The Dragon Griaule

Yara picked up the machete from beside her chair and he told her to leave it, saying with heavy sarcasm that he doubted she would find any chickens upstairs.

A diversion from their plan so early in the game did not augur well, yet as they mounted the steps, though Snow knew the fearful incredulity of a condemned man going to the gallows, he nevertheless felt a corresponding sense of relief, one springing from the knowledge that they would soon have a resolution. Jefe stripped off his outerwear and stood before them clad only in black tights, his chest and arms plated with unusually smooth muscle, only the balance muscles in his back and those protecting his joints exceptionally defined. He opened a panel in the wall camouflaged by a section of indigo cloud and punched in a number on the keypad, initiating the grinding nose and starting the chains to slither up and down, to and fro in their tracks, some rapidly, some slowly, the light rivering along their silver links. He then pulled on a pair of thin black gloves and caught hold of a chain that carried him aloft.

Yara squeezed Snow’s hand and shouted into his ear: ‘Once you get back down to the floor, run and get the machete!’

When Jefe reached a height of around twenty feet he launched himself into the air, catching another chain, then whipped himself about, swinging higher, and caught yet another chain and swung again, repeating this process, going higher and higher until all Snow could see of him was a minute figure hurtling through a moving forest of silver chains and against a cinematic backdrop of brassy light and clouds like battle smoke. He descended in like fashion, performing a sequence of loops and somersaults, sudden shifts and reversals of direction that brought him, after several minutes, to within a few feet above them, whereupon he ascended again rapidly, arrowing from chain to chain, crossing spaces of forty feet and more before redirecting his course, throwing in spins and tumbling maneuvers and other elaborate stunts. Yara applauded wildly and shouted her praise, despite having scant hope of being heard. She elbowed Snow, enjoining him to do the same and, though he was not so inclined, he followed suit and was partly sincere in his applause, for he had never witnessed such a display of stamina and strength and coordination. He lost sight of Jefe among the chains and clouds, and inquired of Yara where he had gone – she pointed to a speck superimposed against a spray of golden light, perched on an invisible ledge. And then he was off again, soaring amongst the chains, not appearing to utilize their stability and momentum to alter his course, but scarcely touching them, as if gliding on updrafts, diving and banking, aerials too fluid and graceful to be other than flight.

How long Jefe flew, Snow could not have said. An hour, surely. Long enough so that his motivation for clapping and cheering waned and he stood silent and motionless until Jefe descended to the floor of the shaft and walked over to them, a light sheen of sweat the only register of his exertion. Yara congratulated him, patting his shoulder and smiling, but Snow, incapable of participating in this charade any further, looked off as if distracted, fighting panic, going over the list of things he needed to focus upon. Jefe smirked, stepping to him with a swaggering walk, rolling his shoulders, and gave him a push, moving him toward the wall covered with smoky clouds. Snow scuttled away and Jefe gave him a harder push that sent him reeling backward. As Snow toppled, windmilling his arms, Jefe sprang after him, snagging his belt, and lugged him toward the wall, kicking and twisting like a living satchel. He seized a chain, wrapping it once around his arm, and let it bear them upward.

Watching the floor shrink beneath him, Snow ceased his struggles and shut his eyes, clinging to Jefe’s leg, dizzy and sick with fright. After an interminable time he felt himself lifted. He screamed, convinced that this was the moment he had dreaded, but instead of plummeting downward he found himself pressed back against the wall, held there by Jefe’s hand at his throat and by something solid underfoot. A ledge. He slid his left shoe forward, feeling for the edge, and found it after two or three inches.

‘Don’t worry,’ Jefe said in his ear. ‘I’m not going to harm you.’

Snow squinted at Jefe, who stood beside him, facing the wall, and then glanced down at the floor of the shaft. Their elevation was so great he could not be certain he saw the floor, only a chaos of glittering, slithering chains, bright clouds on the wall opposite, and, as his eyes rolled up, the autumnal blue of the ceiling near to hand. His stomach flip-flopped, his knees buckled, and if Jefe had not tightened his grip, half-throttling him, he would have fallen.

Jefe gave him a gentle shake. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’