The Flameforge Traitor

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. They naturally gravitate towards higher ground: mountain peaks or the soaring treetops of Wildwood. They never used to wear chains either. But those majestic beasts had been betrayed by the greatest fool to ever walk the earth.

That fool was me, Walker thought bitterly.

“Mr. Walker, you will be pleased, tremendously pleased by our progress,” Vrostat said. He was a wispy man, his personality even thinner than he was. He wrung the handkerchief in his hand as he spoke to Walker. Every few seconds he would wipe his forehead with it. Even on the observation platform, the air was sweltering.

Walker surveyed the Valley. It was an ashen wasteland. The stench of acrid smoke and decay was sickening. Dragons plodded across the hellish landscape, pulling ironclad wagons of ore with them. Dragon kin were the only creatures capable of withstanding the heat of the mines beneath the Valley. The Valley. A quaint name for an open wound in the earth.

“How much have we mined?” Walker asked.

Vrostat put the handkerchief back in his pocket and fumbled through his papers. He rattled off numbers, but Walker didn’t pay attention. He just wanted to keep Vrostat talking as he scanned the Valley.

There.

Daria held her head high as she marched across the Valley floor, her auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail; the concentration on her features made her look older than her eighteen years. He had missed her birthday. It had only been three days earlier.

How she was able to withstand the blistering heat and keep laboring was astounding to him. She was dragon-blessed, of course, but that didn’t make her invulnerable to the effects of the Valley, merely resistant.

Seeing her made Walker’s heart tighten. Part of him wanted to run onto the Valley floor and embrace her, the heat be damned. But a larger part dreaded what she might say or do when she saw him.

Walker wondered how often she thought about his betrayal. Did it keep her up at night? For his part, Walker felt like he hadn’t slept in years. The specter of his misdeeds was always there, keeping the release of sleep from him.

“How many casualties?” Walker asked, once Vrostat had finished reciting his figures.

“Oh, those are within acceptable parameters,” he said.

Walker winced. Acceptable parameters. Did that mean dozens, hundreds?

“I would like a more exact figure.”

Vrostat sighed. “We have lost eleven percent of the flock. As I said, acceptable.”

Eleven percent. It sounded so small. But it was hundreds of dragons and dragon-blessed.

Daria had crossed the Valley floor and deposited her load of ore. She stopped and took a drink of water, wiping sweat from her brow. Then, she tensed. Even from a hundred yards away, somehow she knew he was there. She turned and locked eyes with Walker.

Does she hate me as much as I hate myself? If she did, she gave no indication in her expression. She finished her water, grabbed her cart, and headed back to the mine.

Just stay alive, Daria. Stay alive for a little longer.

Vrostat shifted uncomfortably. “We have a reception in your honor, sir. If you are done here…” He dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief. It was ineffectual. The handkerchief was entirely soaked.

Walker knew that he would be lavishly welcomed at the reception. He had, after all, entirely changed the economic situation of the Oligarchy. He was a hero in their eyes for his role in trapping the dragons. All it takes to be a hero to your people is to destroy someone else’s. As he was enjoying the latest delicacies, how many of the dragon-blessed would be subsisting on stale bread and kitchen scraps?

He turned to Vrostat and forced a smile. “I am honored. Let’s head to the reception; I’m finished here.”

But nothing could be further from the truth. As Vrostat led Walker away from the observation deck, Walker went over his plan. He was going to come back for Daria that night.

And he was going to save all the dragons.

***

Solan didn’t feel pain the same way others did. Once, he had thought it a curse. But in the depths of Hell, it had become his salvation.

The other dragon-blessed wept for the world they had lost. They had been broken by the Oligarchy. But not him. Never him.

Solan scraped away the rock face with his hands–at least, what was left of them. His entire body was wrapped in bits of cloth and dirty rags in a desperate attempt to staunch the blisters and cuts across his body. The makeshift bandages on his hands had already been worn away by his digging. How long had he been at it? Hours? Days?

Time had lost all meaning in the earth’s moldering womb. There was no difference between day and night here; all was a void. The mine itself was lit at irregular intervals by dim luminescent stones. They cast an eerie glow over the tunnels that further contributed to the incertitude of time.

