by Paul Cude
Amongst those paying a visit today were a group who considered themselves mischief makers. A more apt description though, would have been... TERRORISTS! But not the usual sort... the magical kind. Three of them to be precise, all females, all ready to use their gifts to rain down destruction on this quiet and peaceful city. Two had queued patiently to get inside and had now split up in an effort to maximise damage to the revered minster. In dark blue jeans and a white knitted jumper, with a camera dangling from her neck, handbag slung over her shoulder, her guide book open in both hands, gradually she made her way up the nave, passing a gorgeous, modern looking font amid row after row of pews, until she reached the pulpit and seats for the choir that faced side on to the pews that were now sprinkled with people. Glancing up at the ceiling and the majestic stained glass of her surroundings, gradually she crept up the steps between the seats that would house the choir. Abruptly, her handbag slid off her shoulder, landing with something of a noise, spilling out a great deal of its contents. But not the most important object. That had been tucked away in a zipped pocket. Letting out a small gasp, she made a big deal of bending down and scrabbling around on the floor, picking up everything she'd dropped. Of course it was all subterfuge. As she hastily threw everything back in the bag, her body conveniently shielding everything she was doing, she unzipped the pocket, pulled the C4 with the duck tape already attached and swiftly placed it against the underside of one of the seats. The tiniest of red lights blinked on to say that it was armed. Her work finished, she scooped up her bag and its contents, turned around and headed back down the steps just as a tour guide arrived to see if she was okay. Expressing her thanks, she told him she was fine, and just a tad clumsy. They both chuckled before heading their separate ways, him off to rejoin the group he was showing around, whilst she sauntered towards the exit, pleased that she'd completed her part of the assignment.
Meanwhile, outside, one of her partners in crime, dressed in a light brown full length raincoat, dark brown knee length boots and carrying a black backpack, had just finished inspecting the statues above the old wooden door on the west front of the cathedral and was slowly working her way around the walls of the building in a clockwise direction. Following the main wall east, she quickly arrived at the north porch. Ignoring the locked entrance, she had a fleeting look over her shoulder to see if anyone was taking any notice of her, and on confirmation that they weren't, she followed the porch's wall along to its corner with the main building, an area showered in shade, and ducked right down into the corner at ground level. Having slid the backpack off and placed it on the floor next to her, she made as if she was tightening the laces on her expensive brown boots, all the time retrieving another tiny package of C4. Arming the explosive and checking to make sure the red light was showing, she buried it behind some wispy, long grass up against the cathedral wall with the light facing towards the brick. It was most unlikely, she knew, that anyone would spot it. They'd have to be right on top of it, and even then it wasn't a sure thing. Having done her part, she straightened up, hefted the backpack across her shoulders and walked off in the direction of the city, all the time taking in her surroundings, and those she shared them with.
