* * *
Smoke. The scent jolted
Varik out of his doze. He stared blind into the darkness, his body sweltering
in the unexpected heat. A red glow lit the doorframe.
His bare feet thumped down
onto a stone floor as he rolled out of the hard bed and slammed his mental
protections up. Fire. The monastery burned. Sweat trickled down the muscles of
his stomach, to the waistband of his breeches, and he fumbled in the dark for
his satchel. The acrid stench of smoke thickened.
With a hastily tied bundle
thrust beneath one arm, he heaved the pack onto his shoulder, grunting at the
effort. One strap snagged on the purple ridge running the length of his pale
forearm for a moment before he shook it free. A thin line of fire ran up the
doorframe without sound.
Dragonfire.
The beautiful red flame
spread inexorably across the wood, banishing the darkness. Varik seized the
handle and threw the door open. The hot metal seared his palm with white agony.
The scent of burning flesh filled the small room, and he bit the inside of his
cheek to stop from crying out.
As the heat hammered at him,
he lurched through the door and into a colonnade melting in the inferno. He
took care to keep well clear of the flames. In the distance, sandals clapped on
flagstones, and unseen priests shouted. Firelight flickered eerily around him;
smoke choked his throat. Head down, holding tight to the pack, he burst free of
the colonnade and into the grassed area beyond.
Varik dropped his bundle and
leaned against an ornamental pylon, coughing. His burned palm throbbed. The
taste of blood filled his mouth from the bitten cheek.
Somewhere in the night flew
a dragon, intent on destroying the thief; somewhere in the monastery lurked the
thief, intent on retrieving the satchel.
His fault, for risking a few
hours of precious sleep. On the other hand, if he hadn’t, the thief might have
come upon him unprepared. His gratitude for being alive left him guilt-ridden,
as though he didn’t have more than his fair share already.
But he wasn’t away free yet,
and his gaze scoured the flame-ridden darkness for any sign of his hunter.
Gooseflesh prickled the skin of his chest.
Nothing; not even a hint the
Ishafal thief lingered near.
His sword belt rattled to
the ground as he unwound his cloak from the bundle of rescued possessions.
Strips torn from the ragged cloak hem served as a bandage for the burn on his
hand, and he pulled a shirt over his short-cropped dark hair, fastening the
sleeves tight at the wrist to hide the ridges on his forearms.
Dragonfire ran up the stone
pylon next to him. The odd, sharp scent of melting stone filled his nostrils,
and sweat poured down his face. Red, baleful, sparks floated free like
fireflies in the night. Varik heaved the satchel from the ground moments before
a spark landed. So much condensed death in one bag; so much power.
With his hand reaching to
pick up the sword-belt, he stared. His stomach dropped.
The dagger sheath lay empty.
'Dragon’s blood!' Varik hurled the cloak away.
'Dragon’s blood!' Varik hurled the cloak away.
His sole defense against the
Ishafal, the dagger’s magic had been entrusted to him by his Fury handler when
she failed to talk him out of accepting this mission. Foolhardy, she called it,
and him too grief-stricken, too guilt-ridden, to be working in the field.
Though a man ignored the daughter of a demon at his peril, Varik risked it. Some
things you have to do yourself.
He turned back towards his
room, but the entire colonnade slumped in the heat, stone melting and running
like molten metal. The blaze consumed the door.
He clenched his jaw. Done
was done. While the thief hunted him through the monastery, he could afford no
wasted time. At the thought, his gaze searched the shadows again. She had to be
here; she had to be the reason the dragon attacked. Whether dragons were
unthinking animals, or sentient creatures, it was certain they’d go to the ends
of the earth to burn an Ishafal to cinders.
She must be here, but where?
Was she close? He buckled the belt on, taking no comfort in the weight of the
sword, and retrieved his cloak before moving on.
A priest leaned on the next
pylon up, breathing hoarsely in the ash-laden air. Blood pooled at his feet. The
charitable thing to do would be to help the man, but he didn’t dare. Though the
monastery couldn’t survive, some of its inhabitants would live if he kept
moving, drawing the thief, and the dragon, onwards. His gaze dropped to the
spreading pool of blood, and back up to pleading eyes riddled with pain.
‘I’m sorry.’ The whispered
words probably didn’t carry to the dying man, and he tried to make his voice
louder. ‘I’m sorry.’
Sickening guilt flooded him,
and he broke eye contact with a sharp turn of his head. Most likely the man
couldn’t be saved, and the burden of his death rested on Varik’s shoulders.
His footsteps dragged as he
moved off through the flame-lit darkness, leaving the dying priest in his wake.
* * *
**AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fiction piece is part of the A to Z Blogging Challenge and has not been to an editor.**
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