Unabashed

There is a hidden place in Prague that is accessible only by the narrowest of concealed passages. It exists beyond the normal confines of time and space, and, despite its immediate relation to the ancient city of Prague, it and Prague are invisible to one another. It is a passageway into the Wash.

Hillock backtracked his steps of all those centuries ago to an ancient and forgotten bell tower on the banks of the Vltava River. A bridge once extended over the Vltava from the tower, long since destroyed by one or another marauding hoard. Now, it extended toward the river, only twenty feet of it still in existence, ending with a jagged edge. Hillock crept down the slippery bank to the water’s edge and gradually made his way into the shaded area beneath the shelf that remained of the bridge. There was an arched portion of the flat wall of the bell tower that looked like a doorway that’d been bricked over. Hillock approached this arch and frowned. He put his hand on the wall and sighed. He looked around and then, with what appeared to be minimal effort, shoved the bricked-up doorway so that it crashed down into the bell tower.

Inside, the bell tower base was about twenty by twenty feet square. It was enclosed with tapering walls made of brick that were about three feet thick. The wood plank ceiling which served as the floor for the level above had fallen in, along with the stairway. It was dark and musty; it had been many, many years since the air within those thick walls had been stirred by anything other than spiders and ghosts. Shafts of sunlight crisscrossed through the air, and disturbed specks of dust floated up through them.

Hillock entered without hesitancy, stepping lively but carefully around the strewn bricks and boards. He walked toward the northwest corner of the room, stopping about five feet short of the wall. He reached out his hand and waved it through empty air, and then he walked around that spot in a tight circle, waving his hand in and out of that same spot of air.

He took off his hat and undressed completely, folding his clothes and placing them in his satchel. The satchel’s strap extended by a brass buckle, and he let it out as long as it would stretch. Then, naked, he held the satchel in his hand and walked toward that spot of empty space, where, with a narrowed eye and a cocked head he could vaguely see a shimmering scarlet glimmer. It had been a long time since he’d had to use a portal to enter the Wash, and he only did it now as a sort of ritual. This was the way he’d come into Prague, all those years ago, and this was the first time he’d come back to this spot since. It was fitting, for him, to leave in the same way that he’d come. He stepped forward and, for the second time that night, disappeared into thin air.

A blink of an eye or less, and he was in the Wash, that ancient, magical fountain of energy that flowed forever like a thousand tributaries across the surface of the Earth and separated those things within from those that were without. Where a moment ago there had been a city built of brick and mortar, now there was a rocky path through green grass that led up an incline toward distant snow-capped mountains. The Vltava River was still there, following its familiar curve, but it was now much smaller and the bridge was gone. Gone too was Prague itself, replaced by rocky hills, thick grass and sparse trees and shrubs and not a single building in sight. The Griffin—Hillock—exhaled sharply and then snorted. He stretched his limbs in the form he now found himself in, his true form. His skin was the same smooth black and his eyes were still yellow but that was where the similarities ended: his neck was serpentine and five feet long, extending out of a thick, horse-like torso. He walked on four legs, the forward set complete with three-inch claws at the tips of the fingers and opposable thumbs. He had a long, coiling tail, and a pair of broad leathery wings that shivered with anticipation. There was no wind, only the slight breeze, and yet the dirt on the ground beneath and around him swirled and danced, as if it knew that neither it, nor gravity, could possibly hold him down. His face was expressive; he had long black whiskers curling down from his snout, a pair of ivory stubs at his temples that he considered horns, and a mane of dark-gray fur stretched from his head and down his spine to his tale. When he smiled, his teeth looked like those of a wolf, only larger. They were three inches long and pointed, sharp. Sharp. They looked like they could bite a man’s arm off easily. And they could.

He closed his eyes, stretching his wings to their fullest length—thirty-eight feet from tip to tip—and sucked in a mouthful of air so luxuriantly he looked like he was eating it. Then, he opened his eyes and looked up, and was flying.

He normally stayed clear of the Wash; Blair lived inside the Wash and she was too powerful a psychic to agitate, and the mere presence of Hillock, if detected, could agitate her to violence. There had been times when he couldn’t resist, however, the temptation to spread his wings, but he’d done so with only the utmost caution. It had been ten years since he’d last felt his serpentine coils flex and his wings stretch, and the sheer exhilaration was magnificent.

The air was cold but it didn’t bother him. He was so elated by the rush of icy air in his nostrils that he flared them wide, sucking in as much as he could. Ice crystals formed on the underside of his wings but this just exhilarated him further. Hillock had not known much joy in his long lifetime. He longed for joy, to bathe in it, suckle its breast, but for him joy was in comfort, and there had been very little comfort so far for him. Even here, as pleasurable as the sensation was of flying through frigid air, there were precautions he must take in order to remain hidden, to stay alive. The life of ease he desired remained, as it always had, just beyond the horizon’s limit.

Whatever his situation here on Earth—in hiding, in constant fear of discovery and death by the most painful methods imaginable—it was still better than anything on Slate, where the atmosphere was hot and thick and choking. Nothing could live on Slate without magic—dragons included—but not even magic could make the living comfortable. If life on Earth was a struggle—for food, survival—it was only as comparable to Slate as Heaven was to Hell. Earth, as perilous as it could be, was as he’d always suspected when staring at it from his distant home on Slate: it was a blue chill, a sapphire paired with an emerald, a jewel of the universe. The air was pure silver and the sunlight pure gold.

