The Prince of Earthen Fire

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The Prince of Earthen Fire Page 22

by B C Penling


  Zen scooped up Lana and lifted her to the gap in the rocks. She clambered out of the hole, coughing and gasping for fresh air. Her sight was obscured by the heavy dirt that was stuck in and around her eyes. She looked around, blinking and trying to focus. Through a blur of stinging dirt, she saw a large figure. Fear gripped her heart.

  Zen heard her scream in terror. A sickening thud resonated into the cave as her cry for help was silenced. Fury and trepidation filled Zen’s thoughts. Adrenalin strengthened his body and hatred for the Warisai boiled from deep within his chest. He pushed his shoulder against the stones that no only hid the entrance but also blocked his egress. He was trapped and she needed him.

  He pushed harder. Little by little the stones budged. His rage grew and encouraged his strength. He threw his weight into them, ordering the pile to move. He dug deep into his soul for every ounce of strength. He shoved against the rocks, unrelenting. She needed him!

  He roared with every ounce of anger inside his body and pushed with all his heart. The rocks rolled back and the wall collapsed. He charged out, mouth smoldering and eyes ablaze.

  Warisai!

  Lana was sprawled on the ground at their feet. Blood trickled from her head. Four Warisai surrounded her and, upon seeing him, released a small volley at Zen. He torched their feeble arrows with a huff of fire and lunged. He closed the distance between him and the enemy; closer to Lana.

  The Warisai stood over her like flies around a rotting corpse. He jumped, landing over the top of Lana and swung his head. He knocked the Warisai off their feet and turned his fiery wrath upon them. A deep satisfaction seethed inside of him as he watched their flesh turn to ashes.

  He got three of them but the party had four. He looked up in time to see the fouth one standing to the north. He held a small green stone to the sky and it wreathed with light. Zen pushed off with hind legs and charged at him. He was almost there and the Warisai was seconds from death by fire.

  A flash of bright green light blinded him and with a sudden searing pain he felt himself being pulled into the air. His tail struck the Warisai, knocking him off the small mound of dirt.

  Talons.

  Talons were dug into him around his throat. They burned as they dug in beneath his scales. He exhaled a stream of fire but missed the creature that held him. Next thing he knew, he was falling. It was such a short distance that he landed on his back before he even knew he was freed from its talons. He roared in agony upon impact and the pain in his wing made his eyesight falter.

  He scrambled upright, his wing falling out of the sling in the process. He dragged it behind him as he raced to grab Lana before that flying creature did. He ran past the Warisai on the ground.

  The beast gave a sharp cry as it swooped in. It put one foot on the ground, picked up Lana in the other and, with strong beats of its wings, it went airborne. Zen lept, flapped his working wing and closed his mouth. His teeth sank into its drabby gray feathers.

  He landed pathetically on the lake's muddy shore. A few scraggly feathers were all he had to show for his actions. All his effort was in vain. He clawed at the mud in frustration and roared at the giant bird as it carried away a piece of his heart. Zen lowered his head and looked at his talons.

  He allowed the feathers to drop from his mouth. Upon contact with the earth, they turned blue before engulfing in flames and leaving ashen outlines on the mud. The wind blew from the north, sending ripples across the lake and stirring the feathers' ashes and the ashes of the Warisai. The clouds overhead darkened gloomily and began releasing a shower of rain. It patted sadly on his head and rolled off his snout.

  She was gone and his hope went with her. He couldn’t fly. He couldn’t follow. He couldn’t rescue her from the clutches of the Warisai’s summoned servant; the source of his grief and anger. It would be months before he could fly again, if ever he could. His body trembled with a cloudburst of emotions.

  He couldn’t follow her, not even on foot. He didn’t know where they were taking her.

  “But,” he mumbled, “it does.”

  He turned around. Dragging his crippled wing behind him, he approached the Warisai and stepped heavily on its chest. It woke up in a panic, having been knocked off its feet and knocked unconscious.

  “Where did it take her?” Zen growled.

  The Warisai struggled beneath his hand. Zen pushed harder.

  “I’m sure since you were the one to find her, you’d be heavily rewarded,” Zen said. “It’d be a shame to die now. You wouldn’t be able to enjoy it.”

