THE DRAGON'S RETURN

The Iron Guild's Secret

Old Marcus did not have legs, but his shoulders were as wide as a blacksmith's anvil. He sat in a low wooden chair fitted with thick iron wheels, his right eye covered by a leather patch, staring at Thorn with cold hatred.

"You should be dead, boy," Marcus said, his voice sounding like gravel grinding in a bucket.

Thorn dropped his heavy bag of iron bars onto the dirt floor. The bag hit the ground with a loud thud, kicking up a small cloud of black coal dust.

"I survived," Thorn said, taking off his wet coat. "That makes two of us."

"Do not compare yourself to me," Marcus growled, pointing a thick thumb at his own iron wheels. "I lost my lower half fighting for your father's crown while you were sitting in a marble hall eating sweet dates."

"My father is ash," Thorn said, his voice flat. "The crown is gone. The hall was burned to the ground six years ago."

Marcus stared at Thorn's face for a long time. He looked at the sharp line of his jaw and the dark shadows under his eyes. Finally, the old man leaned back in his wooden chair and spat into the glowing coals of the forge fire.

"Why are you here, Thorn?" Marcus asked. "If the city guard finds you in my shop, they will hang me from the city walls by my neck."

"I need papers," Thorn said, taking a step closer. "I need an identity that lets me walk through the inner gates without guards sniffing my boots."

"Papers cost money," Marcus said. "Real money. Not the fake promises of a ghost prince."

Thorn reached into his bag and pulled out one of the crude iron bars. He set it on the cold anvil in the center of the room.

"Look at the metal," Thorn said.

Marcus wheeled his chair over to the anvil. He pulled a small hammer from his belt and tapped the dark bar three times. The metal rang out with a high, clear tone that echoed through the small workshop.

"This is pure iron," Marcus muttered, his one good eye widening in surprise. "There is no slag in this. No rust, no stone. How did you smith this?"

"I did not smith it," Thorn said. "I took a pile of rusty scrap from a ditch and unmade the dirt inside it."

"Unmade it?" Marcus asked, frowning deeply. "What kind of black magic is that?"

"The kind that pays for fake papers," Thorn said. "I can make ten more of these bars before midnight."

Before Marcus could answer, the heavy oak door of the workshop burst open with a loud bang. Cold rain and wind rushed into the room, threatening to blow out the small oil lamps hanging from the ceiling.

Three men stepped inside, dripping wet and smelling of cheap liquor. The man in the middle was tall and thin, wearing a greasy leather vest with a snake emblem painted across the chest. He carried a heavy iron pipe in his right hand.

"Well, well," the tall man sneered, swinging his iron pipe in small circles. "Old Marcus is still up. We came for the weekly tax, old man."

Marcus did not look surprised. He kept his hands resting on his wooden wheels. "I gave you four copper coins on Tuesday, Vane. The month is not over."

"The price went up," Vane said, stepping closer to the forge fire and spitting onto the floor. "The street gang needs extra coin to pay off the new guard captain. Give us ten silver coins, or we smash your anvil."

The two men behind Vane chuckled, pulling short iron daggers from their belts.

"I do not have ten silver coins," Marcus said calmly. "And if I did, I would not give them to street rats."

"Wrong answer," Vane growled, raising his iron pipe high in the air. He stepped toward Marcus's chair. "Break his other leg!"

Thorn stepped out from the shadows near the back wall. He did not draw his sword. He simply walked up behind Vane and placed his right hand on the man's iron pipe.

"Leave," Thorn said softly.

Vane turned around, laughing in Thorn's face. "Who the hell are you? His new grand-nephew? Get your hand off my weapon before I crack your teeth."

"I told you to leave," Thorn repeated.

Thorn focused his mind on the metal pipe in Vane's grip. He did not touch his chest relic, but he pulled a tiny drop of chaos power into his fingertips.

"Unmake," Thorn thought.

The heavy iron pipe instantly lost its dark gray color. The metal turned into a pile of fine red rust that slipped straight through Vane's fingers, dumping onto the dirt floor like dry sand.

Vane stared at his empty, rust-stained palm in total shock. His mouth hung open, but no sound came out.

"Where is my pipe?" Vane stuttered, taking two quick steps back. "What did you do to my pipe?"

The two gang members behind Vane stopped laughing. Their eyes darted from the pile of red dust on the floor to Thorn's cold face.

Thorn took a step forward, raising his left arm. The thick linen bandages on his forearm shifted, showing a glimpse of the dark, stone-gray skin underneath.

"If you do not get out of this shop in three seconds," Thorn said, his voice dead and calm, "I will put my hand on your spine and unmake your bones."

Vane looked at Thorn's gray wrist, then looked at the red rust on the floor. His face turned as white as a bedsheet.

"He is a witch!" one of the gang members screamed, dropping his dagger and bolting out the open door into the rain.

"Run!" Vane yelled, scrambling backward over his own feet and crashing through the doorway into the muddy street. The third man followed right behind him, slamming the heavy wooden door shut as they fled.

Silence returned to the workshop, broken only by the crackle of the green coal fire.

Marcus looked at the pile of red rust on his floor, then looked up at Thorn. His hand was shaking slightly as he reached under his leather apron.

"You really are a monster now," Marcus said quietly.

"I am what I need to be," Thorn replied, wrapping his sleeve tightly over his left wrist. "Do we have a deal for the papers?"

Marcus pulled out a heavy leather folder from a hidden slot under his chair. He tossed it onto the wooden table near the forge.

"The papers are inside," Marcus said, rolling his chair back toward his anvil. "They say you are a timber inspector from the northern border. It will get you past the inner gates."

Thorn picked up the folder and opened it, checking the red wax seal at the bottom. "Thank you, Marcus."

"Do not thank me," Marcus growled, pulling an iron roster sheet from the same folder and slapping it down on the table. "Look at the roster before you celebrate."

Thorn looked down at the black ink on the official paper. Near the top of the execution roster, a single name was written in large, dark letters.

"Julian," Thorn muttered, his eyes narrowing.

"Your old friend Julian is now the head of the city execution squad," Marcus said, staring into the forge fire. "He killed three former loyalists yesterday at sunrise. He is searching every house in the lower district for you."

Thorn closed the folder and shoved it into his coat. "Then I had better find him first."