Key of Living Fire (The Sword of the Dragon) (11 page)

Ilfedo raised his hand and Vortain sat down, though a frown played across his face. “No. That would not be prudent. The land of Burloi was laid waste. It may be green, but much of it reeks with death. I wouldn’t want to build upon such a massacre. Besides, who knows if the animal carcasses have sat there for too long? The water and the land itself could be poisonous by now—in all probability they
are
. I am not proposing that we leave the Hemmed Land. Believe me, I do not want to, in the slightest. But I do ask that all of you prepare for that possibility. Prepare yourselves and your people; store foods and supplies with which to journey. Whether or not the idea suits your fancy, you cannot deny that, if the weather pattern does not change, this land may no longer be able to sustain our growing population.”

A murmur of agreement passed through the men at that table. Even Vortain gave him a slight nod. Ilfedo could only guess what was going through the mayor’s mind. But he imagined it had a lot to do with the beautiful city of Gwensin. Vortain continued to pour all his energies into making the Hemmed Land’s capital a place of which to be proud. For this Ilfedo admired him and worried for him.

“Long ago I told you of the creature that gifted this sword to me.” Ilfedo drew the sword from its sheath, and the Living Fire engulfed him. “And I remember also telling you all of the prophecy delivered by the white dragon. But one other thing the dragon told me, something that has been on my mind in recent months. He told me that when our land can no longer sustain me and my people I will look for another land. When that time comes, I must seek out the dragon Venom-fier—because that dragon will be my strong arm, and I will be his shield. I still don’t understand the meaning of it, but I believe it was a prophecy meant to lead us out of the Hemmed Land to a sustainable country. And I believe it will come true.”

“You believe?” Vortain scowled up at him for an instant before lowering his gaze. “Forgive me, Lord Ilfedo. I know that you think you speak the truth. But let me say for those of us who love this land as much as our own limbs, and would never trade it for another, that I would oppose relocation publicly. Especially relocating in search of some dragon.”

Ilfedo sheathed his sword, and the fire receded from his body. “Then,” he said with a meaningful stare in the man’s direction, “let us pray to God that it will not come down to that.” He returned to the table’s head and sat down. For a moment he studied the thick tabletop, wishing he could return to his life as a hunter. Yet he lifted his gaze to the opposite end of the table and nodded at the monk seated there.

Brother Hersis stood. His black hair framed his beady eyes in an almost fierce way. But as the delegates looked at him and he smiled, the atmosphere changed and they smiled back. “In the midst of this deliberation, I do believe a fog of moodiness has prevailed.” He spread his arms so that his white cloak brightened the room. “Come now, brethren, can we go to God with our petitions if we build walls against one another?”

Vortain glanced back at Ilfedo and shrugged his shoulders. “I hope you know I am not your enemy, my lord.”

“I do.” Ilfedo smiled and then raised his glass. “A toast, gentlemen, to Vortain! May he always be as honest with us as he is today. Few counselors dare contradict the Lord Warrior, and few counselors could build such a magnificent city!”

The men laughed and raised their glasses. Vortain smiled and drank with them.

Brother Hersis chuckled as the table quieted and then drank deeply from his own glass. “Wow! My congratulations to the house of Vortain for keeping such a fine wine for tonight.” He set his glass on the table and sat down, folding his hands and bowing his head. The delegates closed their eyes with hands folded, and Ilfedo closed his own.

“Oh, Lord God,” Brother Hersis began. “We are so very thankful for the wonderful things you have blessed us with—the good food and the good lords of our land.”

The monk’s prayer continued for a few minutes longer. Ilfedo felt the spirit of peace rest in the room. When the prayer ended, Vortain rose from his seat and bowed to him, then excused himself through the door. The remaining delegates shuffled out of the room in short order, leaving Ilfedo alone with the monk in the large room. He gazed out the window as horse-drawn carriages lined up in front of the castle-like mansion. The delegates emerged from the building, many hanging their heads and crossing their arms. Some scratched at the backs of their heads. Others toyed with their wide-brimmed hats. They stepped into the carriages and drove off into the city.

