Eire of Hostility

  Chapter 13

  Set in a craggy, desolate landscape of wind-whipped stone and towering cliffs, jutting up above a low cloud bank, was the snowy peak of a great mountain. Closer to the summit, small pockets of deep snow had melted away around small, rocky fissures that commonly released steam from within the bowels of the mountain. On this occasion, though, more activity was found on that lonely peak, beginning with an echoing roar of fury from deep within those fissures.

  A soot-stained armored hand grasped frantically for purchase from within one of the small chasms, and found grip on a firm outer edge. Bloody and smeared with grime, Dahlia squeezed her battered upper body through the tight opening. When she saw that her escape route ended at a small plateau, she gave herself a moment of panting respite before pulling her legs free.

  Her hair was in disarray and half of her long braid had been burnt away. Her leather armor, scored and punctured, was filthy from black ash. Her skin, too, was grimy with the wet soot, which covered many of the areas where her flesh had been broiled.

  Dahlia thought back to when Ragnar of the Red Rock led her through his fae-bridge, which appeared as a curving cave. Before they exited his bridge, he allowed her to recall her sword back to her hand from where it was left on the McCarthy lawn. Ragnar was also considerate enough to see to most of the wounds she'd received from her battle with the Fair archer.

  She had to remember that the troll's assistance was only him being fair-minded; he was, after all, taking her to her own possible demise. At least he'd made sure she had a fighting chance; his honor would allow no less.

  Brought into the far reaches of an enormous cavern, Dahlia thought the transition from the fae-bridge looked organic. Closer to the outer confines of the immense interior were dozens of natural pillars made from connecting stalactites and stalagmites. Indirect light filtered in from far ahead by means of tiny gaps in the domed ceiling and upper walls.

  The bedrock floor of the cavern, interspersed with short stalagmites and acres of uneven ground, was expansive enough to also contain a pond and a lake; both were fed by a stream that led off to the far side and then blended into the distant darkness.

  While moss covered much of the lower reaches, rock dust and grimy soot layered the higher elevations. Along those darkened walls were escarpments, landings, short walkways, and shallow crevasses. Among it all, though, was strewn the bones of countless beasts.

  The only thing Dahlia had to do, according to the sworn pact with the illustrious troll, was to leave the location by any means but a portal. It sounded acceptable until he mentioned that the cavern was in fact the lair of Serafeim, an infamous dragon created and kept strong by the imaginations of human teens. It came as little surprise that Ragnar could build a portal there; the huge warrior must have tested his mettle against the beast a time or two. He sincerely wished her well and then departed back through the portal that brought them there.

  Even though she saw no sign of the beast, Dahlia remembered keeping to the upper shelves and rocky terrain to her right and moved with stealth and care. Fear kept her paranoid of any movement. Further in, she could discern that the stream's passage was also Serafeim's entry into the lair. That realization, plus that there was no sight of the dragon, caused her caution to waver. One misstep, snapping a bone hidden under inches of soot, turned her fear to terror when the dragon rose out of the lake.

  Serafeim was gargantuan. Such was its displacement that when the red dragon burst forth from the lake, its water level dropped by nearly half. The winged monster came directly at her.

  Dahlia couldn't recall many of the details after that, mostly running and fire. She was buffeted into rough walls by whipping wings, slapped to the ground by swiping talons over half her size, and seared by indirect gouts of flame when she hid behind pillars or other natural formations.

  The power of the dragon's incendiary attack was such that it superheated the packed soot in a few spots; she was spattered with what could only be compared to burning pitch. The black substance, still licking with flames, stuck to Dahlia's skin in places. She had little time to scrape the gummy embers off where it landed on her exposed flesh.

  The clout of an enormous wing tip turned out to be her salvation. Thrown up and into a wall yet again, her hand instinctively grasped and found a grip of a fissure lip that she couldn't have reached otherwise. With renewed hope, she pulled herself into the snug, crooked passage and struggled up the uneven incline.

  Dahlia's wounds began to become apparent; gashes stung from the grime in them, fractured bones ached, and most of her skin was alive with burning pain. Behind her, Serafeim roared in fury at being denied a small meal. The rock-framed glimpse of sky ahead promised deliverance; she fought back her own agony and continued to crawl.

  Just as Dahlia pulled her legs free of the fissure and dropped the few feet to the snowy ledge, a pillar of intensified flame shot through the opening. The heat of it instantly blistered the back of her legs. Weak and hurt almost to the point of banishment, Dahlia knew that if she stayed long enough to heal even a few of her wounds, she would be cooked alive. Disabled and vulnerable, she would only be able to watch as Serafeim came from its lair and devoured her. Reaching inward for reserves she wasn't sure she had, Dahlia hastily created a portal and rolled into it.

  Shaped as a long marble hallway with columns, and thin stained glass pentagonal windows, Dahlia lay prone on the floor of her fae-bridge. It offered escape, but no sustenance for her depleted energy.

  She could have decided to return to her own holdings to gather her strength, but her ambition overcame wisdom. She thought that going home for even a short time would result in missing out on the war party altogether, let alone vying for the chance to lead the charge.

  In porting directly next to Saraid's haven, however, Dahlia would have to face the elder again with yet another failure. She hoped that her valiant efforts against overwhelming odds would play in her favor, but doubted that outcome.

  After a destination was chosen, Dahlia crawled out. She was at her own campsite, an equal distance from both Saraid's tree haven and the war party tents. It was nighttime, and someone had rekindled her campfire; the orange flames threw flickering light on her own pavilion and the tall grasses just beyond. The fire also cast light on a small figure in front of her. Dahlia looked up to see Haas, who had an impatient expression on his cherubic face.

  Holding out a scroll, the bauchan grumped, "Hurry and accept this; I'm missing out on a party."