by L. R. Patton
And then he sees them coming, and he understands. For he, too, had seen the armored man who crossed the boundary line before mounting his horse, the man who had misjudged the distance necessary to swing his leg, the man who had landed heavily back on the ground, one toe across the boundary line. He, too, had held his breath and waited.
Waited for exactly this.
ARTHUR and Maude and the children are paralyzed, it seems. Not because the only one of them who has seen a living dragon is Arthur, but because they never expected to see so many. Dragons stretch out as far as the eye can see. In fact, there are no more mountains on this land. There are only dragons, and more dragons, and more dragons still.
There are so many dragons. They stand before Arthur and Maude and the children in all their majesty, in all their shimmering elegance, in all their breathtaking menace.
No one will make it out of this alive. They are sure of this.
The dragons line up like the king’s men. Men lining one side, dragons lining the other. Maude, Arthur and the children are caught in the very middle of the dangers. They freeze. They cannot lift their feet. They can go nowhere, because they cannot, in truth, feel their legs, which have grown cold and useless in these last moments. Maude has lost all feeling in her face. Hazel does not feel her father’s hand move to hers.
The eyes of the dragons glow. They are yellow and red and green and blue and orange and white. They are every color and shade you can imagine, and while one might think it would be a beautiful thing to stare upon so many colors, when those colors are held in the eyes of dragons, it is anything but beautiful.
It does not take an expert on dragons to know that these dragons who stand before Arthur and Maude and all the children, are angry. They are angrier, perhaps, than any other dragons have ever been, for a dragon takes his word seriously. Years ago these dragons gave their word, and now it is the humans who have betrayed it. No man was supposed to cross into the lands of Morad, just as no dragons were to cross into the land of Fairendale, and now here they are, men and women and children touching the sacred sands of Morad.
One of the dragons, larger than the rest, moves forward. The ground rumbles, but it is nothing to the rumbling in his throat, where his scales turn ivory. Most of him is green, though not all of him. He lowers his head, and the children can see the sharp ivory horns at the top of his head.
“Zorag,” Arthur says, but no one is listening.
The dragon glares upon the intruders with golden eyes. His wings are held close to his body, though Arthur knows that those wings could wipe out the king’s men in one flap.
The children take a step back, afraid of the eyes that look as if lightning lives in them.
“You dare come into our lands,” the dragon says.
Arthur holds up his hands. “Please,” he says. “We are in need of escape. This was the only way.”
The dragon’s head moves up and back, as if he is tasting the clouds that gather in the sky. He lets out a frightful roar that makes the horses in the distance whinny and buck. The horses, you see, would like nothing more than to flee from this dragon danger, but they are well trained and will not go unless their riders permit them. And the riders, truth be told, are frozen in fear, just like the children.
“We made an agreement, long ago,” says the dragon, who is the leader in this land, though the humans do not know it. The only clue is his size, for he is much larger than the rest. But the children are too terrified to notice. The dragons all appear large. In fact, the word the children might use to describe these dragons before them is monstrous.
“Yes,” Arthur says. “Yes, we know. You are...” Arthur does not finish, though the dragon seems to know what it is Arthur is asking.
“I am called Zorag,” the great dragon says. His wings unfold now, and the children gasp. He is even larger than they thought.
Arthur bows low to the ground. The children, not knowing what else to do, bow too. When Arthur rises, he keeps his head low. “And I am called Arthur of Fairendale,” he says.
“Why are you here?” Zorag says. “Why have you crossed into my lands?”
“We had hoped for safe passage,” Arthur says.
Zorag roars, and the fire escaping between his jagged teeth makes the air above them burn. “No man is allowed to cross the dragon lands.”
Maude’s hand squeezes Arthur’s arm. Hazel squeezes his other hand. Arthur looks at the children. He did not want them to die like this. He had not supposed it would end so gruesomely. But he supposed he should have known, for the dragons had not been on friendly terms with the people for quite some time. He knew there was great risk. But they might very well have made it if the king’s men had not found them.
Perhaps there is still hope. Arthur dares look at Zorag. The dragon is not looking at him or the children but stares, instead, toward the king’s men.
“No man is allowed to cross the dragon lands!” Zorag roars again, and this time the whole ground shakes with the force of his growl.
Arthur hears the clatter of armor. The king’s men must be shaking. He does not blame them for being afraid. He is afraid, too, though he must not let his daughter and her friends see. So he waits. He says nothing. They may be able to slip away still, for it seems as though Zorag is more interested in the king’s men than he is in the children. Perhaps he will be able to strike a bargain. Perhaps they will make it after all.
Arthur removes his hand from Maude’s. She looks at him. He brings one finger to his lips. The children watch, too, and no one says a single word. Arthur takes one step forward, slowly, carefully. And then another. Zorag still watches the king’s men, but there are so many other dragons. The entire land stands still, except Arthur and Maude and the children, who move tiny steps forward, so small one would not even notice.
Arthur knows how little hope there is in this situation, but at least he will not die without trying.
