Kindred: The Book of DraKon

Kindred: The Book of DraKon

T. Quakhaan

 Chapter One

  The sun was setting in a swirl of reds and gold, the reds bleeding into the far distance while the gold burned overhead. The colors reflected off his mirror-gloss black scales.  No where could he place his feet that did not place the fallen beneath his talons. Nenenthel snorted in disgust. Hamenai (mortals) were no better tn vermin, he thought, always finding reasons to be curious, covetous, or contentious.  The world had not been a quiet place since their dawning.  Better the DraKon remove itself to the vast reaches of burning deserts or the searing cold of the highest mountains where these pests were kept at bay by the natural elements, he thought.  Nenenthel stepped gingerly, more out of respect for the dead than concern for his balance. His wide spread wings and the gentle touch of the breeze allowed him to step lightly. He swung a head the size of a grown bull over one massive shoulder.

“We’re too late. It’s dead, poor thing,” he announced, plodding grimly onward.   “Come away, Arenenthy.  No good’ll come of lingering when the spark of the soul has fled.”   His scales rattled against the splintered spears, cracked shields, and tumbled boulders of the battlefield.

 “Who would do such a thing,” asked the female?  Her long horned snout gave the body at her clawed feet the gentlest of nudges.  Her warm breath curled around the body, warming it for a moment so that the young Hamenai woman, her middle swollen with life, seemed merely to sleep. “Why bring a breeder out here in the middle all this violence and madness,” she asked?  Blood oozed from the woman’s neck where a blade had kissed and ravaged her. Her life now pooled into the trampled plain and stained the DraKasi’s talons.  “The Eld asked for an escort but said nothing of bringing a breeder.”

“We are too late,” the male repeated.  “Areny, come away,” he urged, and began to move again.

   Arenenthy, a slightly smaller, more graceful version of the great bull DraKon, gave the body one last, hopeful inspection. True it was too late for the breeder, but what of the young within? Could it have survived? Was it mature enough to claim a life outside the parent host?  Arenenthy moved her muzzle closer to the bulging middle. Yes… yes, there! A tiny heart still beat, an unformed consciousness darting about seeking a contact now broken.  “Here, little one,” Arenenthy crooned to the unformed, grasping thoughts; “I am here.”

  The breeder’s middle heaved as if in a sigh and the life within wriggled and twisted seeking escape or freedom.  “Nenen,” Arenenthy called, with excitement. “There is still life inside this one, not her life but the life of her young.”

    “Leave it,” Nenenthel replied, turning sad eyes upon his mate. Having lost her fledglings was she now seeking solace for her loss in this most unlikely place? No good could come of it. “How would we care for such a thing?” He heaved a sigh of regret and eyed the corps sternly. “It is one thing to take a breeder into shelter until her own can claim her, but quite another to try to preserve what is not able to fend for itself.  Best there be an ending before suffering our poor attempts at parenting what we know so little of.”

  Arenenthy’s head rose, her lips peeling back from her foot long teeth and longer fangs.  There was life here, and her nature would not sanction leaving it.  The new life must shed the old, she reasoned. Therefore, she would have to desecrate the breeder’s body.  It was a thing to be done with finesse if she did not want to rend the young in an attempt to free it. Tooth or talon? “Nennen, I want it.” She called, simple and direct. She watched him swing around with agitated swipe at the bodies at his feet.

“Oh, for love of eggs, Areny!” he exclaimed. “The air might kill it, you have no food to feed it, no hands to lift or clean it…”

 She cut him off; “I.  Want.  It.”

  He knew that tone. He knew that glint in her eyes, the stiff set of her neck and shoulders. There would be no reasoning her out of this folly. If justice prevailed, then nature would take its course and the thing would expire quickly. No more fuss.  He cocked his head and studied the situation from several angles. There was vigorous movement within the bulge. Extending his awareness, he could feel an unformed questing from the consciousness, an increasing urgency … almost a plea. Help me, help me, help me… He snorted in alarm at the terror that engulfed him at the contact and quickly severed the connection. Slowly, he met the questioning eyes of his mate with new understanding.

“If we are going to do this,” he said in earnest, “best be by magic.”   How could he turn aside from such a desperate plea?  He lowered his massive snout and blew a stream of soothing thoughts toward the struggling form.

 “That’s it, little one. Curl tight, as small as you can,” added Arenenthy, trying to sooth the unformed consciousness.

 “We are going to make an egg of you. It’s only for a short time, just until we reach our home.” The great bull DraKon assured the embryo as he hummed. “Then you can hatch and we will take matters from there.”