Brother Hersis stepped up beside him and gazed out over the white and gray city buildings. “Do not fear, my lord. You only said what you believe the Creator is guiding you to do or, rather, prepare for. These men
know
that even if doubts fill their minds, they will follow you. You are the Lord Warrior. Your word sways the people.”

“But this is a hard thing to comprehend. It is an impossible situation in my mind and in theirs. They know that even if the desert wind continues to devastate our southern border, it will take years to make significant headway into the Hemmed Land. And it could cease at any time, just as readily as it appeared.”

The monk stepped over to the table and picked a strip of meat from an untouched dish. “Is that what is bothering you?”

Ilfedo shook his head, still gazing over the city spires and slate-and-wood rooftops. “How would it be possible?”

“Possible? With God what thing is not possible?”

“That is not what I mean.” Ilfedo stood back and gestured out the window. “Look at us. We have grown strong. Unity has brought prosperity, and with it our numbers have grown. How many people do we now sustain in the Hemmed Land? Twenty, thirty, maybe even fifty thousand?”

The monk smiled. “Closer to fifty, I think.”

Ilfedo shook his head. “I could not ask fifty thousand people to follow me on a pilgrimage into unknown lands. The warriors under me—their numbers alone stand around fifteen thousand. Somehow, some way, we must remain here. The land is green; the people are happy.”

Clearing his throat, the monk walked to the door and opened it to reveal the arched hallway beyond. “If it is the comfort of the people that you seek, Ilfedo—if it is the approval of Vortain—then forget the will of God. Yet, if you wish to follow Him, do not look for man’s approval. God will lead, my lord, and you—you must follow.” He bowed and strolled into the hallway, waving as he did so.

Ilfedo left Vortain’s city little more than an hour later, wearing a hooded cloak to shield his identity from passersby. Women knitted outside their homes, basking in the sunlight. Children played ball on the highway. A tall soldier marched down the cobblestones, jostling Ilfedo. “Beg your pardon, stranger.” The soldier smiled sidelong at him and passed, then spread his arms as a young woman with dark hair dropped her knitting and ran to his embrace. For that moment Ilfedo hesitated. The warrior swung his lady around and passionately kissed her lips. They laughed, and she pulled his helmet from his head and ran her fingers through his blond hair.

The lord warrior smiled to himself. Peace at last. It had cost them blood, sweat, and tears. Around him laughter filled the streets. Women washed their house windows as men scrubbed the white and gray building exteriors. He leaned forward and continued walking away from the heart of civilization. A blue marble statue of a horse stood in the highway’s midst, and he walked beyond it, beneath a stone arch, and gazed at the open fields stretching to the lush green forest. It was quite the contrast, and he almost glanced back at Gwensin’s hewn magnificence once more. Yet he kept his face forward and strode into nature’s privacy.

The Creator’s good trees welcomed him into their shadows and a profound silence. He slipped the hood off his head, striding with purpose westward—homeward.

Later that day, twilight fell upon the forest. Still, the woodland remained silent save for an occasional breeze. A twig snapped under his foot and he halted. The familiar path home, almost as wide as a road, wended through the forest ahead. Why such silence? He felt the cool pommel of his sword, ran his fingers along its smooth crystalline surface.

Suddenly a flame grew on the path ahead of him. A single thread of red and yellow flickered into existence and curled toward his feet. He stepped back and drew his sword. But an invisible force ripped it from his hand, and it hovered several feet off the ground, blade pointed to the sky. The Living Fire knifed out of the blade, roiling around its reflective surface. Flames whirled around the blade and shot toward the treetops. Flames cascaded from its guard, flooding the ground about him. The leaves crackled, catching fire. The trees’ trunks blackened, and the fire formed a tornado around his body. He could reach out and touch it with his fingertips, but he did not.