The third member of the grisly trio wore white trousers, a dark black jacket and a light blue beret which did little or nothing to contain the mass of dyed blonde hair that flowed down both sides of her head, and, after ambling through the main body of the cathedral whilst doing all the touristy things, pointing at everything to point at, sighing in wonder at everything to sigh at, arrived in the cloisters. Knowing that any wall would probably do, she prided herself on doing the job right, and that meant planting her 'package' close to, or on, the south wall. Whether this would be possible depended on a gazillion different things. Strolling along the footpath, gazing in and out of the stone pillars, still in infatuated tourist mode, all the time looking out for an opportunity, she reached the south wall, having to weave in and out of a group of Asian tourists who were having a snack, to do so. On reaching the wall she peeked down the length of it. Something caught her eye, a little higher up than most would care to look. Determined to get closer, she sidled her way along the wall, stopping beneath what had caught her eye. Up above her head, about two and a half metres high, one of the huge stones used in the construction of the wall stuck out, forming a tiny little ledge. It was barely noticeable and, because of its height, it would be impossible to see if anything were secreted there. So with the decision already made, she put one hand into her jacket pocket, armed the explosive and waited for an opportunity she hoped would come. Time ticked by, almost fifteen minutes in fact. And that's when it happened. A mother carrying her baby up against her shoulder whilst at the same time steering her child's pushchair, accidentally ran into one of the Asian tourists. This in itself wasn't enough to cause the kind of distraction that she needed, but what followed, was. As the dutiful mother apologised profusely, her child chose that exact point to throw up. And not just a little... with the kind of propensity only usually found in very grown up, very drunk, very large adults, usually after a kebab, or some other late night snack. Projectile didn't do the child's vomiting justice. It was everywhere, having covered at least two of the tourists, with four more suffering from residual splatter, and those around them leaping away frantically. It was an absolute farce, attracting the attention of everybody in the cloisters and turning out to be exactly what she was looking for. Knowing that nobody could possibly be watching her, in a total blur she pulled out the C4 and with a tiny little jump and at full stretch, placed the explosive on the ledge, making sure the red light was sitting fully against the wall so as to not give its position away. With the bedlam from the baby's explosive puke still going on, she strode off around the huge square, heading for the exit at speed, knowing that her part was done. All she had to do now was rendezvous with the others back in town and they'd be able to send the text and unleash the madness that would follow. Then it would just be a case of leaving the city and heading off to their next assignment... simple really.
25 Confrontation Bound
Just under three minutes... that's how long the battle lasted. I say battle, what I really mean is THRASHING! In all honesty they never stood a chance, and it was only pure luck that all of them hadn't died. Most of Tank's mismatched force lay dead, their remains scattered over the cobbles of the square, green dragon blood and guts splattered up against the pillars that surrounded the famed building. All that remained were Tank, Janice, Hook, one of the healers and a couple of elderly dragons, both of whom were mightily injured. For his part, Tank had fought valiantly, if only briefly, taking down two of the dreadful nagas before being magically overwhelmed and physically beaten, resulting in his left arm hanging limply by his side, the mother of all black eyes and a huge gash to his right leg that exposed not only ligament, but bone as well.
Janice hadn't fared much better. She'd managed to fatally wound one of the dragons, as well as inflicting serious injury to three more, but eventually, much like Tank, magic had taken Fu-ts'ang from her, and without him, she was defenceless and at her attackers' mercy. Broken ribs and a swollen ankle stood out amongst the array of cuts and bruises that littered her grubby complexion as she painfully tried to force in a breath.
Hook had shown just how full of courage he was, taking on a whole force of ten at once, first slowing them down with the heavy water from his clumsy backpack, before eventually beating them senseless with his rifle once they'd breached his defences. For someone facing beings over twice his size, and nightmarish ones at that, he'd acted fearlessly, his bravery far surpassing anything that had gone on anywhere during that day. With his backpack in tatters, he appeared the biggest mess of all, limping badly on what looked like a broken leg, all the time sporting massive cuts to his head that were constantly leaking blood down both sides of his face. It seemed as though every rugby injury he'd ever suffered had all come back to haunt him at once. The remainder of their force were in much the same stat
e, badly hurt, at the mercy of their attackers. But for some unknown reason, they'd yet to be finished off, making them all wonder what lay in store. Nothing good, that was for sure.
Corralled and bunched together, surrounded by thirty times their number, slowly they were marched up the steps of the council building, past the dimly lit pools of lava on either side, the hissing and spluttering of the molten liquid reminding Tank of the last time he'd visited the king. As they filed through the huge, arched doorway and into what remained of the lobby, darkness fell across the group, because the lights as well as everything else were out, after the pitched running battle with what remained of the King's Guard. Nothing had been repaired yet, as that had been deemed secondary to capturing the king. All of Manson's resources were currently being thrown at that. It wouldn't be long now.