The news Helling had delivered was exactly what Hillock had been waiting all these thousands of years to hear: that another had finally crossed over. Who would it be this time? Gregg himself, no doubt. But if it was Gregg he would need help immediately, he would need to know everything that Hillock had learned during his long exile on Earth. Gregg was no wizard; he had power, sure, and there was perhaps nothing in the cosmos that could match him in sheer brute strength, and he could spew a column of flame a hundred yards or more with an almost-inexhaustible supply of fuel. But outside of those his power was limited. He could change things, Hillock remembered. A trick he often had performed in his court. But that was all there was. A few tricks, a charm or two, nothing compared with what Hillock could do. Hillock on Slate had been the leader of the Clan, the wizard elite. Gregg might be able to rend flesh and leave an area scorched and charred, but Hillock could fold reality. Hillock studied nobler sciences: alchemy, chemistry, astrology and astronomy, augury, voodoo, cleromancy and even thaumaturgy. Gregg may have finally come, but without Hillock, he would be no more useful than an impotent prick.

Of course it was possible that it wouldn’t be Gregg who’d come. Cut off as he was, Hillock didn’t even know if Gregg was still in power. The only thing he knew for certain was that if another had deposed Gregg, who was very much a titan, then the new king must be a like a god. Hillock couldn’t imagine a dragon with enough power to dethrone the king. Gregg had been in power since Slate’s banishment—fifteen-thousand years, he was all-powerful.

Either way, it didn’t really matter. If it was Gregg or another, it was Hillock’s duty to go with haste, to impart his wealth of knowledge, and to retrieve the stone. The stone they surely would have sent along with the newcomer. All he needed was a small piece of stone from Slate, and he felt with confidence that he could return Slate to orbit around Earth. He was certain that he had finally unlocked the secret of the enchantment that’d been used to banish Slate, certain that he could reverse it.

The air grew colder as he flew farther and farther north, careful to stay within the borders of the Wash. As powerful as Gregg was, he did have one distinct weakness: he was cold-blooded. Hillock was a different breed of dragon, a warm-blooded breed, known since time immemorial among dragons as “Legoa-Taniynoa .” Gregg belonged to a breed known as “Gizsh-Taniynoa,” and all Gizsh dragons were cold-blooded. For all his strength, Gregg would be curled up and dying right now if he was in this frigid air through which Hillock flew. Gizsh dragons were bigger, stronger, more colorful and meaner, too. Legoan were black or silver or gray or white. They were proficient with magic and science. Those who were strongest with magic were invited into the Clan. Some said the Clan was just a pet of the ruling class, and it may have been true, but there were many times that Gregg had made a request directly of the Clan. In Hillock’s mind, that made them valuable. Of course, as weaknesses go, on Slate being cold-blooded wasn’t a problem, because it was hot everywhere—scorching hot. On Earth, the Gizsh dragons only had to be careful to stay far away from the poles. This was fine with the Legoans. They thrived in cold air; for some, the colder the better. A Legoan could rule his own frozen patch of land without interference from any wasp dragons. Of course, if Gregg had his way, he would scorch the entire planet and melt the poles rather than restrict himself to the tropical climates as the dragons had done before they were banished. He would burn the Earth to cinders, with pleasure.

Hillock knew it was dangerous thinking these thoughts. For him to make it to America, to find out if the Clan had indeed succeeded in transporting the king to Earth, he would have to pass through Blair’s domain. Blair was the most dangerous being on Earth and was the main reason he kept his thoughts shielded and used a pseudonym. She, the bitch of the north, was the sole reason this planet was not now ruled by dragons, and she herself, a dragon, could have only benefited from such a situation.

He flew north along a vein of the Wash across the Baltic Sea into Finland. It crossed the Gulf of Finland near Helsinki and from there carried on across many glaciers before it came to its grand conclusion: the Cave of Dreams, which was a Wash portal that linked Europe to North America, allowing travel from one to the other without having to cross the sea or the pole. It was where Hillock and Blair had come to Earth centuries earlier, along with a horde of now dead and frozen dragons, and it was where Blair currently resided, deep within its subterranean darkness. Blair and Hillock alone survived being thrust through the portal; every other dragon died almost immediately, and only through an insurmountable effort of will did Hillock survive. Blair survived as well, of course.

The bitch.

It was Hillock’s aim to fly through the cave, past Blair’s watch, psychic shield in place, and then to head south until he found Gregg, the ruler of Slate, from whence all dragons come. If it was true that Gregg had found his way to Earth, then Blair would already be aware and would be working to either send him back or kill him. Regardless, she definitely wouldn’t allow the Clan any contact with him. Indeed, she’d been blocking communication between Slate and Earth ever since she and Hillock had arrived. So Gregg may not even know that Hillock was here waiting for him—Blair didn’t. But soon, if Gregg was here and if Hillock could find him, and if he brought the stone, that precious magical stone, then they would return Slate to its natural orbit around Earth. But either way, Earth would soon once again be ruled by dragons. Hillock was sure of that.

written by Matt Mitchell