Rise of the Dragon Queen

by Sherri Beth Mitchell

  “How many?” she asked in Kieluna.

  “Not as many as there were familiars…maybe a thousand. The evil one is in the center.”

  “Dunatku,” she said.

  “You are welcome…Luck be with you.”

  “Wen!” she cried, meaning wait. “Noshita?” Where?

  “From the northwest, in the woods. Let him not harm us trees…”

  Silvia didn’t waste a minute. She called everyone to her. “Rohedon is coming from the north with a thousand strong.”

  “How do you know this?” Hans asked.

  “The trees told her,” Zander said simply.

  Hans’ eyebrows lifted. “Well that just explains everything, doesn’t it?”

  “What are your plans? What are you thinking?” Keelan asked her.

  She smiled coldly. “I say we go to greet our guests.”

  Chapter Twenty—The End of the Beginning

  A little while later Silvia and Keelan were leading an army of nine hundred out of the north gate. (She would have taken more, but Grant advised her that they were not traveling far and the city needed to be well protected because they had no idea if the enemy had other regiments outside of the city.) They headed towards the thick forests, the Queen on her black stallion, Rituel, and the King on Windfall’s wide brown back. The horses had been outfitted for battle, fine lightweight chain armor covering their heads and chests. At the start of the tree line three hundred men branched off to the left and the same number to the right to flank the enemy. This had been Prince Dalton’s advice, and it was well heeded. He waited to ride with the King and Queen with the other mounted men.

  Silvia sighed and pressed her heels into Rituel’s flank, urging him forward. The woods were indeed thick but thinned out a mile or so in where there was a huge clearing. The men whispered that ancient rites used to be performed here long ago, and that’s why the grass had never grown back. There was an uneasy feeling in the air from the knowledge that livestock, and people as well, had been sacrificed here long ago; everyone was anxious. They halted here to await Rohedon, Silvia and her companions sitting atop their horses in the middle of the clearing. The only thing to be heard was the sound of their breathing and the occasional stomp of a hoof or the whicker of a horse.

  Keelan winced and shook his head. “I’m not seeing their thoughts as I did with everyone yesterday. But I can almost feel them coming closer, as if their violent intentions are trying to seep into the back of my mind.”

  “I shall see how close they are,” Quentin said quietly. He lifted his hood over his head and took a deep breath as he turned into a tiny yellow canary and flew off into the trees.

  “I do not understand how all of you can transform,” Prince Dalton said softly. “I do not know the strange ways of your magic.”

  “The Queen and I can only do it because Zander branded us with magic coins. Quentin…well, Quentin has the ability to be anything and anyone he has ever taken the life of. It is a blessing at such times as this.”

  “Yet he remembers that which he has done in order to possess the ability to change into those forms,” said Dalton. “If it were me, I would consider myself cursed.”

  Keelan glanced at him darkly, but said nothing as the small bird flew into the clearing and alighted on Quentin’s horse.

  “They are only a few hundred feet ahead of us, Your Majesties,” Quentin said a moment later. He was gazing straight into the trees ahead as if he could already see the enemies. He still wore his hood up; it stuck out over his face, with his white hair coming out around each side of his neckline. “He does indeed have strange creatures with him. They are…indescribable.”

  Silvia could hear the tramping of careless feet in the near distance. Branches were heard cracking underfoot and soon the low murmuring of harsh, guttural voices.

  “Expect the unexpected,” said Grant, edging his war-horse closer to the King. Everyone except Keelan and Silvia drew their weapons as quietly as they could.

  Minutes later, shapes could be seen through the tree trunks, moving towards them at a comfortable pace. Suddenly the enemy broke through the clearing and stopped, gawking at the sight before them.

  Silvia had never seen such disgusting-looking people in her life. The men (and a surprising number of women) were very hairy and unkempt. Their eyes were wild, darting about, and their hands clutched queer swords and maces. The clothes they wore barely covered their privates and looked as though they’d never been washed before. Perhaps these were their battle clothes, meant to scare the enemy. It worked, if one was afraid of nasty people.

  No one said anything for several seconds. Then a loud voice boomed, “What’s wrong? Why are you idiots stopping?” A tall, thin man dressed in black and red with a sweeping cloak pushed through to the front of the enemy line, only to stop in his tracks. His astonished face quickly dissolved into a more serious one. “Put down your weapons and get of our way!” he yelled. Anyone could see where Gregorich had gotten his demanding authority from, for it was clear who this man was.

  “Why, whatever for?” Keelan asked.

  “Because, young fool, my weapons are not drawn on you. Now move! I am on my way to the city. I have important business there.”

  “Is that so?” said Keelan, glancing sideways at Sir Grant. “With whom?”

  The thin man drew himself up. “My son happens to be the king of this realm. Remove yourself from my way this instant, or you may taste his wrath.” Arrogance nearly seeped from his skin.

  “Ah, Lord Rohedon, I presume?”

  The satisfaction disappeared, replaced by puzzlement. “How do you know what I am called…and why are you here?” the man demanded.

