THE DRAGON'S RETURN

The Broken Gate

Blood tasted like salt and cold iron as Thorn spat onto the mud.

He walked down the narrow cobblestone street toward the eastern gate, his heavy boots dragging through the black water. Rain poured down in thick sheets, slapping against his bare right shoulder and soaking his torn black trousers.

"Your collarbone is turning light gray," Lyra warned, her faint silver light floating close to his cheek. "If that stone skin touches your throat, you will stop breathing."

"I can still breathe," Thorn said, his voice sounding like two dry rocks rubbing together. "How far is the gate?"

"Two hundred yards," Lyra replied, looking ahead through the dark curtain of falling rain. "The archway is blocked by iron bars, but the street is completely empty."

"It is not empty," Thorn said, stopping right in front of an overturned vegetable cart.

A single figure stepped out from the deep shadows of a broad archway. He wore no armor, only a dark blue wool coat soaked with rain. A long wooden staff sat across his shoulder, its ends capped with thick brass rings.

"You look terrible, prince," the man said, his voice sharp and familiar over the sound of the storm.

Thorn squinted through the gray rain, recognizing the crooked nose and thin gray hair. "Master Gerald."

"I told you six years ago that you would come back to this gate," Gerald said, taking three slow steps forward. He rested his brass-capped staff on the cobblestones with a heavy clack. "I just did not think you would bring half the palace roof with you."

"I do not have time for old memories, Gerald," Thorn said, wrapping his right fingers tightly around his short sword hilt. "Move out of the way."

"I cannot do that, boy," Gerald said, shaking his head slowly. "The city council gave me twenty gold pieces to keep this iron gate locked until sunrise."

"I will kill you for ten," Thorn said flatly.

Gerald let out a short, dry laugh that turned into a wet cough. "You always were bad at math, Thorn. Look at yourself. Your left arm is solid granite, your shoulder is stiff, and you can barely hold that cheap iron blade."

"It is sharp enough to cut your coat," Thorn said, taking a slow step forward.

"The old general is waiting outside," Gerald said quietly, ignoring Thorn's threat. "Marcus and forty men from the old vanguard are hidden in the pine forest past the outer ditch."

Thorn paused, his dark eyes fixing on Gerald's face. "Marcus made it out?"

"He made it out," Gerald said, nodding once. "He pulled five iron bars out of the dungeon wall with his bare hands and crawled through the mud sewer. He is tough for a man with no working legs."

"Then unlock the gate," Thorn said.

"I do not have the key," Gerald said, tapping his brass staff against the wet stone floor. "The captain of the watch took the key when he fled toward the river."

"Then why are you standing here?" Thorn asked, his brow furrowing under his wet hair.

"To see if you still have enough strength to break it yourself," Gerald said, stepping back into the shadow of the brick wall. "Because if you cannot break thirty feet of iron, you will never survive the roads outside."

Lyra floated toward the tall gate structure, her silver light reflecting off the thick vertical bars. "The metal is reinforced with old mountain iron, Thorn. It is five inches thick."

Thorn walked up to the iron gate, staring through the dark gaps at the open pine forest beyond the city moat. Rain washed over the rusted iron, making long brown streaks on the stone foundation below.

"You are wasting time, boy," Gerald called out from the dark doorway. "The palace guards will figure out you are alone in five minutes."

Thorn raised his left hand. The petrified skin on his wrist and forearm made a dry, scraping sound against his dark trousers. He pressed his cold, stone-gray palm flat against the center iron bar.

"Do not push too hard," Lyra whispered anxiously. "The chaos energy is already touching your neck."

"If I stay inside this wall, I die anyway," Thorn said softly.

He closed his eyes and focused his mind on the cold, solid nature of the mountain iron. He did not try to melt it or cut it with a blade. He aimed his intent straight at the balance of the metal's form.

"Unmake," Thorn thought.

A deep black pulse exploded from his gray palm, washing over the entire gate structure like an ink splash in clear water.

The five-inch iron bars did not snap. They lost their shape instantly, turning into a thick cloud of dry, dark dust that blew away in the heavy rainstorm. The stone foundation beneath the gate groaned, cracking down the center as the weight of the archway shifted.

Gerald stepped out of his doorway, his eyes wide as he stared at the empty space where the massive iron gate had been standing a second ago. "By the gods."

"Tell the city council to keep their twenty gold pieces," Thorn said, stepping over the pile of dark iron dust into the mud of the outer road.

"Where will you go?" Gerald called out after him over the roar of the wind. "The whole empire will be hunting your head by noon tomorrow!"

"Let them hunt," Thorn called back without turning his head.

He stumbled down the muddy slope toward the wooden bridge over the city moat, his boots slipping in the cold black slush. His left arm felt heavy as a fallen log, completely lifeless from his fingers all the way up to his jawline.

"Thorn, stop for a second!" Lyra yelled, floating down right in front of his face. "Look at your neck in the water!"

Thorn stopped on the middle of the wooden bridge and leaned over the low railing, looking down into the dark, rain-rippled moat below.

In the faint reflection of the pale moon, he could see his own face. The stone-gray skin had crept up his neck, covering his jaw, his left cheek, and half of his lower lip. His left eye was untouched, but the skin beneath it was hard and dark as river flint.

"It is spreading faster now," Lyra said, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper. "The moment you used the power on that gate, the relic took another piece of your body."

"It does not matter," Thorn said, straightening his back.

"It does matter!" Lyra shouted, her silver form glowing bright white with anger. "If it reaches your heart, you turn into a statue! You will be stuck in the mud forever, just like those old guardians in the ruins!"

A low horn sounded from the pine forest across the moat. Three short blasts echoed through the tall trees, followed by the soft whinny of a horse.

"Marcus is calling," Thorn said, taking another step forward into the dark woods.

"You are not listening to me!" Lyra cried, trailing behind his right ear.

"I hear you, spirit," Thorn said, his gray jaw clicking as he spoke his words. "When the stone hits my heart, you can take my short sword and finish the job. Until then, keep moving."