THE DRAGON'S RETURN

A Lie for a Lie

 A lie spoken with a straight back sounds like gospel to men who fear their masters.

The guard captain stared at Julian's limp body, his jaw tight with panic. He rushed forward and knelt beside the paralyzed commander, pressing two fingers against Julian's neck.

"His pulse is faint," the captain said, looking up at Thorn through the torchlight. "What kind of poison was on that needle?"

Thorn kept his hands clasped behind his back, hiding his dark leather gloves in the shadows of his cloak. "A slow paralysis from the northern marshes, sir. If we do not get him to the high healers in ten minutes, his tongue will swell and shut his throat."

Julian's eyes burned with wild, helpless fury from the floor. He tried to twitch his fingers, trying to scream that the masked guard standing above them was the real enemy, but only a tiny bubble of spit slipped past his teeth.

"Look at him," the captain muttered, misinterpreting Julian's frantic expression. "He is trying to order us to kill the traitor."

"Leave the old man to me, captain," Thorn said, taking a half step toward the chains. "Take Captain Julian upstairs before his breathing stops entirely."

"You there! Help me carry him!" the captain yelled at the two armored soldiers in the hallway.

The soldiers rushed into the damp cell, dropping their heavy iron spears against the wall. They grabbed Julian under his arms and knees, lifting his stiff, heavy body off the cold stone floor.

"Good thinking, recruit," the captain said, slapping Thorn on the shoulder as he passed. "What is your name again?"

"Seth, sir," Thorn replied through his steel faceplate. "First vanguard from the northern post."

"When Julian wakes up, I will make sure he knows you saved his life," the captain said, pulling open the heavy iron door. "Finish the old prisoner and meet us at the courtyard gate."

"I will take care of everything, sir," Thorn said.

The heavy footsteps of the three men hurried down the corridor, their boots echoing loudly up the narrow spiral stairs until the thick oak door slammed shut at the top.

Silence returned to the dungeon, broken only by the steady drip of dirty water from the ceiling.

Old Marcus sat against the wet stone wall, wiping blood from his chin with the back of his sleeve. He let out a dry, rattling laugh that turned into a harsh cough.

"You really are a smooth talker, boy," Marcus rasped, tossing the silver key ring from hand to hand. "You turned his own men into your personal carriage."

"It buys us five minutes," Thorn said, turning around and unbuckling his steel faceplate. He pulled the heavy mask off, letting his dark hair fall over his eyes. "Unlock the rest of the cells."

"And what about you?" Marcus asked, pointing a bruised finger at Thorn's chest. "You are going to the high archive alone?"

"The archives hold the layout of the city defense arrays," Thorn said, pulling a short iron dagger from his belt and tossing it onto Marcus's lap. "I need to know which stone holds the main ward before I burn this city down."

"You are going to fight three hundred guards with one good arm?" Marcus asked, frowning deeply.

"I am not going to fight them," Thorn said, his voice flat and empty. "I am going to unmake the foundation beneath their boots."

Lyra floated down from the ceiling rafters, her faint ghost shape wavering like smoke in a drafty room. "We need to move now. That paralyzed captain is going to recover his voice the moment the healer flushes his blood."

"She is right," Marcus said, dragging himself across the floor toward the iron door of cell four. "I will let out the old vanguard. By the time those fools figure out Julian was poisoned by his own guard, this basement will be on fire."

Thorn stepped out of the silent cell and walked toward the dark wooden door leading to the upper archives. He did not look back at the old general.

"Thorn," Marcus called out from the darkness of the hallway.

Thorn stopped, his hand resting on the iron door handle. "What?"

"If you see Julian again," Marcus said, his voice dropping to a low growl, "do not leave him breathing."

"I do not waste energy on dead men," Thorn said.

He pushed the heavy door open and slipped into the narrow service passage that led up to the noble district. The air grew warmer, carrying the rich scent of polished oak, lavender oil, and expensive wax candles.

"This part of the castle is heavily guarded," Lyra warned, trailing behind his right shoulder. "The high archives are reserved for the grand scholars and the imperial family."

"The scholars are weak," Thorn said, adjusting his dark guard coat. "They rely on spells instead of steel."

He reached the top of the stairs and stepped through a tall archway into a grand library. Row after row of towering wooden bookshelves filled the massive room, stretching all the way up to a painted glass ceiling. A single old scholar in white robes sat at a wide oak desk near the center, writing in a heavy leather book with a long feather pen.

The old scholar did not look up from his paper. "The archives are closed for the evening, soldier. Leave your report on the side table."

Thorn walked quietly across the soft rug, stopping right beside the desk. "I am not here to leave a report."

The scholar paused, his feather pen hovering an inch above the wet ink. He looked up, his old eyes squinting through round glass spectacles at Thorn's dark uniform.

"You are not from the castle staff," the scholar said, his voice rising in suspicion. "Where is your official pass?"

Thorn placed his gloved left hand on the open leather book, pressing down hard on the fresh ink. "I need the map of the city ward stones."

"That information is forbidden by order of the Emperor!" the old man shouted, reaching for a small brass bell on the corner of his desk. "Guards! Intruders in the high room!"

Before the old man's fingers could touch the brass bell, Thorn grabbed his wrist with his right hand, twisting it firmly until the scholar gasped in pain.

"Do not make noise," Thorn said softly. "Where is the master map?"

"I will not betray the empire to a common brute!" the scholar yelled, trying to pull his arm back.

Thorn did not draw a blade. He pulled his left hand out of his dark leather glove, revealing his stone-gray skin and dark, petrified fingers. He pressed one gray finger against the corner of the scholar's heavy wooden desk.

"Unmake," Thorn thought.

The thick oak desk instantly lost its solid form. The fine polished wood turned into a heap of yellow sawdust that spilled across the rug, sending ink jars, scrolls, and the brass bell crashing down to the floor in a loud heap.

The old scholar stared at the pile of sawdust in sheer terror, his knees knocking together under his white robes.

"Where is the map?" Thorn asked again, his tone dead and calm.

"The third shelf on the left!" the old man whimpered, pointing a shaking finger toward a tall iron vault built into the back wall. "The red scroll with the gold seal! Please do not turn me to dust!"

Thorn walked over to the iron vault, grabbed the red scroll, and stuffed it into his coat.

"Thank you for your service," Thorn said.

He struck the old scholar across the jaw with the hilt of his short sword, knocking the man unconscious before he could scream again.

A loud, booming bell suddenly rang out from the towers above, shaking the glass ceiling with seven heavy strikes.

Lyra gasped, her ghost shape turning bright white. "The main alarm! Marcus started the riot!"