward the little girl, pulling the hot air away from her.

  The old man darted to the little girl’s side and touched her forehead. He jerked his face to look up at Ilfedo. “You are very clever with that weapon of yours. But as long as I am here, I will stop you.”

  “Then, for the sake of the child, I will make certain you keep your distance from us both.” Ilfedo smiled as Living Fire snaked through the air and splashed onto the dirt floor, driving back the old man.

  The flames from the sword spread over the floor, away from the child but toward the old man, until his back was pressed against the wall. “Remember our agreement!” the man screamed.

  “I have not broken my oath.” Ilfedo stared at the man. “I am still waiting for you to let me proceed.” He willed more fire to shoot from the sword, flattening the old man to the basement’s stone wall.

  Glancing around at the flames that pressed upon him as he cried out in pain—for the flames touched his ankles—the old man told Ilfedo to descend the remaining steps. “Take her and go!”

  Ilfedo gently scooped the child into his arms. She had blond hair befitting an angel, and her hands were as soft as silk. Tear streaks had emblazoned her cheeks and chin. “There is no longer a need to cry,” he whispered as he carried her up the stairs and into the hallway. Behind him the old man screamed.

  “Fool, Lord Warrior, I will have you slain!”

  Ilfedo stroked the child’s forehead. She was someone’s baby, someone’s Oganna. Several wispy humanoid forms rose into the hallway, blocking his escape. One of them scratched his arm. Another cut his leg.