Stephen Deas - The Black Mausoleum

‘Everything is wrong,’ whispered Siff to the emptiness. ‘The Great Flame? No. This. This.’ He sobbed, overwhelmed, and maybe he was right.

With exquisite caution Siff reached one foot through the gateway. His boot touched the silver beyond. He gasped.

His boot had her blood on it. She reached through it to touch the silver sea with her mind. To see.

And so she saw.

The fire came. Skjorl threw up his arms to shield his face. Flames licked past them, around his gauntlets, searing the skin off his cheeks, burning them to the bone. They crept past the rim of his helm, under and around, burning his hair and scorching his ears. The pain was immense, but the rage was stronger. He ran faster. The heat found its way through the joints and cracks of his armour. His wrists were the first to feel it, facing the fire head on. His elbows next.

And then it stopped.

He pulled his hands away. The dragon was right in front of him, head down on the ground, staring at him, eyes gleaming with hate, jaws open and ready for him. He kept straight at it, as if he meant to run right down its throat. Pulled Dragon-blooded down from his shoulder. Swung.

Straight into the side of the dragon’s jaw. Used the force of the swing to push himself sideways. Careened off the dragon’s teeth and past its head. Pulled Dragon-blooded back out as he went.

The head reared up. The dragon took a step back. Skjorl ran on underneath. Dragons could run, and fast, but not backwards. Backwards they were clumsy. He ran between its forelegs as it lifted off the ground. Felt the bulk of the monster rising away from him. Shot between its back legs and then stopped. Turned. Changed direction as the dragon started to move. As it took a step and slashed its tail across the ground where he would have been if he’d kept straight.

‘Stupid monster!’ he screamed at it. ‘You’re too slow! Too clumsy.’ He swung Dragon-blooded into one of its legs as hard as he could. Felt her bite through the scales. Saw blood. A tiny wound for a monster like this, but he’d blooded it and his axe had earned her name yet again.

It tried to stamp on him but he was too quick for that. Claws as big as he was smashed into the ground, shaking the earth, but as they came down he was already in the air, leaping and swinging again. Another scratch. More of the dragon’s blood oozing out from under its scales. The monster roared. Not pain. Frustration.

‘Fly, you bastard! You won’t catch me down here! I’m too quick for you!’

He could almost hear the dragon’s thoughts. Overwhelming. The urge to crush, to devour, to burn! It turned away from the cave, faced towards the landing field and reared up, peering down between its legs. Murderous eyes as large as a man’s head glared and then it opened its jaws. Skjorl ducked behind the dragon’s own claws as the fire poured out once more.

‘Stupid monster!’ he screamed, though his voice was lost in the roar of flames. ‘You can’t burn me! I’m wearing another dragon’s skin!’ The pain was blinding, the bits of his face he couldn’t quite shield. ‘Go on! Run! Fly! Take me from the air and crush me if you can! Fly, you bastard!’

It was as though the dragon heard him even over the noise. Its head turned away. It dropped to all fours and started to run, launching itself across the field. Skjorl hurled himself away and dived flat as it lashed with its tail. The alchemist’s potions were still having some last effect. It knew he was there, it could sense the wash of his feelings, but it couldn’t quite pin him down. Neither in thought nor in flesh.

And that was how he was going to win.

He turned and ran even before he heard the air shudder as the monster hauled itself off the ground. He wouldn’t have long. As much time as it took for a dragon to build the speed it needed to turn. He raced away from the cave and back to the slope of scree and boulders and threw himself up it as fast as he could climb, all care thrown aside. There were rocks up there as large as houses all tumbled on top of one another. One of them, halfway up the slope, was as big as a barn. Plenty of space to hide round the back if he could reach it.

He risked a glance behind as he reached the base of it. The dragon was already turning. He could feel its desire, its single-minded purpose, bright and vengeful.

Kill! You!

He scrambled up the stones beside the rock. Bloody scree — every lunge up he slipped half a step back and he didn’t have any time, didn’t have any…

He looked back again. The dragon was coming straight at him. He wasn’t going to make it to the top.

Vishmir! There wasn’t even any cover.

But it might still work, if the dragon was furious enough. Might.

He cringed as it came, pressed himself against the rock, as tight against it as he could, and started to count in his head. Counting down the seconds to when the dragon would hit him and crush him into the stones.

Five. Four. He turned away, hiding his face, showing the armour of his back to the wall of fire hurtling towards him. Three.

The fire came and this time there was no escape from it. It scoured the stones. Two.

Scoured his face. Found every gap and crack in his armour. One.

He screamed, the pain tearing him to pieces as though someone was hacking the skin off his face with a thousand rusty knives.

The fire stopped. He gasped for breath. Still alive. The dragon hadn’t crashed into the stones to crush him, so it was still in the air. He threw himself flat on the ground, as low as he could get. The touch of the stones pressed into his ruined face was agony.

The dragon’s tail smashed into the barn-sized rock right above his head, hard enough to shake the whole slope. He felt it shift under the blow, felt the ground under him tremble. Loose stones jumped into the air around him. Dust choked his lungs. He started to slide. Gravel showered his back and pieces of scree rolled past him. He dug his toes in and the slide slowly stopped. He forced himself to his feet. The pain was almost overwhelming. He clenched his teeth and screamed, pulling himself up the slope.

‘I. Am. Adamantine!’

His sight wasn’t quite right. One of his eyes wasn’t working. He didn’t dare touch his face to see why. Too much skin had been burned away. Maybe he’d lost the eye too, or maybe there was simply a speck of dust in there. Couldn’t see right. Didn’t matter. Not now.

He hauled himself along the side of the boulder. At least his arms and legs were still strong. The dragon was in the air, circling over the old landing field, wings flapping with a ferocious wind that tore at the nearby trees. Beneath, he could make out a blurred shape running across the field, almost at the other side.

Jasaan. That was the first part done then.

He turned back. Sank his fingers into whatever nooks and crevices he could find and gave no mind to how his muscles screamed. Nothing could hurt as much as having the skin burned off his face. He reached the top. The dragon was flying at him, straight and level.

‘Come on, dragon! I’ve already won! I’ve beaten you! There were two of us! The other one’s away and you’ll never find him! Do your worst!’ He pulled Dragon-blooded off his back and held it over his head. A challenge. ‘Come on, dragon! Eat me if you can!’

He closed his eyes and waited to die. The dragon would pluck him off his rock with its claws. Ruled by its fury, it would crush him between its jaws and devour him. Him and the dragon poison that was soaked into his clothes, that was stitched into his armour, that ran in his veins, that was tattooed under his skin, that he carried in every possible way, every hour of every day, so that even in death he could be what Adamantine Men were for.