Lazarus 6 - NINE: Dragon-Sized Problems

“Ferraro, behind me!” I brought up both hands and conjured a shimmering dome of raw force, air, and water, all reinforced with potent bands of Nox. The fire slammed into the shield like a wrecking ball, but I was ready. Protecting yourself from fire was a helluva lot harder than deflecting a few stray bullets, but trekking around the second circle of Hell had taught me a thing or two about dealing with the heat. Unlike a force shield, which would’ve stopped the flames but allowed the heat to pass through—cooking me alive, which was no bueno—this shield was a bit more versatile.

The force portion of the construct deflected the licking tongues of flame, while water absorbed the heat, venting a wave of hissing white steam. Steam that was subsequently whisked away by the gentle flows of air circulating throughout the construct.

Effective. But it was also damned hard to hold together and I couldn’t withstand an onslaught like this for long. Which sucked a bagful of ass since dragons and unending fire went together like bourbon and barbeque. Thankfully, Levi was already on the move. The MudMan sprinted forward, white swirls of steam billowing around his legs and arms as he ran. Firroth turned his head, bathing the golem in flames, and giving us a chance to reposition and find some much-needed cover. Levi let out a roar of pain and anger, but kept right on trucking, his fists transforming. One turned into an enormous sledgehammer head, the other took the shape of a butcher’s cleaver.

I winced, knowing exactly what kind of agony poor Levi had to be in. The guy may have been built like a shit brickhouse but no one was built to withstand dragon’s flame head on. From what I knew about the golem, Firroth’s attack probably wouldn’t kill Levi, but the MudMan would feel every single ounce of pain.

“Ferraro,” I yelled over my shoulder, “get cover behind one of those stone columns.”

“On it,” she shouted, bolting for one of the jutting stalagmites. Naturally, because it was Ferraro, she fired on the move, working the pump and sending out rounds with uncanny precision. No shot combination on the planet would penetrate Firroth’s scaly exterior, so instead she targeted his vulnerable eyes—that and the gauzy membrane of his delicate looking wings. The dragon shook his head as one of her rounds hit true then let out a ferocious, ground shaking roar. He reared back and thrust an enormous scaled hand out, conjuring a ruby force shield of his own to deflect the incoming rounds.

Levi leapt at the same moment, lashing out with his sledgehammer fist, catching Firroth right in the throat, which couldn’t have been pleasant. Not even for a Dragon. Levi hit like an artillery blast, I knew from experience. Sullivan, still floating on his rock, hurled alternating rounds of ball lightning and ice javelins at the monster lizard. Firroth spun in a blur, whipping his tail around in a tight arc, swatting the Battle Mage from the air like a line drive. Sullivan hurtled toward a nearby booth, body limp as a rag doll. On instinct, I summoned an emerald dome around him, pumping it full of air to cushion the impact.

I let the weaves of my construct unravel once I was reasonable sure Sullivan wasn’t dead, then turned my attention back to the Dragon. Big Red and Levi were tangling, but Firroth clearly had the upper hand. Levi smashed another fist into Firroth’s chest then narrowly sidestepped the Dragon’s biting jaws before bringing his meat cleaver screaming down onto Firroths snout. The problem was, Levi was too slow. He was big, strong, and a powerhouse, but he wasn’t going to win any awards in the 100-meter dash. The gray shitkicker was just too big and bulky for that. Firroth, on the other hand, moved with the grace and speed of a Lion, which was totally unfair since he was enormous.

With a jerk of his neck, Firroth slammed his bulky head into an unprepared Levi, swatting him away with contemptuous ease. Levi’s arms pinwheeled madly as he flew. I didn’t bother to cushion his fall. That was basically a love tap so far as Levi was concerned.

But I did need to buy both him and Sullivan a moment to recover.

I pulled my pistol, leveled the barrel and fired off a quick trio of rounds, targeting Firroth’s eyes just like Ferraro had. At least one shot went wide, while another bounced harmless off with a whine. The third, though, ploughed into the Dragon’s golden orb. He let out a pained roared in response—and I could totally sympathize. I knew exactly how shitty it was to lose an eye, though hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Dragons were almost as hearty as my boy Levi.