  “Why should I tell you?” it spat.

  “You don’t want to be rewarded?” Zen replied. He pressed down harder. “I should kill you for what you’ve done. Every good creature knows you have it coming to you, filth. I'll spare you if you tell me where she’s being taken.”

  The Warisai stopped struggling, his face strewn with consideration. “I tell you, dragon,” he said. “You spare me?”

  Zen nodded.

  “She’s going to Genetricis,” he said. “South of the mountains is our largest city. She’s being taken there just as Donovan directed.”

  “Thank you,” Zen said. “And, as promised, I’ll spare you…”

  He lifted his hand and stepped away. The Warisai rose to his feet and stepped back a few paces. Zen looked the Warisai straight in its sinister eyes. They were the eyes of a murderer that raided Arbortown. They were the eyes of the one that rushed in to kill him when he was on the ground…

  He exhaled forcefully and with his breath came fire, a bright white merciless flame. The Warisai briefly screamed as the fire engulfed him.

  “I never said I’d spare your life,” Zen said hatefully at the pile of smoldering ash. “I said I’d spare you. And by that I meant spare you from a slow, tortured death.”

  “Remind me not to end up like that guy.”

  Zen whirled around with a snarl, startled by the voice from behind him. He had the inclination to tear him to pieces or reduce him to a pile of ash but it was a man. His face was burly, worn by many years, with wrinkles that surrounded his eyes. The man had his hands raised in a friendly manner and was patting the air, telling Zen to calm himself. How could he calm down? His closest friend had been carried away and he was unable to pursue her. Zen eyed him with distrust.

  “I’m not your enemy, friend,” he said.

  “I am not a friend,” Zen said bitterly.

  “You are to her,” the man said, looking up at the storming sky.

  Zen cast his eyes to the stones on the ground. He dug his claws into the soil around them.

  “Shall we get out of this rain?” The man took a step toward the cave.

  “I go nowhere with you,” Zen growled.

  “You should,” he replied smoothly. “It’s idiocy to stand here in the cold when you can do nothing.”

  “I cannot forsake her,” Zen replied, his voice softer.

  “Nor will you by coming inside.”

  Zen looked at the man’s kind blue eyes and saw fidelity and a fervent confidence; nobility rested upon his shoulders and righteous upon his brow. Within every one of his wrinkles was a story written that generations of man had forgotten. He was weathered like the mountains around them and despite his apparent age, he walked with spry.

  Zen looked longingly where he last saw Lana. Heartbroken, he turned and followed the man into the cave.

  “I see you’ve found it,” the man said, motioning to the wall. “It hasn’t seen light for many centuries.”

  Zen looked at the wall. Upon it was a mural made of quartz, gold and other precious metals and gems. Among the various pictures, Zen saw a dragon fighting an enraged forest sprite. Below the dragon and sprite was a scripture written in alvenite:

  Moshaun, the Sprite Lord, embattled with Lavenda Gorshus.

  610 Fae Wars.

  During any other time, Zen would have found all of it captivating. He cherished knowledge and was always in pursuit of it, except then. He cared not for Moshaun and Laven
da Gorshus, nor of battles past. He wanted Lana at his side, safe. He wanted to rescue and protect her. Turmoil filled his mind and he felt a part of himself going mad; wild for some hope that wouldn’t come.

  His mind was plagued with the irritability and fear of the unknown. He had to rescue Lana but he didn’t know where to start. He couldn’t go back to Port Eyzin for help. They were enabling the Warisai and the Warisai were likely still there.

  Barator could help and would help unconditionally. He knew he could trust Barator but he was so far. It would take him days to reach him and by then it could be too late.

  “Please don’t be too grim, friend.”

  “I’m not your friend!” Zen snapped. “And why shouldn’t I be? She’s gone and I cannot save her!” His voice echoed down the winding passageway.

  “There’s always hope,” the man replied.

  Zen hung his head, clenching his jaw tightly in anger. The man didn’t know what he was going through. He had been so close to saving her.

