by Gold Baron
The emblem hung over the opening, a serpent coiled around a sword, with lances crossed behind, on an escutcheon embossed in red and gold, the dragon's eyes flashing rubies. I saw their wicked grins in the torchlight, their masks like maws, hungrily consuming, their eyes hidden, the mask's own staring back with indifference, cold and ruthless.
The iron gates swung open, and the cavern opened beyond. There was a pungent smell of sulphur, and the sounds of hammers and forges echoed off the walls; there were shouts of men embroiled in mock combat, steel against steel.
A chapter of my life closed; another began. I felt the pricks of the needles, the prodding of the surgeons, the daemon within, the magick awoken, given new life, a new beginning, a new path. Can a man ignore his heart? Only time will tell.
The door slammed shut, the lock clicking in eternity. The next opened wide, and Marv Velo could but follow.
Who was I? I folded my arms and idly ran my fingers over the stitches in my arms. I remember the surgeon saying something about a slayer after the surgery, that powerful magick now coursed through my veins, that I had been changed, made faster, stronger, tougher. It meant nothing to me. I was digging within myself trying to remember, but all I drew was a mental block.
I heard a voice from far off. I lifted my head, and my glazed eyes slowly refocused. "Hey, Shirley, I'm talkin' to you!" It was the captain I had met before. I openly showed my disdain. "You're a slayer. You're better than the rest of these guys, so start showin' it!"
He hit one of the men next to him on the back of the head and laughed. "You've got a lot to learn, but you'll learn quickly." The man flashed an angry look at the captain, and before he could respond, the captain laid him low with a shot to the gut that sent him sprawling to the ground. "Pfft! Son of a bitch, teach you to show some respect." The man quietly crawled away, still holding his stomach as saliva fell from his mouth.
The captain was turning again to address me, when my fist connected solidly with his jaw and knocked him for a round. He came back with a vicious right hook, and we were fully involved within seconds, matching punch for punch. I was surprised that a man with no morals would fight like a gentleman, but I quickly changed my mind when he tried to crack my knee out with a kick. I caught him on the inside of his leg and kneed him in the groin, tackling him to the ground.
A circle had formed by now, money changing hands and bets being placed and everyone yelling. Another tall man, probably a slayer, too, forced his way through and tossed a flame-bladed sword in a scabbard to the fallen black man. He tore it out as he stood and came at me with the vicious flamberge, swinging wide in frustration and losing his balance.
I moved to smash my elbow into the back of his exposed head, but he came back with the pommel of the sword and hit me in the stomach, stealing my breath away. I fell back, and he came on swinging wildly; all I could do was continue to retreat. I tripped then on steps and fell into a glass case. It shattered with a large crash.
He brought the sword down so the tip was on my neck, and a look of triumph crossed his bloodied face. His left eye was swollen shut, and I think he would've spoken, but I had his lips swollen like a balloon. I fumbled blindly with my hands behind me as he brought the sword up to deliver the coup de grace, and I felt cold steel. I followed the steel up with my hands in desperation, my eyes closed in anticipation of the death blow, but none ever came.
I found myself standing and putting both hands around the scaly handle. The room had grown eerily quiet. The handle was hot and writhing, and my eyes popped open to see two boiling eyes staring back from it. The jaws opened wide, and the serpent bent back on itself and buried its fangs deep in my wrist, driving down to the bone with a sickening crunch.
I screamed in pain and tried to pull away, but the sword had latched on and came with it, tearing free from the stone, and still the sword hung on, poison filling my system. My vision began to blur, and I felt my knees growing weak, the floor coming up fast and blackness closing in.
I heard the clang of steel against stone and felt the hot liquid spill from my face. I must've broken my nose. I heard a great chorus go up and the black man celebrating his victory. But then his eyes went wide, and he dropped his sword, his hands telling him what he already knew, feeling the wicked edge impaled through his body.
"I'm not dead yet!" I got to my feet and put one foot against the man's body and pushed him off the blade. The jaws snapped open and returned to their inanimate state, the sword grew cold, and the boiling in my blood slowly faded.
I felt a wash of fatigue sweep over my body and began to swoon. My body snapped to attention then, though, and held still like some outside force demanded it. The awestruck spectators' jaws all snapped shut, and they spread like the proverbial parting of the sea. I don't think their feet ever actually moved.
A robed figure stepped through them, his sleeves together and his face concealed within the cowl of his hood. "Dragonheart, I must speak with you."
My feet moved, and I was compelled to follow.
"Dragonheart," the cowled figure said, beckoning me follow him down a long hall that coiled around the great underground labyrinth, opening up to the rooms beyond, sometimes on the left, sometimes on the right. Here men trained for combat, there they ate, and there the room where I was...
I shuddered and turned away. "Why--" I was cut short, the robed figure turning around to face me.
"Why do I keep calling you Dragonheart? Is that what you want to know?" I helplessly nodded my head. "Because the last man to wield that..." He pointed to the sword I still gripped tightly in my hand, knuckles white. "...was named so, and only one of his heirs can again wield it."
The sword clamored to the ground with a metal clang that echoed off the stone walls, and I fell to my knees as a powerful force tore through my mind like a screeching train. I saw the glint off the barrel, the wicked grin, the women cowered in the corner with an infant in her arms, the shot reverberating a thousand times as the vase exploded, and for a moment I saw only red, and that voice so distant calling me back, screaming, pleading, "Chris... Christopher!"
The headache passed, and I opened my eyes to see the cloaked figure standing patiently over me. "Christopher it is." He swept around and continued down the hall.
I picked up the sword and followed like a dog to its master.