  “Dare you address royalty in such a manner?” Prince Dalton said.

  “Royalty?” Rohedon questioned. “My son did not tell me he had royal blood visiting his city.”

  “You are speaking to King Keelan and Queen Silvia of Lystia, formerly known as Darkania,” Grant stated.

  Rohedon chuckled in stark disbelief. “You’re lying.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Keelan said. “Your son Gregorich is dead, and so is your daughter, Eulonda.”

  Rage flew into the Lord’s eyes. He drew a massive broad sword from under his cloak and held it with both hands, assuming a fighting stance. The heathens about him readied for battle. “How did they die?” Rohedon growled. “Tell me now!”

  “Gregorich Hapshamin was sentenced to be at the mercy of the people of our city. They took his punishment from his flesh. Eulonda was killed to protect the Queen, whom she was trying to murder.”

  Rohedon’s face was unreadable. He appeared to want to cry and scream at the same time. “Who did it?” he finally stuttered. “Who has done this to my children?”

  “They did it to themselves.” Quentin now spoke up. “The Lystians beat Gregorich to death for running the old king and queen off of the throne and for conspiring with the enemy in the Lordalen War. Oh…right—that would be you. And I killed Eulonda when she attacked Queen Silvia. I am not sorry for your loss; they deserved what they received.”

  The man turned an icy glare on Silvia. He looked her up and down and laughed, a chilling sound in the stillness of the clearing. “My children’s deaths lay on your head, though how that came about I cannot say. However, you do look rather familiar to be so young. Have we met before, little witch?”

  “You speak with a civil tongue around our Queen!” Sir Grant barked. His horse became agitated, moving from side to side in anticipation.

  Queen Silvia silenced him with a gentle gesture. “Their deaths lay on me. My mother and father were run off the Darkanian throne after my brother was murdered. I came to reclaim my throne and I did what was necessary to get it, just like Gregorich did when he stole it from my parents.”

  “No wonder you look familiar,” Rohedon said, nodding his head. “I came to Darkania after he ascended the throne. I told him all the paintings and belongings of his predecessors had to be put out of sight so th
ere would be no rebellion. I saw the portraits of your mother. But she told everyone that you had died at birth.” He glanced at his people and smiled. “Looks pretty to be dead, does she not? Who knows—maybe I just found another wife.” Horrible laughter filled the forest. The men and women around him shouted crude comments and made gestures that turned Silvia’s cheeks bright red.

  The men about her nearly came out of their saddles in anger, but she motioned them back. “I do not share my bed with a man who looks and smells worse than a pig rolling in its droppings. Besides, it is apparent that you do not even know how to ride a horse, since you are not atop one as a ‘Lord’ should be. Are you ignorant as well as rude?”

  Rohedon stopped laughing. “I don’t appreciate your remarks. Maybe I should make you a slave to my wives instead.”

  “Maybe you should keep your mouth shut before I lop that ugly head off your shoulders,” said Dalton. He was very determined that no one would ever speak to Silvia in such a manner.

  “My people would quite literally eat you alive if you were to do such a thing,” Rohedon warned.

  Silvia drew her sword and Rituel began to move around, agitated at his master’s distress. “Would they now? Let’s see them try it.”

  The enemies surged forward to meet the Lystians. Windfall, a trained war-horse, began kicking the dirty men who charged him; Rituel did the same a few feet away. Swords rang and clashed. But the men and women of Rohedon fought fiercely, and Silvia’s army was not trained for battle. Many were easily overcome and slaughtered mercilessly. Sir Grant and Quentin were fighting side by side atop their horses. Prince Dalton had rushed in among the enemies and was fighting valiantly alone. Rohedon had disappeared.

  Then came the creatures the trees had warned of: They were beings with hair-covered bodies that could walk on two legs or run on all fours. Their arms were very long and they had three digits on their hands and bare feet. They wore no clothes and on each broad pair of shoulders rested two heads with wide, flat noses and no lips over pointed, uneven teeth. Their ears were long and floppy and their wild yellow eyes were sunken in to their skulls. They had strange knives and clubs in their hands and were obviously the source of the guttural noises. Nearly sixty of the grotesque abominations were fighting now, and for such short creatures they were tough and unafraid. One came at Silvia, but when it came close Rituel reared up and kicked one of the heads. The thing roared in pain until Silvia drove her sword into its body where she suspected the heart to be.

  Keelan was having a rough time with the creatures. They had encircled his horse and they kept biting at his legs and at Windfall, or running beneath the animal to spook it. Keelan killed one of the them with a strong swipe of his sword; but even as the heads thudded onto the ground one of the other warriors swung a morning star with ridged spikes into his right side.

  Screaming, he fell from Windfall and landed with a crunch on his arm. The two-headed monsters at once surrounded him, tearing the clothes from his body and sinking their greedy teeth into his flesh.