Not wasting any time, I surged forward, stashing the pistol and hurling a gout of fire all my own. Zigzagging the beam of molten gold and orange across his face and muzzle. I knew the sumbitch wasn’t gonna feel a thing, but that wasn’t my plan anyway. If Firroth had a weakness it was his eyes, and it was damn hard to see through a liquid jet of raw flame. I kept the fire flowing freely as I maneuvered inside Firroth’s guard. I figured swinging on Firroth wouldn’t do much good—but I could hit with other things. With a force of will and a weave of air, I lifted a heavy oak table on its end, drawing it away from the floor.

I cut off the flames and, before Firroth could recover, I used all my metaphysical muscle to slam the bulky slab of wood right into Firroth’s jaw like an industrial sized baseball bat. The table landed with a resounding crack and the Dragon staggered from the hit, reeling drunkenly for a moment as he blinked sporadically. Trying to clear his vision, I was sure. Ferraro turkey peaked her column and let loose with her Glock, peppering Firroth’s muzzle with rounds. They probably didn’t hurt, but all those flashes and pings were bound to be annoying.

“Enough!” Firroth roared, waving a scaled hand toward the floating table. A massive invisible force wrestled the table from my mental grasp and sent it spinning away, smashing into a rocky wall. He dropped low and charged me, mouth wide, teeth flashing. I dove right, narrowly avoiding his fangs, and rolled back to my feet—

Only to find his swing tail careening toward me.

This was the same dirty play he’d used on Sullivan. I tried to juke right, outside the arc of the swing, but knew I’d never be fast enough. Instead I summoned my shimmering blue force dome. The construct appeared a second before impact, which is the only thing that saved my life. Still, his tail smashed into my working with overwhelming destructive force. The shield shattered on impact. The construct evaporated in a violent jolt that sent a spike of pain radiating throughout my center and dancing down my limbs like jags of lightning. The tail kept right on coming and slammed into my chest. Knocking me from my feet.

I slide across the floor on my back, struggling to breath—to get air into my bruised and beaten lungs. It seemed like a losing battle, though the fact I was still alive to bitch and moan about how much it hurt to breath was pretty incredible in its own right.

The floor rattled beneath me as I finally came to a stop.

Firroth was closing the distance, looking to end things while I was on the ground and as shaken as a James Bond Martini. He lunged in, teeth snapping, and I did the only thing I could think to do. I reached out to Vis and Nox in equal measures, instantly summoning a force mist. Silver power erupted from the ground, reaching up with questing tentacles, wrapping themselves around his incoming jaws. It felt like trying to pry open a crocodile’s mouth with my bear hands, but somehow the construct held. Sweat broke out across my face while more perspiration rolled down my chest from the strain of holding the dragon at bay.

I couldn’t keep this up for much longer, though.

Boy, but it sure as shit felt like I was carrying the weight of this fight.

Where in the hell were my friends when I needed them?

Almost in answer to my thoughts, I saw a flash of movement to the right as Ferraro popped her head out again.

“Flash out!” She hollered, her voice echoing off the cavernous stone walls as she tossed a dull black cylinder into the air in an underhand motion. I knew exactly what a Flashbang could do, but I doubted very much that ol’ Firroth stayed up to date with modern military and police firepower. That was one thing about the supernatural community. They loved magic and depended on it for everything. And for things as old and powerful as Firroth, human beings were prey animal. They, and their silly weapons, were well-beneath the concern of neigh-immortal beings of power.

Problem was, humans had come a long way since the Dark Ages and they weren’t screwing around with flails and kite shields anymore. Flashbangs were just as potent as many constructs I could conjured up.

I pressed my eye shut tight and heard the thunder of the Flashbang a second later. Even through my eyelids I could see the burst of white, bright and searing, and the sheer sound washed over me like a deafening wave. Everything rang and when I blinked my eyes open, they were still stained by a purple afterimage temporarily tattooed against my retinas. But thanks to the forewarning, I was in a helluva lot better shape than poor Firroth. His mouth was still above me, wrenched open by the silver force mist, but his eyes were hazy and disoriented from the explosion.