He stepped back from the rock wall and examined his hands. Bits of flesh hung off of them and he could see the bones of his left fingers. That was not ideal.

Solon turned away from his work and walked towards his prisoner. It was one of the guards. He had gotten too close to the edge of the Valley while patrolling. That had been fortunate for Solan.

Not so fortunate for the guard.

Solon knelt in front of the man, who was sweating profusely. It was hotter than most humans could stand in the mine. The guard was certainly dehydrated by this point. His skin was cracked and blistered. Dozens of pus-filled sores crisscrossed his body. The mine was turning him into a wasteland, as it did with all things. In a way, what Solan was about to do next was a mercy.

“I am going to take that gag off your mouth,” Solon said. “Do not scream. There is no one nearby. You may take a few moments to pray. Do you understand?”

The guard nodded, his eyes wide. Solon removed the gag. Immediately, the guard started screaming for help.

Solon rolled his eyes. They always did this. Even if someone heard him, they wouldn’t come. No one cared about those in the mine. Deaths were common here, the bodies never properly buried. The mine itself served as their tomb.

Solon waited for the guard to yell himself hoarse. “I don’t blame you,” Solon crooned as he put his hands on either side of the guard’s face and locked eyes with him, holding him like a lover would, “but you have something I need.”

Then, Solon took the guard’s soul.

Solon hadn’t thought it possible that the guard could scream louder than he had before.

He had been wrong.

The shriek that emanated from the man was unearthly as Solon drained the life from him. The concentration on Solon’s part was immense; if the guard hadn’t been bound, he could have easily broken away. But he was trapped in the embrace of the damned. Bit by bit, Solon watched the transfer of pain occur. Solon’s body healed itself, even as the guard withered. In minutes, the guard was dead, and Solon was entirely refreshed. The blisters on his body faded away, and the flesh on his hands regrew, covering where the exposed bones had been.

Solon stood, allowing the guard’s body to slump to the ground. He paused, examining the corpse for a moment. “No, I don’t blame you,” Solon murmured. In truth, he pitied the man. Soldiers followed orders. It wasn’t their fault if those orders were misinformed. The real enemy was the person who had orchestrated this situation in the first place.

Solon turned to the wall and began to dig again. He was so close. Soon, he would escape. He would find Walker. And he would make him suffer for everything he had done.

***

Governor Morn’s manor sat between the Valley and the town of Brightly and stood as a stone guardian between civilization and savagery. The manor itself was lavish: five stories tall and exquisitely designed. It even had the new electric lamps that were all the rage in the capitol.

The party within went beyond lavish: it was decadent. It was clear that Governor Morn had spared no expense--much to Walker’s chagrin. From the imported hors d’oeuvres to the superbly vintaged wine, the flagrant excess mocked Walker. This was the opposite of what he deserved. The people he loved were languishing in the Valley, and here he was sipping Chardonnay and listening to a string quartet. It felt like a sick joke.

Governor Morn came from old money. His appointment as overseer of the Valley had less to do with his capabilities and more to do with the prestige that overseeing the mining operation brought. From what Walker had deduced, Morn had little to do with day-to-day operations. He preferred the life of a socialite. That was good. It would make it that much easier to outwit him.

After two hours of pleasantries and handshaking, Walker was exhausted. The fake smiles, the sideways glances, and the innumerable lies were getting to him. And I’m the biggest liar of them all. But Walker had to stay on his guard. If anyone found out his true opinions about the Valley, he wouldn’t just lose his status as a hero.

He would lose his life.

The man who had currently engaged Walker was droning on about cocoa subsidies. Walker plastered on his smile and nodded intermittently. At least the old man wasn’t really expecting Walker to reply. He just seemed happy to have someone listen to his ramblings.

“Excuse me, Mr. Cogswell. May I borrow the guest of honor for a moment?” A stunning young woman asked.

Walker hadn’t even heard her approach, which was odd; he wasn’t normally caught unawares.

Walker studied the woman. Her hair was black with streaks of gray; it casaded around her shoulders. Vibrant azure eyes met Walker’, her gaze piercing to the point where it felt like she could see into his soul. Walker fought to keep from squirming beneath such exacting scrutiny.

