Mickey Reichert: The lost Dragons of Barakhai

This time, Ialin did not heft the mouse, instead turning his back to his guard and pretending to lie down for a rest. The fuzzy gray rodent stood, planting his forepaws on Ialin's magically sculpted nose. The man kept his voice low. "At my switch time, you distract the guard." Though it required more words, Ialin dared not leave details to an animal who, like himself, had incomplete overlap. "Make something fall with a noise. Pick an object behind or beside him, so he doesn't look toward me."

The guard's voice boomed through the prison. "Did you say something, Draezon?"

Ialin twitched his nose until Vernon dropped to the floor. He glanced over his shoulder at the guard. "Just berating myself."

The guard chuckled. "For what you did or for getting caught?"

"I haven't decided yet."

The guard laughed harder. A tall, lanky man with unkempt brown hair, he would clearly transform into some trim, hungry-looking dog.

Ialin turned his head back and hissed at Vernon. The change would soon be upon him. "Go."

As Vernon scampered into the shadows, Ialin loosened the layers of shirting that swaddled his slight frame. Becoming entangled would ruin his well-laid plan. A familiar tingle throbbed through his skin as he worked harder to shove down the cloth. Hurry up, Vernon. Ialin glued his gaze to the bars, solid iron with barely a spot of rust. The guards had clearly chosen a secure cell, afraid he might bend or damage the bars in bear form, just as he had hoped. He dared not become complacent, however. Many things had gone well with the previous plan, only to fail him when it mattered most. He could not count on anything going smoothly. A wave of warmth shunted through him, heralding the change. Vernon!

Falling metal crashed against the stone floor, followed by the sound of several more objects slamming and rolling. The guard spun, just as switch-form overtook Ialin. He felt himself shrinking, clothes flopping to the floor, beak sprouting. He sprang into the air, lacy green wings beating madly, all but invisible. His body a blur, he flitted through the bars and out into the main portion of the dungeon.

Ialin scanned a scattering of dented pans and chamber pots, and a small gray figure racing from the carnage. From the air, he followed Vernon, not bothering to watch the guard's reaction. In a few moments, the man would notice that his prisoner was missing and call for assistance, Ialin only hoped his sudden disappearance would confuse them, and the mystery would take significant time to piece together. Even if they figured it out immediately, he believed they would expect him to escape, not wend his way deeper into the dungeons.

Vernon led Ialin through a prison filled with empty cells, into a storage room where he disappeared beneath piled up junk. Ialin hovered, willing himself to stay focused. He had decent overlap; and, where excitement tended to unbalance others, it made him more alert and attentive. His beadlike eyes scanned the floor, seeking movement. At first, he saw no sign of his companion. Then, he caught a sudden flash of gray from his left eye. He barreled toward it, an abrupt, midair stop all that saved him from crashing into another door. Vernon disappeared through the crack beneath it.

Ialin dove. Leading with his slender beak, he followed the mouse's retreating form beneath the door and into a dusty room sparsely filled with furniture covered in tattered sheets. On top of one flat surface that appeared to represent a chest of drawers sat a cage barely large enough to contain his own miniscule form. A naked, pink tail protruded between the bars.

Vernon leaped to the dangling edge of sheet draped over the chest and scrambled upward. Ialin hovered over the cage, peering at its inhabitant through one eye. The white fur, the bright red eyes, now dulled by pain, the pink ears laid tight against the ratty head-he knew those features, if not their broken demeanor. Vernon had, indeed, brought him to Zylas.

"Zylas," Ialin buzzed to the only person other than Prinivere who could understand him in animal form.

The pink nose twitched, and the muzzle rose. "Ialin?"

As the mouse finished his climb, Zylas' ratty expression grew even more hopeful. "Vernon. Can you help me?"

In animal form, it never occurred to Ialin to lie to comfort his friend. "I don't know. I'll try." He fluttered to the lock, wings beating with furious ease. He had used his delicate beak many times to thwart the skill of locksmiths, but this one looked like nothing he had ever seen. It appeared brand new, its shiny, silver surface some strange amalgam of iron, and it had a black knob with figures that might represent foreign letters or numbers inscribed on it. He saw no hole in which to insert his beak. He pecked at the front, and his beak slammed against a substance as hard as glass yet like nothing he had ever encountered.

Ialin returned to Zylas' face. "The lock. It's weird."

Zylas clamped his muzzle tightly. His position in the cage did not allow him to view the lock, and he had no room to turn. "Carriequinton put it on there." His voice had a quaver to it that Ialin usually associated only with his own jerky movements. "It might come from her world. I think she spun it when she put it on."

Ialin went back to the lock, tapping the knob with his beak. It did move slightly. He continued experimenting, hoping to stumble upon the correct series of movements.

"She taunts me," Zylas was telling Vernon. "Wants to be here when I… change. Wants to watch me die."

Ialin paused to chirp out, nearly subvocally, "You're not going to die."

"You've got the lock?" Zylas asked hopefully.

"No," Ialin admitted. "But I'm not going to stop trying till I do." He drove that promise deep into his soul, working at the knob frantically while Zylas addressed Vernon.

"You watch for Carriequinton. If you see her, squeak loudly, then hide. Both of you, hide."

"All right," they promised in unison, then Ialin went back to work.

BENTON Collins dragged through the carnivore caverns with an escort that included the lioness, the ocelot, the scrawny woman, and the bearded man who had first spoken to him. Exhausted from blood loss, assailed by a persistent headache scarcely alleviated by the Tylenol, fresh wounds throbbing, he staggered among the four with few verbal exchanges. They told him their names, but he retained only the last, Margast, and only because it reminded him of his ex-girlfriend, Marlys. At times, he discovered himself leaning heavily against the lioness' furry back. He always righted himself when he noticed it, glad she took no offense at his touch. One swipe of her enormous paw would send him tumbling, and he doubted he would ever regain his feet.

Collins staggered onward, though the reason seemed distant, and no strategy for handling the dragons once he found them came to mind. He was dimly aware that he would have to find a way to communicate with them, to convince them of the significance of following him back to the entrance where they could talk to Prinivere. She would likely have the words that he did not, the ones that might make them understand their role in rescuing every non-royal citizen of Barakhai. He hoped-and doubted-he could make it back to the cave opening with them. His body wanted only to lie down and surrender to sweet oblivion again, and the realization that a wandering carnivore might eat him barely overcame that desire. Inertia more than intent, the familiarity of forward movement surrounded by shapechangers, kept him going when even need failed.

Even though Collins glanced repeatedly at his watch, even though he had to force every step, time ticked by too fast for his liking. Every bone-weary step seemed to take a full minute, every one a beat closer to Zylas' death. Please God, let Falima and the others be doing better than me.