Someone calls out from the line of king’s men, “We have no quarrel with you. We only want the children.”
And Zorag turns his fiery breath on Arthur and Maude and all the children, who cease to move once more. “You have brought these men to my land?” he roars.
Arthur holds up his hands higher, as if in complete surrender. “No,” he says. “Please. We are only trying to protect the children. These men—” Arthur points behind him. “We must not let them take the children. We must not let the children die. We must pass through the land. Please.” He is surprised to find that he is weeping.
The dragons all around begin a frightful clamor, roaring and flashing their fire and stomping the ground so the children can hardly keep their feet steady beneath them. It is as if a chorus of giant beings has joined together in an angry laugh, if you can imagine something as frightful as this. It is made more frightful still by the glowing eyes that now become slits.
The dragons, you see, are both angry and amused that humans would dare believe dragons would permit them to travel their lands, to break the sacred covenant made so many years ago, without repercussions. This is why they laugh. This is why their eyes narrow. This is why the fire becomes a heated blast, though they do not aim at the people as yet.
These dragons, led by their great and fearless chief Zorag, do not intend to let anyone go. And so it is with horror and regret that Arthur turns his face to all the wide-eyed children he has loved so deeply. They will die anyway. He has failed them. A single tear drops down Maude’s face. The ground shakes beneath their feet, for the dragons are drawing closer, flanking their leader.
“It was decreed long ago,” Zorag says, his neck high. His eyes flash. The children would like nothing more than to look away, but they are mesmerized by the color, the flecks of orange in yellow, as if even his eyes hold the heat that rumbles in his chest. “It was by no choice of my own, you understand.” Every step is measured. This, you might imagine, makes it far more worrisome for the children, for steps measured like these most always mean danger. “We agreed that no man wou
ld cross into our lands, that we, the dragons, would not cross into the lands of men.” Zorag is so close to them now they can feel the heat of his skin. “We would leave the humans to their peace, or what semblance they might conjure with their new king. And now.” He drops his head so it is level with Arthur’s face. His head, dear reader, is larger than Arthur’s entire body, but Arthur, brave man he is, does not shrink from the dragon. Zorag stares in Arthur’s eyes. Arthur stares back. “You dare defy me,” the dragon says.
“We merely sought safety,” Arthur says. “Protection. We did not wish to offend. There was no other way.”
“There was no other way,” Zorag says, “but through the dragon lands?”
“No,” Arthur says. “It was the only way to protect the children. We would not have crossed if there were any other way.”
Zorag roars again, this time lifting his face to the sky, and then he turns his attention upon the king’s men, who remain on the perimeter of the land, no one daring to cross.
“You shall not have these people,” Zorag says. The king’s men do not move. “They are mine.” He looks back at Arthur and Maude and the children, his eyes chilling them, though they are full of fire. “You are mine.”
The children, as if they are one and the same, begin to wail.
Consolation
THE king, of course, died.
King Willis married Clarion, and Cora was left to be another village girl. She felt no sadness at this, only fury. The years proved that there was not a single hope left for the villagers. There was not change coming in Fairendale. Queen Clarion was not the kind of queen Cora might have been. And this fueled the fury even more.
But there came a boy.
He was kind and tall and striking in his appearance. He was made for something more than a captain’s son, and yet that is precisely what he was. He had no magic, but he loved her.
She feigned disinterest at first, for the children of the village had only ever pushed her away, aware of her differences, though not aware at all, not entirely. So when the boy showed her interest, she did not believe it, sure it was a trick. She made the loving as difficult for him as she could, teasing him, ignoring his gifts, calling attention to the difference in their age, though it was not so very much—only one year and four months, to be precise.
She had seen so much. She had kept her secret for nearly twelve years, and she could not risk anyone knowing now, after she had the king’s death on her hands. If someone found out about the skin she wore at night, they would cast her out, for people in all the kingdoms were distrustful of shape shifters. And she was a blackbird, the very bird that had killed their king.
It was all of this that kept her from the boy.
Yet he continued his pursuit. He saw her for who she was. He loved her. She could tell.
So, little by little, she let him win her heart.
And then, one day, the king’s army came to town with the news of his father’s death, and suddenly this boy became a man and agreed to lead an army. He tried to make her understand, but she could not understand, you see. He would serve a king she was supposed to marry, a king who was no better than his father, and the hate was so large and black in her that she could do nothing but turn it on the very one she loved.
Her heart hardened.
Until one day her father came to her and said, “It is about time we found a man for you to marry.”
She did not argue. She knew that this was the way of things, that when a woman reached a certain age, she would not be seen fit to marry. She could tell her father had more he wanted to say.
“The sailor who lives at the edge of the village,” he said. “He is a good man. Handsome. Strong. Kind.”
And so he was.
But there was someone else she loved, though the love was hard to distinguish from the hate. She wanted to marry the boy who wore armor, who made his nightly rounds in the village and lingered at her window.
But she could not forgive him for serving the king.
So she married the sailor. They had a beautiful daughter with a gift of magic that nearly paralleled her own but for the missing dark parts.