This was my chance.

I pushed myself upright and extended one hand. With a small effort of will and a whisper of power, I muttered the phrase “gladium potestatis.”

A thin, single-edged azure blade, about three feet in length, and looking as fragile as lace, appeared in my outstretched palm. Sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel, my Vis-wrought katana was exactly the right tool for the job. While Firroth was still reeling from the Flashbang, I gained my feet and thrust the blade up and in. Driving my arm into the Dragon’s open jaws, slamming the tip of the summoned sword directly into the roof of his mouth. Big risk, sticking my arm into a dragon’s mouth—what with the whole fire-breathing thing—but in my experience fighting monsters, if you didn’t take risks, you didn’t win.

He roared and bucked and I saw my doom appear in the back of his throat. An orb of fire the size of a basketball formed.

I braced myself for the bonfire to come—

Except it didn’t.

A floating stalagmite swooped in, slamming into the side of Firroth’s skull like an oversized golf club. His scaly head jerked to the side, ripping free from my sword blade. A heartbeat later a torrent of flame erupted from the dragon’s throat, charbroiling a table and its accompanying chairs instead of me. I quickly put some distance between me and the dragon, dismissing the azure blade with a flick of my wrist. James was back in the fight, and he was bringing it hard. Instead of using some of his more elaborate constructs, he’d settled on beating Firroth into the ground with a rocky club. Because sometimes there really is no substitute for a good ol’ fashioned ass whooping.

Firroth staggered under each blow all the while Ferraro was laying down strafing fire, blasting him in the mug at every possible opportunity.

James raised the stalagmite high on currents of air and will, and brought it roaring down, tip first. Instead of aiming for the chest or torso, though, which could’ve killed Firroth, he drove the earthen spear through Firroth’s translucent dragonfly-like wing and right into the floor. Still, though, the Dragon struggled and fought, threatening to rip through the membrane of his wing if it meant freedom… Which is precisely when Levi came stampeding in like an elephant, wielding a stalagmite of his own. Using his powerful legs, he leapt into the air and brought the second stony spear down. Penetrating Firroth’s other wing and effectively pinning the poor bastard to the floor like a frog on a dissection tray.

“No more,” came a voice I didn’t recognize. Strong, young, female. “Please, just stop. You’re going to kill him.”

I swiveled toward the voice and found a woman staring down on the scene of carnage from a set of stairs near the back, which lead to the upper floors of the Lonely Mountain. A brunette with wavy hair, cropped close around her face. I instantly recognized her from the pictures Ferraro had shown me back at the safe house. Candace Edgar. She had vaguely Mediterranean skin and features, which had to come from her mother’s side of the family since King Dagda looked like a dried-out dog turd. I knew she was young, but she looked even younger than I expected. Little more than a kid.

“We don’t want to hurt him,” I said, raising my hands, palms out in a gesture of peace. “And we aren’t here to hurt you either. Just the opposite. You don’t seem stupid, so I assume you know just how much danger you’re in. We’ve come to help you. To try to keep you safe if we can.”

“By attacking the person my Father entrusted to guard me?” she asked coolly.

“About that,” I said, shrugging apologetically. “This was never personal. The Morrigan is hunting you and she has some nasty sons of dickfaces working for her that wouldn’t think twice about killing this great big scaly asshole.” I nodded toward Firroth. “As impossible as it might seem, we’re actually the good guys.”

“I know who you are,” she said, before falling silent, lips pursed into a thin line. “Yancy Lazarus. I’ve heard your name since I was a kid. Sort of happens growing up around the Tuatha De Danann. Uncle Lugh still takes about that stunt you and him”—she nodded at Sullivan—“pulled on your first trip to the court. It’s hard to impress Lugh, but you managed.” She shook her head, a rueful smile on her face. “He was right about you. You are tough. You’re also stupid. Stupid enough to come fight a dragon, just like Lugh said you would. Dagda was sincere in sending me here, but Lugh knew you would come. My uncle figured that if you could take me from Firroth than the Morrigan probably could too.”