    Arenenthy began to weave a more subtle note, something like the whisper of glass chimes into the deep bass tone supported by Nenenthel.  A shimmer encircled the breeder’s body, turning it a translucent quality which allowed the embryo to lift clear of the cavity, encircled by the DraKon’s magic. Slowly reaching for the tiny morsel of mortal life, the great jaws of the female DraKon opened.  Her long armored yet sinewy neck extended.   Together the magic of the DraKons guided the orb along its journey to a nesting place within Arenenthy where it could attach and draw nourishment just like any other egg.

  When they were satisfied that the task was successful, and leaving the Hamenai’s body where it lay, both DraKons launched their massive forms skyward and used the downbeat of their gigantic wings to gain the altitude for effortless flight.      

                                                                                 ****

     “Over here, my lord,” the short, thickly built soldier called. He knelt amid the slain; his right hand free of the metal gauntlet that still covered his left hand. Chain mail covered the padded cambric of his uniform and his sword rested in the leather scabbard over his right shoulder.  Behind him, no more than twenty steps, his superior, Lord Darnak of the Xendril stalked toward him, an expression of sorrow warring with his mounting rage. The slain had been traveling on a mission of peace to the kingdom of Eldoran, home of the Elds. Darnak’s sister, Lady Karamith, wife of the Eld prince, had volunteered to head the delegation despite her condition.  A treaty with the Elds would mean an end to the raids and pillaging of the towns and villages along a boarder shared with their ancient enemies.    His heart pounded into his throat as he neared the wreckage of the wagon that was supposed to transport her in safety and comfort. His sister… his sweet, ever smiling, gently spoken baby sister...whose body now lay sprawled grotesquely, a dried pool of gore attesting to the manner of her death.  More to steady his legs than anything else, Lord Darnak rested a hand upon the shoulder of the soldier who had located her.  The man looked up, pity and compassion twisting with his need for retaliation. “I am so sorry for your loss, Lordship,” he offered.

Darnak returned a nod, not trusting himself to speak. His eyes refused to see what lay before him in full detail – he couldn’t blame his brain for not wanting to process these horrid facts either, but there she lay.  The soldier surrendered his place and Darnak knelt, gathered up one of his sister’s stiff, cold hands, as tears clouded the disfigurement that was her throat. “Kara…”he groaned. A primal scream tore the brittle air from behind him.

 “Nooo!”

 Boots bounded the body strewn field and a shadow fell over Lord Darnak’s armored shoulders. Hands, with more than mortal strength, lifted him bodily out of the way and the young Eld lordling, Vixeon, collapsed over the woman’s torn body with another howl of grief.

 “How?!” Turning on his brother-in-law, his eyes afire with fury, Vixeon demanded, “how in name of Hallowed Spirits could this happen?”  

Darnak bristled at the assault. “You tell me, Eld.” He snarled back, using the word like a curse. “Where’s the escort your father promised? Why are there no dragons among the fallen?” Without thinking the two men squared off over the dead woman’s body like two wolves over a bone.

“What are you saying?” Vixeon growled, his tone deadly, one hand groping for the saber at his side.  Darnak stepped forward until the point dug into his chainmail just below his heart.

“I’m saying your father betrayed me,” he hissed, locking dark eyes with the Eld. “I’m saying he never intended to honor the marriage -or the treaty.” He grasped the blade with his bare right hand and squeezed until the red of his blood stained the metal. “Go on, you worthless piece of meat- finish it if you have the-“

The forgotten soldier used the flat of his sword to jar the saber free of Darnak’s grasp, and then shoved his larger frame between the two men. “Please, my lords,” he pleaded, shoving them further apart. “Enough of our dearest blood has watered this waste land. We do not know for certain that lord Vixeon’s father is responsible. Let us tend to our dead and then-“

“And then I’ll tend to your father,” Darnak told Vixeon.  He stalked off calling over his shoulder, “Touch my sister, and I’ll kill you.”

 “She is still my wife!” Vixeon shouted at his back. Turning, he knelt again beside the woman for whom he had given up his exalted place at the Eldoran court, his titles, his heritage, his people, and his family.  She had volunteered for this mission in the hopes of repairing the relations between Vixeon and his father.  Father, Vixeon swore silently, if you have had a hand in her death, Darnak will not find enough of you to wipe his tears. His hands strayed to the place where the promise of new life should have nestled. Goodbye, my child-the thought died half formed. Before, he could already feel a consciousness, and the physical form of the child she carried within her. Now, all that remained was a hollow. Not the rigidness of death … gone. The child is gone! Vixeon’s breath froze in his throat. The child is gone –removed without a mark. Hamenai or beasts could not have accomplished it. Would an Eld? Had his father stolen his child too? What other creatures under heaven would have the magic to do this? “DraKon, “he hissed in answer. DraKon were the ancient allies of the Eldoran.