The woman didn’t wait for Cogswell to respond. She took Walker by the arm and guided him away from the crowd and out onto the balcony. Her emerald gown trailed behind her, displaying the longer train was the latest fashion among noblewomen.

“Thank you for the rescue,” Walker said.

“Oh, don’t thank me yet. The real rescue is coming,” the woman said. “I’m Desmona.”

Walker would have shaken her hand, but she was still holding his arm.

“They’re insufferable, aren’t they?” Desmona continued. “The people in that room can’t think beyond cliches and company lines. I’d bet my inheritance there aren’t two original thoughts to be found in that room.”

Walker grinned. “Not now that we’ve left, of course.”

“Of course. We are different, you and I.” Desmona guided him to the edge of the balcony. “They think in terms of quotas and contracts. But we see beyond all that.”

“And what is it that we see?” Walker was starting to warm to Desmona. She seemed likable, different. Real.

“How much do you know about mythology?” Desmona asked.

Walker shrugged. “I’ve always been a man of science. I never had time to play pretend.”

“That’s a shame. It’s the best way to play.” Desmona let go of his arm and leaned against the balcony’s railing. “You can’t see the Valley from here, not really. The manor points away from it.”

“Well, the Valley is hardly something one would want to stare at,” Walker said. Weren’t we just talking about mythology?

“No. I suppose not.” Desmona stared Northward, lost in thought.

Walker checked his pocket watch, anxious about the time. Desmona was intriguing, but he had plans to set in motion. I have seventeen minutes. Can’t do anything until then.

“You asked about mythology,” Walker prompted. The time would pass faster with a distraction.

“Hm? Oh, yes. I was curious if you knew the story of the dragon-blessed and how they came to be.”

“Every culture has a different version of that story. To some, the creation of the dragon-blessed is a divine blessing from the gods. To others, it’s a perversion of humanity from the depths of hell.” Walker shrugged. “The truth is far less magical; they are a scientific anomaly. Somewhere, somehow the genetic makeup of dragons entered the gene pool. That latent trait manifests itself in a small percentage of the population. They are neither evil nor good.”

“You sound so detached when you talk about it,” Desmona murmured. “What if I told you that it isn’t a latent genetic trait? What if I told you that every dragon-blessed on this planet is chosen by the gods?”

“Then I would say you have an exceptional imagination,” Walker said. He lowered his voice. “I would also caution you against sharing your imaginings too freely. There are many in the Oligarchy who would view such conjecture as a sign of support for the dragon kin.”

“We couldn’t have that.” Desmona sighed, still gazing into the distance. “When you look North, everything seems so serene; a world in balance. A world that you brought balance to.”

Walker cursed inwardly. This was not a topic he wanted to discuss with Desmona. But he knew the standard answer, the one he had to give. “I’m flattered. But I was only one small part of the Culling.”

“Please,” Desmona gave a very unladylike snort. Somehow, that made Walker like her even more. “Everyone else looks North.” Desmona pushed off from the balcony and walked behind Walker. He turned to face her, his back to the balcony now. “But you face South, Mr. Walker.”

“Only because I’m facing you.” Walker studied Desmona’s features. Something was different. Hadn’t her eyes been blue before? They looked golden-brown now. Who was this woman?

Desmona shook her head. “No. You care about the dragons. You feel ashamed of what you did. Don’t you?” She leaned toward him, so intent, so scrutinizing.

Walker swallowed hard and took a step back. What should he say? She sounded almost hopeful. Was she the same as him, sympathetic to the plight of the dragon kin? Or was she just trying to trap him and expose his allegiance to them? It was impossible to tell. And he couldn’t risk upsetting his plans. He checked his watch with his peripherals. Five minutes left.

He would just have to play it safe until he could learn more about Desmona. “My loyalty is to the Oligarchy,” Walker said.

Desmona let out a trilling laugh. “You are a good liar, Mr. Walker.” She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, her breath hot on his neck. “But you’re not as good as me.”

Walker didn’t get a chance to ask what she meant by that. Without another word, Desmona grabbed the front of his shirt, her grip impossibly strong, and shoved him off the balcony. Then he was spinning through open air as he tumbled down, down, down towards the rocks below.