26 Staring Into The Abyss
Reminiscent of a New Year's Eve fireworks display, the magical shield erupted furiously in a riot of colour as wave after wave of magical attacks detonated unsuccessfully against it. Fifty metres back, Amelia Battlehard stood stoically next to the king, looking on, both dragons keeping their thoughts very much to themselves. Battle tactics for the unavoidable upcoming skirmish and how best to rally her troops raced feverishly throughout her mind, as she mused about just how they were supposed to overcome the insurmountable odds stacked up against them. Momentarily she wondered if any of the other garrisons across the world were headed her way, any and all able to mount some sort of rescue attempt. Almost instantly though, she pushed the thought from her mind. No doubt the dark dragon Manson had all of that covered, given the planning that had gone into everything else. Silently she hoped her colleagues and friends across the planet were fighting gallantly to preserve their way of life and just survive. Deep within her mind, she wished them luck.
A gazillion different things swam through the king's consciousness, one after the other, often skittering away before he had a chance to consider each properly. For the most part this was a good thing, as the vast majority of them were much darker thoughts than even he should be thinking. But time and again one such thought kept on coming back to him, centred around living to rally and regroup the dragon world, and surviving to fight again another day. For him it was a distinct possibility, due to the secret entrance only known to him (of course he'd told Flash about it when he was staying here, but they were the only two that knew of its existence) only a hundred or so yards away from where he now stood. He could flee to safety. No dragon here would begrudge him that. At first he'd toyed with the idea, but not for very long, and not particularly seriously. It wasn't for him. Not on this day. And who's to say just what he would find back in the reality of London? For all he knew, there could be almost nothing left, no one to call on, no one to rally around him. NO! He wouldn't run. The very thought of leaving those who had sworn to protect him to whatever fate was rushing their way, was abhorrent. Some time ago he'd decided to stay and fight by their side, die in their defence if necessary, although he had a feeling that, for him, it wouldn't be quite that straight forward. No doubt Troydenn had other plans, plans that featured torture and endless suffering for him. But if he could buy some time, just maybe a rescue or a retaking of the planet was feasible. There must be some pockets of resistance out there somewhere. What about Flash? Where was he? One of the few individuals on the planet that he trusted, he must by now know what was going on. Was he at this very moment mounting a rescue? And if so, just how far away was he? Momentarily, it all threatened to overwhelm him. He knew deep down that he couldn't count on Flash turning up. Perhaps the ex-Crimson Guard had already been taken out of commission, although he did find that hard to believe. Letting out a deep sigh that startled Amelia Battlehard out of her thoughts, he paced forward just a few steps, gazing intently at the events occurring on the other side of the transparent magical shield. As he did so, the current bombardment subsided. All those behind the shield suddenly became alert, on guard for something as yet unseen. Amelia and the king shared a look... one that almost said it all.
'Is this to be it, the beginning of the end?'
As magical beasts of all shapes and sizes retreated back out of view, far beyond the end of the broken bridge that they'd been forced to destroy, three figures abruptly appeared on the edge of what was left of the structure, only a step or two from the infinitesimal drop.
Squinting, the king tilted his head slightly to get a better view through the protective hemisphere, and when he did... GASPED loudly.
"MY GOD!" he muttered.
"Sire?" enquired Captain Battlehard from just behind him.
Shaking his head, the king closed his eyes and fought back the urge to cry, so great was the pain at just what he was witnessing.
Remaining quiet and still, there for him if he needed her, Captain Battlehard realised at this time, he required just that little bit of space. It's a shame things hadn't played out differently, as she would have made a wonderful diplomat.
In his mind, the king raged.
'It can't be! It just can't be! She can't just turn up here and now. Not like this! Not with them like that! Please no!' he pleaded with no one in particular. A tiny part of him hoped this was a dream, a nightmare even, but he couldn't be that lucky. Of course he'd recognised the being shoving Peter and Tim before her as someone responsible for numerous crimes from far off in the past, the estranged daughter of his missing/captured best friend, Fredric, one that went by the name of... EARTH!
'Of all the vicious, malevolent, self centred beings, why the hell...?' suddenly his thoughts were interrupted as a self serving, smug and deeply hypnotic voice floated across the gap that the destroyed bridge had once spanned.