“My lord?” the soldier turned back from watching his superior forming up a burial detail.

“DraKon have done this thing,” Vixeon said. Gathering up the remains of his wife, Vixeon went to find her a more congenial final resting place.

Fangs to Flesh

Fangs to Flesh - (revised)

Prologue:

Paraphrased from Genesis 4.1


Adam went unto his wife, Eve. She conceived and bore a son, Kane. When she recovered,  Adam went onto his wife, and a year later , she was fruitful. This son they named Abel. They lived well, outside the Garden of Eden, and once a year Adam’s family offered up the first fruits of their labors in penitence for their sins.

As the brothers grew, Kane became a farmer ,and his brother became a shepard's.  When, however, the brothers made offerings to God, God was pleased with the offering of Abel, but he found no favor with the offering of Kane. Kane brought the fruits of the land, while Abel brought the firstborn of his flocks, the one he loved best, and shed tears during the sacrifice.

As time passed, Kane became very angry and shouted, “Lord! Why have you no regard for my offerings?”
And God replied, “Why are you angry? Your offering will be accepted when no sin is lurking in your heart. You must master it,  or it will master you.”
Kane felt vexed at this response. What sin did God mean? Did he not labor harder than his brother Abel? Tilling the soil was hard work. One needed to glean the seeds, dry, plant, and water them. Many hours went into weeding. How hard did Abel labor? All he did was walk behind the herds as they grazed, stood guard over them at watering places, and sheered their wool when it grew too long and thick. The yews did not require his aid to give birth. So why was his offering more pleasing? The more Kane thought about this, the angrier he became. Was it blood that found favor with God?

 One morning Kane went to Abel and said, “Let us go the fields. There is a plant that might be good for your sheep to eat.”
But when the brothers were in the fields, Kane slew Abel in a fit of jealous rage. Abel’s blood splattered upon Kane as it poured upon the earth,and  ithe blood cried out to heaven in pain and outrage.

“Kane?!” God called. “Where is your brother Abel?”

“I do not know,” Kane lied. “I’m not my brother’s keeper.”
“Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground. Blood it received from your hand.” God said. “Therefore, the beasts of fields and the creatures of the air shall flee from you in fear. When you till the soil, it will no longer yield its strength to you. You will be a wanderer and a fugitive on the earth forever.”

“I cannot bear such punishment!” Kane wailed. “You drive me from my home, and I shall be hidden from your grace. If I am to be a fugitive and wanderer, anyone who meets me may kill me.”
“Not so,” said God. “Immortality is your curse, but I will show you mercy. Find two souls willing to offer a sacrifice for your sin, and I will restore you to grace.” God put a mark upon Kane. That mark was a scar on his cheek in the shape of a scythe.  Kane went from the presence of God and settled in the land of Nod. There he met a female who became his wife, and she conceived a son...

Meanwhile, God lifted the spilled blood of Abel and gave it human form. “Life was wrongly taken from you, and in death blood shall return life to you. From your brother Kane and all his seed may you take back the blood that is life; but kill him not for he is cursed,” said the Lord. "Keep this commandment and live, break it perish."

That night Abel went unto Kane and feasted from the vein in his neck...
(The first to sacrifice for his sin was called Christ, but he could not find a second, until…)


*********

Chapter One,

Somewhere just ahead, a car door slammed, a man cursed, and a woman’s high heels clicked an agitated beat against the concrete as she stormed down the busy sidewalk. A few paces behind,  hidden in the crowds, Abel could see her: slender back rigid, shoulder-length black cornrows bouncing and hips swaying. She was fussing under her breath, calling the driver a “perv” and “slime-ball”. Abel chuckled, sounds like she’s met up with my older brother ,Kane. He followed her, never quite coming abreast or attracting her attention in the glass fronts of the electronic stores, boutiques, or restaurants along 11th and Chestnut streets. The woman’s arms were prevented from swinging by a load of books clutched to her chest. Now and then a few would slip and she would pause to adjust them.