She was called Mercy.
Fire
THE king’s men look at their captain. Sir Greyson stares at the scene before him. Children. Dragons. Danger, all around. They will not survive a battle with the dragons. But they have been ordered, by the word of the king, to bring him the children or not return at all. And the children are there, stretched out in a line as if ready for capture, though it will not be an easy capture. They will have to ride hard, and he will lose many, perhaps even all. This he knows.
But he will also lose all if he returns to the king with this story. So he knows they must at least try.
“Prepare for battle,” Sir Greyson says. His men straighten their backs, but not before a collective breath is sucked through every one of them. They did not realize they had signed up to battle dragons, you see. Many of them shake. Many of them would like nothing more than to turn on their heels and run. But they are brave men. They are loyal men. They will do what needs doing.
It is a fool’s errand, at best, but Sir Greyson whispers the words again. “Prepare for battle. We must ride hard.” The two men beside him whisper it to the men on their sides. And on and on down the line it goes. The men put their hands on their swords. They do not know how to fight dragons, do not even know whether swords will help them at all, but they will try. Oh, yes. They will try.
Death steps from the shadows, his black hood flapping in the wind. No one can see him, but he is, dear reader, quite a horrifying sight. He knows, you see, that this reaping will be quite easy.
ARTHUR turns to look behind him, just as the king’s men straighten their backs, just as their hands move to the hilts of their swords, and he knows precisely what their movements mean. So he, dear brave man, turns to them. He holds up a hand. He yells to the line of men. “Stop. Please.”
They remain still. Not even their horses flinch.
“Take me,” he says, turning back to Zorag. “Take me instead of the children. Please. Let them go. And the king’s men will get what they want, and everyone will be on their way.”
“Arthur,” Maude says, for she does not know the plans in Arthur’s heart. She merely hears that he intends to hand them all over to the king’s men, that he will not be with them to plan for what comes next. Her throat catches. She coughs, but it is more a cry than anything else. Whatever will she do without Arthur? She has never done anything of merit without Arthur. How will she survive? How will the children survive, in the hands of the king? She is not the one skilled in escape. That has always been Arthur.
Oh, Arthur. He cannot leave her.
Maude grabs his hand. He looks at her with all the love he has in his heart. They have shared many lives and many years. And she knows, by that one look of love, that he is asking the dragons in all earnestness to take him. To spare the children, so they might be captured by the king’s men, the lesser of the two evils. She knows, too, that this is the only way. It is the only way they will survive.
And so she breathes, deep and long. She closes her eyes, and another single tear drops down her cheek. Arthur would give anything to wipe it away, but he must not. He must not make any movement at all, for he does not want to break the spell he may be weaving with words around the dragons.
The king’s captain speaks. “No,” he says. His voice carries all the way across the great distance between them. “We must have you as well, sir. King’s orders.”
The dragons fill the air with their rumbles again. Zorag speaks above the noise. “The king’s orders have no rule here in our lands.”
The dragons glare at the king’s men, and the king’s men shake ever more, their armor clanking. And then one of them breaks. He is a man who has been far too long without his grieving wife, who has wondered for far too long where his little boy may be, who does not know what else to do with his desperation but move. And so he does. H
e charges forward, so entirely forlorn that he does not consider what his moving may unleash. And, oh, dear reader, what it will unleash.
This man gives a cry such as no one in the land has ever heard, a decidedly human cry but other-worldly as well, as if all the sorrow of all the world was confined in that one call from a soldier’s mouth. It is grief that nudges the horse and races him toward the greatest danger there is in a world like Fairendale, if one were not considering the Violet Sea or the unnamed creatures of the Weeping Woods. This man does not even care that he rushes forward to his death, dear reader. Grief makes a man do strange things. Grief can turn a man reckless.
His movement throws the king’s men into a frenzy. They have no idea what to do. They merely follow after him, though he is not their leader, though their leader, in fact, remains at the border, watching his men race to their deaths. He is helpless to stop them. And so it is that he, their leader, follows his men into death, a hundred paces behind.
Enough paces behind.
THE world explodes in a ball of heat that burns red and orange and the deepest of blues. It burns in an unstoppable way, and it burns long and hard and hot. It consumes everything. It sets one small line of trees on fire, and so sets the entire forest ablaze. It scorches all the men and their horses, so the land is filled with horrendous screaming and the painful crying of men burning within their armor. Though, if one were to listen closely, one would hear only the cries of men and horses. No cries of a woman and children.
Where are they? How is it that they have escaped from a fire such as this one?
Maude has, in truth, underestimated herself. In the moment before the dragons loosed their fire, she urged the children to run. And so they did, Maude bringing up the rear. They ran toward a stretch of land that did not contain burning soldiers, for they knew that the dragons would be preoccupied with clearing the king’s men from their lands and would not, perhaps, notice their direction. They found another cave, a smaller one, on the perimeter of the land, nearer to the forest than to Morad, and there she and the children watch the madness, watch the burning bodies and the burning woods and the burning everything. They are safe. At least they are safe.