Page 4 of Storm Dragon
His jaws clenched. The muscles in his forearms burned.
But the Enforcer, Ruairí O’Clery, nicknamed Storm by his Brethren because of his innate and Magical ability to control the weather, refused to stop.
Rocking his body back and forth, beating his head against the bottom of the silver-lined coffin that had been his home for ages, he ignored the warm flow of his life essence as the caustic metal cuff trapping his throat dug into his flesh like the serrated edge of a butcher’s blade. Swamped in the coppery scent of blood and acrid stench of charring flesh, he refused to stop. Refused to let his torture continue.
Refused to let what little sanity he had left be chipped away by the Black Magic that had been his only companion for more centuries than he could remember.
His body ached. His head felt as if it might explode. Every movement, every attempt to reach the beautiful Enchantment triggered another barrage of Black Magic. Its steely tendrils burrowed into his soul as its whispered cackles of his failure taunted his attempt.
The coffin buried deep underground, surrounded by dirt, sand, rock, and the most evil of Sorcery, had eaten away at his strength every minute of every hour of every day of every century of his imprisonment. Only his iron will and incredible healing powers kept him alive. Of course, that had been his enemy’s plan all along. The bastard knew Ruairí would be forced to lie helplessly, trapped underground, constantly being healed, never dying, while the kin he’d spent his life protecting were mercilessly destroyed.
The enemy had studied the Dragons and was well-versed in all their Powers and weaknesses. The vile creatures knew the only way to kill one of the Universe’s Winged Warriors was to take his head, and Ruairí’s was still squarely on his shoulders.
“So, here I am… half an inch from death, but still breathing…”
There had been times throughout the years when the Earth had shifted, and he’d felt the presence of other Dragons, of other Guardsmen. Not those of his Force but others of his kind, some descended from the very men he’d fought beside. Just as the Enchantment begged him to respond, searching for him through the miasma of despicable Sorcery was the strongest, the Magic of the Dragon King, whom they shared their souls, had called to his own alter ego. For a few brief seconds, the Winged Warrior with whom he shared his soul had come to life. King Dorman had snarled and roared, more beast than the regal ruler he’d once been, as he tried with the Mysticism of the Ancients to make contact.
Sadly, he had failed. The fleeting recognition had been so brief, so far away that even if it had reached the beautiful Ether of the surface, their kin were gone, never knowing Ruairí or Dorman were there.
Day after day, week after week, year after year, the Guardsman’s frustration grew. It became a living, seething, vengeful entity festering within his soul. It ate away at his sanity. It conjured visions of the beaten, bloody corpses of everyone he’d held dear and forced him to relive a battle where all was lost and he was left broken and alone.
For the longest time, he denied the visions. He remembered the battle and knew, with every fiber of his being, that he and his Force–known as the Enforcers and led by none other than Drago MacLendon, known to all as the Assassin–had decimated the enemy and saved the villagers.
But the images refused to go away.
They grew stronger and more insistent. They came to life. The clash of blades rocked the inside of his silver-lined prison. The screams of women and children grew to a cacophonous, discordant, soul-crushing symphony. Blood soaked the ground, seeping through the leather of his boots, and soaking his woolen socks. Smoke wafted from the piles of bodies, their gruesome plumes creating a horrific mosaic that reeked of burning flesh and assaulted his senses with extreme prejudice.
One sight was more ghastly than the last. In every direction, he only found more death and destruction. As far as the eye could see, the devastation was unending. The enemy had shown no mercy, leaving him– and him alone– to live with an overwhelming feeling of utter and crushing failure.
Over and over, again and again, he was forced to endure the torture until pieces of his mind fractured. There were times he no longer knew what was real and what was fiction, but that didn’t stop him from trying.
Or keep him from mentally searching for his Brethren.
It was the only thing keeping him from falling into the mental abyss of total insanity. Yes, the visions told him they were dead, but his heart and soul assured him they had survived the battle. As he called and called through the mindspeak of their kin, both as a group and then testing each unique link he held with the men with whom he’d pledged his life, he prayed they had somehow escaped the Wizards and the Hunters and were Topside.
“They still live. They still live. They still…” was his constant and unending mantra, but sadly, the dead, dark silence that answered ate away at what remained of his sanity.
Grinding his teeth with such force that the bones of his jaws cracked and the joints popped, he snarled aloud, “They are alive,” with a certainty that shook the confines of his silver tomb.
Then he prayed. Oh, how he prayed to the Heavens, the Ancients, the gods–to anyone who was listening that he was right. Searching his heart and soul, he was sure he would’ve felt their deaths. The bond of blood and brotherhood, blessed by The Powers That Be, had never failed him before, but after so much time of silence, Ruairí feared the worst.
Yes, they’d been told their bond was unbreakable, but they’d also been assured that no one knew their secrets, their unique abilities–their weaknesses.
“But this box, these chains, and the shackles around my neck, wrists, and ankles tell me that we were misinformed.”
Unwilling to dwell in the darkness, he searched as far as his Black Magic-drenched preternatural senses would allow and found nothing but the dirt, rock, and sand around him. Even the creatures that should’ve inhabited the ground had been scared away by the Wizard’s despicable Spells.
“Once I escape…” Words spoken and thought with such fury and fire that they literally burnt his tongue and filled his mind’s eye with smoke. “Those who dared to cross me, cross the Dragon Guard Enforcers, will feel the cold steel of my blade as I eviscerate them where they stand. I will call down the Lightning of Judgement promised to me by the Celtic god, Borrum, to burn their rotting corpses. Then I will let the Wind of the Gaulish god, Vintius, scatter their ashes to the Four Corners.”
They would know his wrath—the wrath that kept him alive. Hate and revenge were his constant companions. His need for vengeance was his daily nourishment. He planned every last detail of the deaths of those who had imprisoned him, and in the fleeting moments of coherence, he watched it play out in his mind.
The enemy had started their assault from afar. They had come at the Enforcers with Black Magic Spells, Potions, and sleight of hand while they were in their Healing Sleep. They believed the mighty Guardsmen wouldn’t know who they were…
But the one known as Storm knew. There was no doubt in his mind who had attacked them and their evil motivation. It didn’t matter that he had been unable to fight the Sorcery; every speck of Magic, no matter the origin or intent, had a signature, and the one leading the attack on the Enforcers was known to Ruairí and the Dragon King with whom he shared his soul. From one beat of his heart to the next, Ruairí was catapulted from a reality of wonderfully mesmerizing Magic to that night hundreds of years ago when he and the other Enforcers were attacked.
There was no use fighting it. He was forced to take yet another hellacious trip down Memory Lane.
The battle had been brutal. The enemy relentless. Many Dragons and their Allies were wounded or worse, dead. For the first time in centuries, the Enforcers lost one of their own. Thank the Heavens, in the end, they prevailed, leaving only the most cowardly of the enemy scurrying for cover like roaches when a candle was lit.
