“You… You stop that now!” A hoarse yell and a shot. A pistol this time, meaning he was finally out of long-rifle shells. She heard the bullet impact somewhere on the drake’s corpse but kept her gaze firmly locked on its chest, summoning the Black and using it all up in a single frantic spasm. Black for the push… and also the pull.
The Red’s chest exploded in a fountain of half-rotted flesh and shattered bone, Ethelynne opening her arms to receive the gift that burst forth.
“STOP THAT!” Another shot, landing somewhere in the river judging by the splash. Ethelynne looked up now, seeing him at the crest of the slope. His hat was gone as was his duster, his shirt and pants ragged and torn. He moved towards her, gun-arm outstretched and pistol wavering as he staggered like a drunkard but with an odd, desperate appeal in his gaze.
“You know what I saw,” he croaked, taking another shuffling step closer. “You know… I gotta…”
Ethelynne raised the Red’s heart, throwing her head back and mouth wide as she squeezed, and drank.
For an unblessed the slightest taste of undiluted drake blood is invariably fatal. The Blood-blessed are more resistant to its effects but do not enjoy complete immunity, survival being dependant on the quantity imbibed. Ethelynne choked down two full mouthfuls before the fiery agony forced her to stop, leaving her collapsed against the Red’s flanks, heaving and retching.
“Won’t save ya’!” Wittler yelled. “Think you gonna burn me now? You show one inch o’that pretty head, I blow it off, ya hear?” A snick as he cocked his pistol. “Just one inch…”
Ethelynne convulsed and vomited up a good supply of blood before managing to choke down her gorge. She shrugged off her pack, blinking sweat from her eyes as she ripped away the ties to reveal the egg. Cold, she thought, pulling it free of the pack, laying it down and scuttling back. Waiting for the waking fire.
Focus was beyond her now, the pain raging from throat to belly too intense for anything other than a single, explosive release of heat. She had seen it many times in the breeding pens, an endlessly fascinating spectacle, the brood drakes breathing fire on their eggs when they judged the time right. She had loved to watch them hatch, though it was always somewhat sad, for the hatchlings were immediately taken away, leaving their mothers to voice their distress in long, keening screeches.
The fire raged for only a few seconds, Ethelynne reeling and huddling from the heat of it, more intense than anything she had conjured before. When it faded she looked for the egg, finding it blackened and cracked, a faint glow pulsing inside.
“Stop!” Wittler came reeling into view, eyes wide as they tracked from her to the egg, then back to her. His mouth twisted into what might have been a smile, the lips cracked and bleeding as he snickered in triumph as he raised his pistol.
He pulled the trigger, Ethelynne shrinking back, eyes closed tight in expectation, but hearing only the click of a hammer meeting an empty chamber.
Wittler stared at the revolver in baffled consternation for a moment, then tossed it aside. “Got other options,” he said, reaching for the knife on his belt and starting forward.
Ethelynne’s toe delivered a gentle nudge to the egg and it rolled away, coming to a halt at Wittler’s feet. He stared at it, all vestige of triumph vanished from his face. “Not…” he said, weeping now. “Not gonna b –”
The egg exploded in a blaze of combusting gas, the shell, harder than any stone, transformed into shrapnel by the force of the blast. It shredded Wittler’s legs below the knees and sheared away much of his right arm, leaving him a gibbering red mess, his remaining hand slapping feebly on the sandstone slope as flames licked over his flesh.
Very slowly, Ethelynne got to her feet, every breath hurting as she dragged air down a ravaged throat. A deep, worrying pain lingered in her belly but her limbs still worked enough for her to limp towards Wittler, and the small White drake crouched amid the remnants of the egg.
It stared up at her with bright, slitted emerald eyes, mouth opening to issue a faint hiss. Although a new born, Ethelynne knew on meeting those eyes she gazed upon something ancient, something that understood. It knows what I am, she thought, her gaze going to Wittler as his scorched, lipless mouth issued a final, rattling gasp and he lay still, flames dying to embers on his blackened flesh. I ain’t gonna burn…
She looked again at the White, watching it cock its head in apparent curiosity, wings spreading into an experimental flap. “The future,” she said. “That’s what lies in your blood.”
The White hopped forward, wings flapping with greater force, a screech issuing from its mouth followed by a gout of yellow flame. It met her gaze a final time with its terrible knowing eyes, then turned about and leapt nimbly onto Wittler’s corpse, head bobbing as it began to feed.
Ethelynne turned away and hobbled to the barge. It took a while to haul up the anchor, but when she did the current began to take the craft downstream. It would follow the river south then west, skirting the Badlands and winding back into the jungle where, she knew from Clatterstock, another trading post waited. She allowed herself one last look at the White. It sat with head raised, serpentine neck bulging as it swallowed a chunk of Wittler’s flesh, then gave an appreciative squawk before returning to its meal, paying her no mind at all as the barge drifted on and she saw it no more.
About the author
Anthony Ryan was born in Scotland in 1970 but spent much of his adult life living and working in London. After a long career in the British Civil Service he took up writing full time after the success of his first novel Blood Song, Book One of the Raven’s Shadow trilogy. He has a degree in history, and his interests include art, science and the unending quest for the perfect pint of real ale.