  He closed his eyes and relived Lana’s abduction. The most disturbing sight was her sprawled on the ground, blood trickling from a wound on her head.

  Was she dead?

  Sorrow and despair coursed through his body but his heart told him it was untrue. She couldn’t be dead. Donovan didn’t want her dead. He wanted her alive.

  She was still in the talons of the giant bird that bore her away. If only he had the wings to pursue her. He would’ve ripped it to shreds and then burned its feathers from its body before turning it to ash. He would’ve carried Lana to safety…

  Lost in thought and melancholy, Zen silently brooded like the dead in a graveyard. He wanted to lash out, to hurt and to kill. His own war was raging deep within his mind and heart, welling to the unbearable. Just when Zen thought he was going to tear himself apart, the man spoke.

  “You realize there were six in each group,” he said.

  Zen flashed a quick look at him.

  “Have you seen the other two?”

  “One and there’s one still out there. I found the body of one near my camp, stabbed through the heart.”

  “One was murdered?” Zen asked.

  “Yes, and there’s one alive. Unless the other four killed him,” the man replied.

  “Why would they attack each other?”

  “Acting on orders, perhaps,” the man suggested. “There were signs of an altercation leading up to the killing. Five Warisai against one Warisai is hardly fair.”

  “So there’s some bad blood between them,” Zen thought aloud. “Maybe from their leader toward a Warisai who didn’t do its job?”

  “Or perhaps the leader didn’t want competition,” the man said.

  Zen looked around, thinking hard, mulling it over. “Could it be rivalry,” Zen began.

  “Between siblings?”

  “We need to go now. We need to find him before he’s too far away,” Zen said hastily, rising to his feet.

  “I want to find him as much as you,” the man said. “He raided my camp and stole a few things of mine.”

  Zen paused and waited for a few minutes. The man didn’t move. Zen cleared his throat. The man didn’t even blink. He was standing and continued to stare at the intricately woven tribute in front of him. Zen impatiently tapped his tail on the floor. The man didn’t budge.

  “Are you coming or not?” Zen barked.

  The wall to his left, opposite of Lavenda Gorshus, crumbled slightly. Zen spun, half expecting a Warisai to kill, but rather found himself face-to-face with Arloen. A fierce look was on his face but that was all he could see of him. Zen hit the wall with his tail, causing more to crumble from the wall and reveal more.

  His armor was of alvenite, gold was his hair, and emeralds were his eyes. Over his head he held the sword, a sword now named Retribution. He was fighting a four-headed snake; each of its scales was made of felion's eye, a swirling gold and brown gem. Zen’s lips loosened and his mouth opened slightly. He stared at Arloen, moreover the item around his neck; a jade rose, with all its familiarity.

  Zen stared in disbelief and thumbed his chest before gently pulling back a scale that stuck out slightly farther than the others. Out fell the jade rose his father had given him before he died. He had no idea how or why Arloen wore it around his neck as an amulet. He examined his treasured possession. Only slightly did it vary from the one Arloen had which he assumed was because it was artwork.

  How could Arloen have had something that his father had since I hatched?

  Zen’s eyes fixed on Arloen’s emerald eyes and the fierceness in his face. Determination rose within him.

  “Pretty fascinating, huh?” the man asked. “I’m sure a smart dragon like yourself wouldn’t need an explanation.”

  “I know who it is,” Zen replied, replacing the red rose beneath his scale.

  “I was talking about the rose,” he replied.

  Zen turned to eye the man questioningly.

  “Be easy,” the man said, gazing out the opening of the cave. “Don’t jump to a solution here. I think they can help us.”

  Zen contorted his face. “What are you talking about? And what about the rose?”

  “No, don’t do that,” he said, seemingly talking to thin air. “He won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt him.”

  “Are you talking to yourself?” Zen asked incredulously.

  The man waved his hand toward Zen in an unusual circular gesture. “Don’t do anything impetuous.”

  “Oh, great,” Zen said. “The only companion I have is senile. Why are you talking to yourself?” He took a few steps forward and lowered his head so he would be eye to eye. Perhaps he could see if the old man had mentally vacated the cave.

  “I know who they are,” he said. “You don’t know who they are. So, I suggest you simply listen to me.”