"Enough is enough, old timer," announced Earth, the devious, sickly smile on her magically scarred face visible even from where the king was standing. "There is only one outcome here. And you know it better than most. I've about had it with your time wasting. So now you get to choose. Lower the shield and order your fancy ring to rebuild the bridge. You have five minutes to comply. Should you fail to do so then your favourite little pet here and your saviour, the White Dragon, will be doing a spot of flying, only they might find it a tad hard to revert back to their natural forms on their way down into the abyss with these magic restricting binders on. And oh... wouldn't that be a shame now. Tick tock. Time's a-wasting."
Stomach turning, heart racing, as anger, desperation and fear battled each other within him, the king's head spun as he knew not what to do. Not unaccustomed to nightmares, this was something that genuinely scared the living hell out of him, and that was without knowing the full weight of history was well and truly balanced precariously on his shoulders, right here and now. Putting aside his feelings for Peter, his best friend's grandson, there was the very real and grave matter of the White Dragon. If the prophecy was to be believed, then that same White Dragon was the answer to all of it, the dragons' and the humans' saviour all at once. How on earth could he let him die like this, here and now? Deep down, he knew that he couldn't, he just couldn't. And then there was the small matter of lowering the shield and rebuilding the bridge, which was easily achieved with the power from the ring, but what would happen afterwards? Would that evil witch of a dragon still kill Peter and the White Dragon anyway? There was no guarantee that she wouldn't do just that after rounding up every dragon here. So what was he supposed to do? What was the right answer to every one of his worst nightmares?
Abruptly, the most delicate cough in the world startled him out of his worst fears. Amelia Battlehard had sidled up to him, an expectant look etched across her face. Turning slowly to look at her, he was lost at sea, adrift without any sort of answer. It was the captain that spoke first.
"Whatever you choose Sire... is fine with us. We trust in you, and always will do. If you believe the key to everything is the White Dragon, then we're with you all the way."
Barely able to believe his heart could break any more, currently it was as close to buckling as was dragonly
possible.
"I appreciate your candidness Amelia... I really do. But I struggle to see any other way out. And I fear for all of your lives. That being over there... going by the name of EARTH, isn't somebody to be trusted, quite the opposite in fact. I fear once she has us all outgunned and outnumbered, that she will kill each and every one of you, including Peter and the White Dragon, saving a very long and slow death for me, no doubt at the hands of the charming Troydenn."
"Majesty... we trust in you and have faith that you will make the right decision. If surrendering now means buying you a little more time in the hope that right now the dragon domain is fighting back and rallying to your aid, then perhaps it is the right thing to do. Time might well be the key. As you've already told us all... never give up. Keep on fighting with your last breath. As long as you live... there's always a chance."
Of course, she was right. And there really did seem no other way out. It looked as though the choice had already been made for them.
Gazing into the depths of the abyss, his captor's nails drawing blood from the back of his neck, the heavy metal manacles behind his back restricting his magic, causing wave after wave of pain to creep up from his wrists and into his shoulders, Peter caught a quick glance of Tim next to him, in very much the same position. Looking out in front of him without lifting his head for fear of agonising retribution, he could just make out his friend, the king, chatting to a stunning looking dragon standing next to him. Right at this very moment, all he wished for was to be the other side of that barrier, and reunited with the dragon that meant so much to him. But a burning rage stoked the fire within him. He knew what they wanted... Manson and Earth... They wanted the king! Wanted to torture and kill him, no doubt. And the very last thing he wanted was for that to happen. If his and Tim's deaths saved the king, he would gladly sacrifice himself here and now. Currently, though, that was not an option, not with the firm grip that evil woman had on his neck and his inability to fight back because of the power sapping binders. And as the time ticked down, he hoped with all his might that the stunning dragon standing next to the king was actually talking him into fighting and staying behind the shield, rather than surrendering any advantage he might have.