LEFT ARM HANGING BY A THREAD of muscle and shattered bone, Alexander dangled from the teeth of Gothrodul. Wind whipped him about as the landscape rushed by under his feet. Soon after take-off he’d blacked out from the pain, but his rage woke him.
“Land, you stupid beast, before my arm comes off,” Alexander commanded. “There, on top of that building.”
The shadow dragon banked right, tucked its wings against is scaled side, and dropped like a boulder. At the last possible moment, mere feet above the tar and stone roof, he unfurled his wings and skidded to a rough landing. Alexander tumbled from his mouth and rolled across the rocky surface minus his left arm, which resided behind a wall of sharp teeth.
Gothrodul spat it out. Whoops. His long forked tongue slid out and licked the fresh blood from his snout. Sorry for the abrupt landing. Misjudged the distance.
Alexander stared, transfixed by the ragged flesh that jutted from below his shoulder. Blood spurted from the raw stump in time with the beating of his heart. He screamed and covered the flow with his other hand.
Use the Shadow, Alexander. Seal the wound before you run out of life.
Would that be so great a tragedy? Alexander shuffled to the ledge of the seven-story building. Dizzy from blood loss and his stunning reversal of fortune, he teetered. Drops of blood floated down on the breeze. He thought of the trail of blood he must have left across town in their desperate flight from the penthouse—an irregular line of crimson starbursts splattered on office and automobile windows, roadways and sidewalks. Some few may wonder how it got there. Most others, though, would simply wipe it away without a second thought.
Those that do not succumb to the orbs, that is. At least he managed to get that part right. By morning, this town would be dead.
He inched forward, the toes of his black Gucci loafers over nothing but air. A gust of wind ripped droplets of blood from his wound. He swayed and his head felt light.
We are not done. Gothrodul addressed the Shadow Lord.
“According to my father, we are dead.” Alexander stared at the small cars parked on the street below him.
Your father is old and weak.
Nobody dares talk about the Gray Lord like that. The dragon’s candor struck a chord.
Your plan for this place executed at your pace would have succeeded.
“You forget. We were not meant to succeed.” Alexander turned to face Gothrodul, arm and stump wind-milling to regain the balance the move cost him. “We were a decoy. Expendable. A way to keep his enemies busy while he played with my brothers.”
Brothers. Traitors, more like. Not a one of them clued me in.
Alexander, the wound.
Alexander sent a trickle of shadow down his arm. His musings had driven the agony from his mind, but it returned as the magic took hold. The mangled wound tingled and burned as if he had plunged it into a bucket of icy water. The bleeding stopped; however, the intense pain remained.
Lovely.
Perhaps a change is needed. The dragon suggested. Mayhap the Gray Lord needs be replaced.
Alexander snorted. “That could never happen.”
Gothrodul turned his beguiling stare on the Shadow Lord. And why not?
“Because,” Alexander responded, half-arm raised to make his point, “he’s too powerful.”
Are you not powerful?
“I’m no match for him.”
Not today. But who’s to say what transpires tomorrow?
“I grow weary of your circles.”
You have it within you to lead, Alexander. Recruit. Train. Dominate.
“Dominate.” He liked the sound of that word as it echoed inside his skull.
You could be a new Gray Lord, set to rule the world.
“Rule the world.” Alexander dreamed of someday inheriting the mantle from his father and ruling a vast shadow empire. But that dream had been shattered back in the penthouse along with the other naïve cravings for paternal acceptance and respect.
Do you think you are the only one who feels this way? Feels that the Gray Lord has abandoned them?
Alexander had never ventured down that road before, too absorbed in his own dark machinations to think about the motivations of his peers.
Could there be some truth here? His mind chewed on the possibilities. Would it be possible to wrest the leadership from Bestok Molan and set himself up as the leader of shadow?
With the might of the Last Clan, you would be unstoppable.
The dragon’s statement hung in Alexander’s mind like a shimmering vortex. Either he gave up and threw himself off the roof to end this charade of an existence. Or, and he quickly warmed to this new concept, he realigned his goals and moved forward.
I see your thoughts, Alexander, perhaps clearer than you do yourself. Gothrodul placed his huge head on the same level as Alexander’s. If you give up now, the Knights and, more importantly, your father, win.
Talk of the Knights kindled his anger. His journey to ruination began at the feet of the Knight of Flame. An image of the bald-headed knight and that whore of his, Sinclair, formed in his mind.
Develor Quinteele. That bastard killed his daughters, murdered his Rangu Copa, and destroyed his relationship with the Gray Lord. Rage bloomed in the cold wasteland of his soul, a jagged block of frigid intensity capable of inflaming the dark hearts of thousands. A strategy took shape, a two-pronged assault that would see Alexander perched atop the world.
As his mind cleared, and he cast off the limiting shackles of his previous life under Bestok Molan, Alexander watched the dragon from out of the corners of his eyes. An evil intelligence sparked behind those cold, black orbs. Gothrodul’s comments were too directed, too convenient to be spontaneous.
No. This was a well thought out campaign to get me to turn. He needs my help to find those dragons.
Alexander sensed the smile on the dragon’s thoughts. I do have need of you, Alexander. Gothrodul inclined his massive head. Our destinies lie along similar paths.
He accepted the dragon’s words. An eleven hundred year association had some benefits. A fresh determination gripped him, focused his thoughts on the future. A sharp, debilitating pain from his missing arm drew his attention away from the new direction.
We cannot have that.
Calm and determined, he concentrated on the wound. A dark vine, thin and wiry, popped out of the bone fragment, flailed and lengthened until it matched its predecessor. At the wrist, it broadened into a hand that sprouted fingers and a thumb. Satisfied with the black and glossy look, he flexed his new arm and tested his grip.
Strong.
Before mounting the great beast, he turned and surveyed the Tampa skyline. “When I first set foot among these worthless hovels, I was naïve. Eager to please my master, I ignored my own instincts. But no more.” He climbed aboard the dragon. “After being fired and tempered by the Knights, I leave this place reforged.”
Where to, Alexander?
“North and west, my friend. Time to leave this training ground behind and find my brother.”
Which one?
Alexander thought for a moment before responding. “Thargen, I think. Relegated to even worse places than I, he is our best chance.”
North and west it is.