  “Oh, I’m listening to you have a one-sided conversation,” Zen replied.

  “It’s not one-sided,” the man said.

  “That’s right. I forgot you’re talking to someone only you can see.”

  “Sarcasm gets dragons nowhere.”

  “That’s obvious,” laughed Zen. “Keep talking to Mr. Invisible, I’ll leave you two alone. Or maybe it’s Mrs. Invisible.” Zen rubbed his chin.

  “No,” the man said. “I’m talking to you.”

  “While staring off into air,” Zen reminded him.

  “I’m looking at them,” the man said.

  “So there’s more than one.” Zen chuckled.

  “The dirt from the wall collapsing probably masked their scent,” the man said. “You might actually want to use your brain and show them due respect. It is their cave after all.” He motioned oddly with his hand again. This time Zen looked where the man was looking.

  In the entrance to the cave, barely noticeable in the gathering darkness beyond, were dark figures. Zen lowered his head and snorted. The figures weren’t that of Warisai so they posed no valid threat to Zen.

  “Nof fionDenDen!” one shouted, suddenly springing forward into the cave.

  “Desh huntiaVesh!” another shouted before they all swarmed into the cave.

  A handful stood a few spear lengths away from Zen and two others grabbed the man by the arms. They were substantially shorter than the man; shorter by nearly four heads. What they lacked in height was made up by physique; each carried the bulk of one dozen hatchling wyverns. Their shoulders were wide and their arms were muscular.

  Zen raised a brow. They’re short. Short ones. Shortlings?

  “Vesh zha nof Don cendu. Meneh, Den nof graspan Va.” The man spoke their dialect flawlessly.

  The short ones glanced at each other, astonished. “GobaDen Von Lenolden?”

  “Ush, nevaVa,” the old man replied. “We should speak in a tongue everyone could understand, though.”

  “Ush, we should,” the red-bearded, and tallest, shortling replied. “How has it come to be that you speak our language?”

  “I know much, my friends beneath mountain�
�s crown,” he replied. “My name, in your language, is Muzh U Kijo.”

  The faces of the short men dawned with recognition and admiration.

  “Muzh U Kijo!” the red-bearded dwarf exclaimed. “You are known well here.” He took off his hat in respect and held it to his chest. His red hair was long and wavy, streaked with white strands of newly grayed hair, and so thick it was like a natural cloak. “The name is Allard. Please, will you come in and supper with my family.” His deep green eyes were submissive and friendly.

  “I’d be delighted,” the man said, humbly. “Will my friend be allowed as well?

  “Ush, yes, absolute,” he replied.

  “That’s if this friend of yours even wants to go,” Zen stated, then asked. “Who are these little people anyways?”

  The shortlings huffed in irritation and looked at each with indignation at his question. The smallest of the little men sprang forward and jabbed Zen in the chest with his spear. “Tuko!” he shouted, jabbing him again. “Tuko!”

  “Stop jabbing me!” Zen barked.

  The other little people raised their spears and moved in on Zen. They were a proud people, ready and willing to die to defend their dignity.

  “Relax,” Zen said. “You live under rocks! Like I’m supposed to know what you,” Zen paused, remembering his history lesson about small men fighting in the Fae War and then experiencing a sharp decline in their population. “Ooh,” Zen cooed. “You’re dwarfs, aren’t you? I didn’t know dwarfs still existed.”

  The shortest dwarf put his spear tip on the ground and grabbed the shaft. He straightened up proudly, pursed his lips determinedly, and looked Zen bravely in the eye.

  “Ush,” he replied.

  “Look at Arley,” a black-haired dwarf said, pointing to the shortest dwarf. “You would think he had just won a competition.”

  “It would be not a competition for hunting,” another commented. “Even that girl hunted milmets better.” There was an eruption of mockery and laughter.

  The proud little dwarf’s eyes sank with the humility and rested on the tip of his spear that was embedded in the soft dirt by his feet. His head lowered and his chin came to rest on his chest to hide his face of embarrassment. His red hair fell limp from his shoulders and hung beside his eyes as a curtain to shield the rest from his ashamed face.

 

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