This was all some sort of litmus test? That little sneaky bro-hole, Lugh, had known this was going to play out this way? Shoulda figured. That was just like him—always getting other people to do his dirty work.

“Do you really think she’s after me?” Candace said, the levity gone from her voice. “It’s just Dad can be a little paranoid where she’s concerned.”

“You ain’t wrong there, kid,” I replied, “but this time your old man is right on the money. She’s coming for you. I don’t know what she has planned, but whatever it is, I can guarantee it ain’t gonna be good for you.”

“And you really think you can keep me safe?” she asked, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear.

“I’d be lying if I promised you that. I’m not sure there’s a force on earth that can keep you safe from the Morrigan and her henchmen, but we aim to try.”

“Okay,” she said resolutely. She inched her way down the stairs.

“Ferraro, Sullivan, Levi. Stay with her, open us a Way back to Inworld. Just give me a second with Firroth.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Levi asked softly. “If my recollection serves right, Red Dragons aren’t typically known for their humor or their forgiving spirits.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Levi grunted stoically, nodded, then turned to help the others. While Ferraro hustled everyone out the door, I raised a hand, and with a slight effort, gently pulled free the two stalactites pinning the Dragon down. Well, as gently as you can pull two giant stone icicles out using magic. Not exactly finesse work, but it’s the thought that counts.

Firroth was still in shit shape, but he was alive and free. I headed over to the now empty bar, hoped the counter and pulled out an unmarked bottle filled with something so dark and sludgy it looked closer to oil than alcohol. I fished out two streaked and smudged shot glass from the bar while Firroth changed­—shrinking, condensing, and sloughing off scales and skin, until only a very naked, tattoo covered man remained. With a blink of lazy golden eyes, he summoned a pair of pants and his trademark cigar—its stink already filling the air. He sauntered over to the bar, moving surprisingly well for a guy that looked like a ten-pound bag of horseshit. Bruises and cuts littered his body, one eyes was swollen to hell, and he had a pair of nasty looking gashes in both shoulders.

He pulled up a stool and plopped down while I poured the sludgy liquid into the glass. The stuff seemed too thick and smelled faintly of apples, cinnamon, and old paint thinner or maybe battery acid. Hard to say exactly.

It was his private stash, and once upon a time after getting carved up by Pa Beauvoir in a zombie-infested Haitian nightclub called Ge-Rouge, Firroth had served me. Just like I was serving him now.

“This wasn’t personal,” I said, picking up my shot glass and tilting it toward him.

“I know,” he said, following suit.

We clinked glassed then drank.

The cinnamon burned, the apple flavoring tasted spoiled and sour, and the alcohol hit like a friggin’ mortar round, exploding in my gut. I suppressed the urge to cough and vomit, and poured us both another round.

“I did this for you. You don’t know the Morrigan like I do. And you sure as shit don’t know the Savage Prophet. They wouldn’t have stopped.”

“I know that too,” he said, accepting his drink. “I know why you did it. I know what’s on the line. I hear the murmurs. The New Wave. I hope you get to the bottom of whatever she’s doing and put your boot right through her goddamned teeth.” The last he said with a snarl. “Candace is a good kid and my god-daughter. You keep her safe.”

He threw his head back, killing his second drink in one long pull.

“And last thing. I don’t ever want to see your face in here again. Same goes for your crew.” Firroth’s eyes flashed, golden and vicious. “It’s nothing personal—I always did like you. But the only thing that upholds the peace of this place is my reputation. Having you around after this, it undermines everything. You understand how it is.”

I upended my glass, chugging the liquid fire, then turned the glass over and slammed it down on the bar top.

“Yeah, I get it,” I replied. And the truth was, I did. In supernatural circles strength and honor was everything. Your word was its own currency. I’d broken the rules—I’d brought trouble into his place of business. His den. Sure, I’d done it for the right reasons, but there were still consequences to breaking the rules. Always consequences. Firroth knew that and so did I. That was all part of the game.

I gave him one final nod, then saw myself out of the Lonely Mountain for the last time.

Keep Reading: TEN: Regroup and Rally