Abel indulged in one of his favorite pastimes, a game where he challenged himself to guess the occupation of his meal donor. This one was wearing a well-tailored business suit: light textured fabric, pale gray against warm toast colored stockings. Her stride was fluid, muscles supple, and her posture spoke of high self -esteem.
Not a secretary then, he mused. Secretaries didn’t get paid enough to cover her expensive leather briefcase or the matching Italian leather heels. A court reporter, maybe a paralegal or a financial analyst? Abel’s mouth watered as he ran his tongue over his extended eye-teeth. There was just something about Kane’s business people that added extra flavor to their blood. All that wheeling and dealing was like adding salt and spice on home fries.  I have that on good authority, the taste of spicy fries. Perhaps, if he could get a glimpse of her books, he might get a clue without cheating on the rules he’d set for himself.

Rule #2: no mind- reading. Where was the fun in that? The hunt became slaughter without equal footing, and Abel had never loved butchering his sheep. 

Instead, Abel raised one long dark finger,  drew a line from her left shoulder to her right, and then made a forceful downward motion.  Her books hit the pavement.

“Oh, for the lov’ah God!”

The woman threw up her hands in surrender, then stooped to gather up her books, giving Abel a pleasant view of long, brown thigh. “This just isn’t my day.”
Abel moved forward with unnatural swiftness, his eyes taking in the titles at a glance. What the hell-!? He didn’t know any of these authors.
“Are you alright, Miss?” His eyes met hers.  As he scooped up her books all thoughts of her as a meal stepped right out into oncoming traffic and perished.
“Fine,” she quipped. Her voice was a subtle mix of tenor and alto with a hint of West Indies flavor. “Thanks.”
He couldn’t help it. He stared.  She had liquid caramel eyes over a classic African nose, and lips that did naughty things down his spine without his having to think about it. When she turned on that nervous smile, thoughts of her withering on his bed threatened to ramp up the fire in his blood.

“Could I have those back now?” She sounded impatient.
“Are they new?”  Abel debated returning the books. He couldn’t find grounds to retain custody and reluctantly handed some of them over.  “I don’t recognize the authors,” he explained, his left hand shooting out to support her left elbow as she rose. Old- world manners kicking in.

The woman adjusted her armload and gave Abel a speculative glance before offering a reply: “They’re ARCs –you know? - uncorrected manuscripts.”
“Ah, you work for a publisher,” he mused. No wonder I didn’t know the authors. They’re newbies.
She shook her head, cornrows swinging, black with reddish-brown highlights.
“No, I’m the owner. Furious Publications, Inc.”
“Uriel,” Abel lied as he extended his hand, “Adamson. I write for the Inquirer and you are-?”
Shifting the books to rest in the bend of her left arm, the woman offered her right hand. “Mahdi,” she announced. Her smile widened as he brought her fingers to his lips. “Amahdi Fury.”
Abel grasped a handful off the top of her stack, added them back to his and gestured, indicating that she lead on. Mahdi easily matched his long stride.

“Thanks, I really should get one of those rolling thingies.”

Abel gave her an appraising look as he stepped to her right, placing himself between her and the curb. Another bit of old -world nonsense, but what the hell, that’s who I am. Still, that didn’t keep him from enjoying the modern world’s best toys. “Nice wardrobe but no laptop?” he asked teasingly.

Mahdi shook her head. They were passing a music store and the title track from the movie Art of War, the Betrayal, blasted into the street. Three doors down the level dropped enough for her to respond.
“Have you seen what they’re asking for one of those? A tablet’s on my to-do list. Not that I’d get an IPad. An Android’s just as good, open- source, and easier on our budget. Furious is just taking baby steps. The wardrobe is pure Marketing and PR.”
She paused to indicate a storefront with a snarling wolf logo painted black inside a mist- shrouded full moon.  Terra cotta colored vertical blinds stood partially opened, allowing the world a peek into the well -lighted interior. The reception area was spartan but elegant, green with potted trees and flowers.
“Home sweet home,” she muttered, reaching for the remainder of the books in his arms.

Rule #3: no use of supernatural persuasion. Having to work for a donation kept the process from becoming dull. Each donor required different incentives.  Not that I’d want to consume her in that fashion!

“Hope you’re inviting me in,” he said.
She studied him again, a concern for safety tug-of-warring with her innate politeness. Abel had overcome that reaction before. Grasping the doorknob, he gave it a half- turn, eased it open, and lifted a dark eyebrow in question.
“Oh, what- da -hell,” she muttered soto voce, and with a nervous smile, stepped past him. “Com’on in.  Want coffee? After lugging those, it’s the least I can do.”
Abel held the door open with his foot, gave himself a low fist pump once her back was turned, and stepped inside.