A splash of white mixed with the fire, and he was pulled off the ground. The white swam through the fire, and the enormous, glowing face of the albino dragon gazed upon him from behind the flames. He looked into those pink orbs—its eyes—and tried to bow. But the whirlwind caught Ilfedo away in its flames and white. Strands of black snaked through the tornado, across the magnificent creature’s veiled face—and the dragon vanished.

The flames stroked his face with thin fingers, yet they gave off no heat. He could see nothing beyond the flames, the white, and the black. Only the sword of the dragon remained within sight. It spun in gradual orbit around his head, spilling flames that whipped about.

A beam of light pierced the flames above his head and spotlighted the sword. The weapon ceased its orbit, held its place before him, and the hands of an old man reached from the flames. The wrinkled fingers grasped the sword’s handle with unwavering strength while one hand grasped his shoulder. And the old prophet shepherd who had wed him with Dantress stepped through the fire, blue eyes blazing at Ilfedo.

Gone was the gentle patriarch. This man gazed up at him with positional authority and experience. Ilfedo knew that look—the look of a fellow warrior. The sword of the dragon blazed in the prophet’s hands as he swept its blade in a slow, wide loop. Lightning crackled from the blade’s double edge, sewing a ring of electricity through the flames.

The prophet’s fist clamped on Ilfedo’s shoulder and pulled him close to the ring. “Hear me, Lord Ilfedo. Hear my warning. A war broods in Subterran, and only the strength of your sword stands between you and death. Long, long ago, a prophet of God forged this sword and bequeathed to it the power of Living Fire. Yet the power that your sword wields comes not from itself but from a Hold in a faraway land that we had thought forever lost. In recent days that land has been rediscovered by our enemies. Even now one of their agents walks the Hidden Realm in search of the Key of Living Fire to take it for her master. Ilfedo, she must be stopped or the might of your sword will be forever lost, and all that we have worked to save will be destroyed.”

Thoughts of the Hemmed Land’s trouble fled Ilfedo’s mind. Without the sword of the dragon’s power, he was a mere swordsman. Skilled, yes, but without the might that had formed him into the potent protector of his beloved daughter and had enabled him to kill the wizard Razes.

Ribbons of current lashed out of the ring into its center, forming a six-pointed star that began spreading, filling the ring with a purplish transparent window. Beyond the window a desert rose into view. Wind swept the sand in clouds toward a natural wall of stone rising from the desert floor. The wall stretched to the horizon beneath the blinding sunlight.

Ilfedo furrowed his brow. The prophet released the sword, and it resumed its orbit around them. The flames and the white washed away the window. “Resgeria,” Ilfedo said.

“Indeed.” The prophet stepped back, and the wall of flames and white changed him into a phantom. Pointing at him with a long smoking finger, the prophet continued. “Within their subterranean realm, the Megatraths unwittingly guard a portal to the Hidden Realm, and there you must go. Go to your ally Vectra; seek entrance to the Tomb of the Ancients, for therein lies the Key of Living Fire. Once the key is secured, give it into a prophet’s safekeeping.” The prophet began to recede from sight, growing more and more distant.

Holding up his hand, Ilfedo said, “Wait! Surely you don’t mean to leave me with so little information? Am I to undertake this task alone? Come with me if you deem it so urgent.”

“I cannot, Lord Ilfedo. Yet take comfort that another will join you in this task, once you reach the Hidden Realm.”

“But how will I know this individual?”

The old man vanished. The wall of flames expanded outward. His fiery universe grew, and the albino dragon loomed through the flames; its boned face glowed so that he could not see its features, and its scales radiated pure energy. An onslaught of wind made him raise his arm to shield his eyes. When the wind ceased, he looked about to find himself standing on the path again with the sword sheathed at his side.

Light from the gibbous moon covered the grassy path in silver, but a shadow fell over him. Windswept dirt rushed into his eyes, and his hood blew off his head. He shielded his eyes again and reached to his side with his free hand. His fingers slid over the crystalline pommel of his sword, and he drew it from its sheath. The wind ceased as he dropped his other arm and held the weapon with both hands, angling it ahead of him.