  Silvia saw, as if in slow motion, Keelan getting struck and falling from his horse. She screamed at her men to sound the horns. Immediately, loud clear blasts from her men were heard all over the forest and were answered by distant horns. When she looked again at Keelan she saw that the creatures were trying to eat him. A sickening rage filled her and she jumped off her stallion. She grew taller, larger, becoming a dragon and crushing enemies beneath her feet as she cleared a path to her husband. The nasty heathens had not noticed her yet when she burnt them to a crisp. Keelan was buried in their hot, stinking ashes, barely touched by her fire. Red tears flowed out of her dragon’s eyes as she scooped him up in her arms and flew up and out of the forest, branches scraping her face and scales as she ascended. With no hesitation she flew straight to the palace as fast as she could. She alighted in the courtyard, turned human, and began screaming for help. She gave him to her servants and bade them to keep him alive at all costs until she returned. Tears fell from her human eyes as she watched Maura, Dessica and another girl carry him away, and then she took to the skies again. No one did that to her loved ones and lived.

  The scents of battle were strong and sweet, the sounds exciting and dramatic. The smell of blood was invigorating in her dragon senses. She saw as she neared that her flanking soldiers had joined the skirmish, and that it was drawing to an end. Nevertheless, when she landed she shook the earth underneath her and roared so loud she caused a temporary deafness to those around her. She wanted Rohedon, wanted his blood. Turning round and round slowly, she looked for him. After a few moments, she spotted him sitting high in a tree, watching his people get massacred with a grim look. A coward, just like his son.

  “Evil one…”

  Silvia cocked her head and listened as the trees began to talk. “The evil one burned our kind without need or remorse in the far north…” The wind rose, whipping branches back and forth menacingly. “He is rightfully ours. Let us take him…”

  Just then Rohedon’s eyes met hers, and he visibly stiffened. Glancing about, he searched for an escape. Why did he not use his magic to win this battle, or give his people a fighting chance against the Lystians? Wasn’t he supposed to be some kind of powerful sorcerer?

  Disappointment consumed Silvia as she listened to the trees. She had wanted to kill him for bringing the monsters that had almost killed her beloved Keelan. But she knew if she consented, he would still pay for all of the harm he had done to everyone everywhere. She looked into his frightened eyes a minute more, then sighed deeply as she silently bid the trees what they wished.

  It was amazing how fast they reacted. The tree in which Rohedon sat wrapped its smaller branches about him to hold him tight. The bark cut into his skin, seeming to suck it off his bones. He screamed in pain and surprise, his voice ringing in her dragon ears. The other trees whipped their branches to increase the wind in a wide circle around that tree until it was right in the middle of a giant whirlwind. Everyone on the ground stopped to stare, flabbergasted. The men and women fighting and dying on the ground could not seem to take their eyes off the scene in the boughs of the tree. Just as Silvia began to wonder how her men were keeping ground in such winds, the tree let go of Rohedon and used its branches to thrust him high above the tree line. Before he could begin to descend the winds became so strong that her men were sliding all over the forest floor, several grabbing at dead or dying bodies to keep from being blown about. The horses were running wild, dislodging their riders without remorse in their panic. Silvia stood unbothered in her great bulk. She did not even notice the people trying to hold onto her feet and tail because she was so intent on what was happening to the man above. He was suspended in the air, screaming at the top of his lungs. Suddenly all of the wind in the forest went up to start spinning him round and round so fast that he was a mere blur in the sky even to Silvia.

  But all heard his last terrified scream before the velocity of the wind literally ripped him to tiny pieces. The trees moaned and fell silent, peaceful in their vengeance. Bits and pieces of the once great Lord Rohedon dropped unnoticed like filthy rain. All of his people were dead or fleeing.

  The battle was over.

  Queen Silvia, Prince Dalton, Sir Grant, and Quentin raced back to the palace with the wind at their back as soon as their horses were recovered. They were coated in cuts and wounds and beginning to sprout purple bruises all over their bodies and not a one of them were smiling. They thought not of the incurred victory and glorification of the city, but of the dead and dying…The King was one of these.

  The horses were ready to collapse by the time they reached their destination. They dismounted as several servants ran out of the stables to lead the horses inside for water. Maura was waiting for them just inside; a Guard had informed her they were within sight of the palace just minutes before. She led the grim troupe to a big parlor where Keelan was laid out on a large lounging sofa.

  The blue green leaves of the bornebury plant covered his e
ntire body, but Silvia couldn’t take her gaze away from the ones that were on his eyes. Frero had said this kept the spirit from leaving the body, from letting the body die. She prayed to Aldoa, Goddess of Waters and Healing, that he made it through this okay.

  A short time later Zander was sitting beside him with bowls of hot water and fresh cloths, working on the wounds. A stool sat next to him, where a towel with sewing tools waited to be used. Two bowls of bloodied water had just been carried out of the room.

  Silvia felt nauseous as she approached Keelan. She was still covered in dirt and blood, her radiant red hair dull in its disarray. She knelt by her husband, grateful that he was unconscious while he was being treated. “How is he, Zander? Will he die?” She took a wet cloth from a bowl, wrung it out, and patted Keelan’s pale and sweaty face. She shuddered involuntarily.