                                                                                  ********

Kane glared at the four men seated around his shimmering crystal and chrome boardroom table. They were his; his children umpteen thousand generations removed. They shared nothing in common; neither fashion, nor language, nor national origin. What they did share was a scythe shaped mark on various but visible areas of their flesh, and an expression of dread, of wanting to be anywhere else but here. On any other day, Kane might have found that mildly entertaining, but not today. Today, the boredom was cresting and he was about to go insane – again.  That’s where his personal “ horseman” came into play. He desperately needed diversion.
 War, famine, pestilence and death; oh my. Or was it Politics, Economics, FEMA and the Military? Every hundred years or so the names changed. He paused in mid -step (he had been pacing the royal blue carpet) and folded muscular arms over his body-builder chest.

“What do I pay you for, Paulo?” he demanded in flawless Italian.

Paulo flinched. “Signori?”

Kane cocked his head, a signal that he was waiting, but he didn’t speak again.

 “To manage your investments,” Paulo, his economic advisor, responded with a nod.

“Wrong answer,” Kane snapped. Turning, he stalked over to the bank of plate glass windows that held the city of New York on 24hr display from the 43rd floor. After taking in the view for several moments, he continued without turning. “Bradford, care to give it go?” This time he used English, a London accent.

 Deputy Mayor Bradford took a deep breath, sat up straighter and opened with: “Produce results.”

“Not even close.” Kane groaned and pinched the bridge of his wide nose with thick, dark fingers. “Clear out your offices. You’re both fired.”  No, report to the mail room. "Maybe you’ll know what do down there." He spoke the order silently, mind to mind. After the shock cleared from their faces, both Bradford and Paulo bolted for the double oak doors and disappeared without a word of protest. Kane could almost smell their relief; can you spell Thanks Giving?

The third occupant at the table refused to squirm. “Same question?” He asked in Arabic.

Kane nodded impatiently, turning to cock a bushy eyebrow.

“To relieve your boredom,” The military man stated confidently.

 “Very good!”

Kane glanced at the last man with a wicked grin. “He’ll do, Ntwalah. Now go find me two more.”

 The fourth man, a Kenyan, nodded.  The command was again mind to mind. The African rose gracefully, departing in silence.  

“Now for a chance at a new car and a corner office:” Kane continued in a Bob Barker personification.  “What do you have for me today, Sharif?”

The young Arab lifted a folder from his lap and slid it to Kane across the table top. “Abel was sighted in Pennsylvania, Philadelphia to be precise.  No reports of bloodless bodies as usual, but my operatives are all over it.”

Kane flipped open the folder and perused the data. Inside was a photocopy of his brother’s application for employment at a local newspaper, several articles by his brother for said rag, several candid photos of Abel at night clubs, restaurants, and loitering on street corners.  He was about to slam the folder shut when one of the photos caught his complete attention.  It was a snapshot of Abel holding open the door of a store front for a very interesting looking young woman.  Now there’s something to write about, he mused. If his brother was up to his old tricks, this young woman would be his next victim.  Nothing gave Kane more pleasure than throwing a monkey wrench in Abel’s well -laid plans.  He tossed the folder back to Sharif. “Get the jet. We’re going to Philly.”

”I’ll make all the a…“one glance at his boss and the rest of the sentence died. “Right, I’m on it.” Gathering up the folder, Sharif strolled from the room. 

Of course, he’d make all the arrangements. That was another reason Sharif still had a career.  Kane turned back to the window with a smile. How long had it been since he’d crossed swords with his pain in the ass brother? Why couldn’t the blood-sucking leach lay down and stay dead like a good little worm? Bad enough that God had cursed Kane with terminal boredom, but to have Abel knocking about – having fun and preying on Kane’s descendants - that was more than he could stomach. It was also the most excitement he might find in this century.  If nothing else, Abel never failed to provide a lively chase.  So, why Philadelphia?  And who was the woman? Kane leaned his sweat -damp forehead against the air -cooled glass and closed his eyes.  He could still see her face.  There was something compelling about her, beyond the physical good looks and tasteful outfit. She was one of his, alright. No doubt she had the mark somewhere on her luscious person. Too bad. He hadn’t taken a bride in a hundred years.  The current state of morality didn’t require such formality just to “get laid”.  That was a good thing too. Kane never seemed unable to hold on to any woman for long. They soon learned that his charm was surface deep , then all the money in the world (after a year or two) couldn’t save the relationship.  Besides, that was probably a good thing- what with his inability to age and all that.  But somewhere out there was that single soul able see past his faults and willing to redeem his sin. That was another good reason to get between Abel and that woman. Kane grabbed his sweater off the back of his empty chair, fist clenching the material as he headed for the door. Was she the one?

  

                                                               *****