Blood of the Dragon

by Jay D Pearson

  With its dragon talon handle and platinum tip, the wand might be small, but was at least potent enough to compliment his sword in an ambush. Magic raced from the handle to the tip as soon as he grabbed it, the end glowing by the time the lead assassins burst into the grove. Their butterfly wings could not halt their descent like his dragonfly wings, and they darted past. He snapped his wrist twice, magic bolts bursting from his wand and shredding their wings. Both faeries screamed, spiraling and flailing as they bounced off trunks before crashing into the ground where they lay still.

  He did not watch the two fall. Instead he spun with his sword. Its length was awkward to wield one handed, and he grimaced as the blade struck the ribs of a third assassin. Grunting, he whipped it backhanded in a wild swing and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch of a wing frame snapping. At the same moment, sharp pain lanced his thigh and he nearly stumbled off the branch.

  He regained his balance in time to spy the remaining three assassins settle on branches around him, all drawing throwing knives, their eyes focused on his face. He raised both sword and wand, but they knew he could not dodge all three at once.

  Instead, he allowed himself to topple backwards, snapping his wand in three quick motions as he plummeted. The assassins had enough time to open their mouths in surprise before bolts struck each and they plunged, their eyes glazing over by the time they crashed into the ground.

  Tigano careened into several branches but managed to snap his wings open just in time to halt his free fall. His feet struck the ground with a jolt and he staggered. An eighth shadow sprang upwards, dodging through the branches and trunks as it soared upwards. He snarled, too weak to pursue as he spotted a tall, lean form fluttering madly to escape the grove.

  “Månefè!” he shouted hoarsely, certain it could be none other. The other faery’s wings never slowed, and the figure was quickly out of sight.

  “Coward!” he called but knew there’d be no response.

  It wasn’t the first time his enemy had failed to kill him, and he was certain it wouldn’t be the last, but it was his narrowest escape in decades.

  He leaned against the closest fir tree for several minutes. His coat was ripped and stained even darker, his blood mingling with Bailong’s. Gingerly, he tested his wounds. None felt severe but moving would be painful. It would be a much longer flight to his own glen than he had planned. Closing his eyes, he allowed his changeling magic to hide him while he meditated, hoping some measure of his wizardry might heal him a bit.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Three days later, Tigano approached Bruagh-na-Boyne, his shoulders aching from perilous flurries flitting from copse to tree to rocky outcrop, suddenly arcing left or right, darting down or shooting up at the slightest hint of danger, then allowing his changeling magic to blur the air so untrained eyes could not see him. At the same time, he poured as much magic as he dared into his re-opened wounds, forcing the skin to knit together, but he could not spare enough strength to heal them properly. He could not even stop the blood from trickling out.

  Focusing became difficult, forcing him to rest for longer and longer periods. Avoiding angry dragons or Daoine Sidhe patrols was precarious enough without worrying about his own mortality. The very thought of dying frightened him more than ever.

  He was supposed to report directly to Finaarva on his return, which should have been a day or two earlier. He badly wanted to gloat before the king and his court, to flaunt his superior stratagems that had destroyed so many of the dragons. He yearned to humiliate Lord Månefè and his failed assassination, but not only did he need healing, the vials of dragon blood were too valuable to risk discovery by other faeries. Finaarva would demand half as his rightful due and who knew what Månefè would do?

  His tree was at the southern end of the glen, as far as possible from Finaarva’s monstrosity of a grove. Bruagh-na-Boyne, Finaarva’s glen, consumed an entire island in the Cathaoir River rather than occupying just what the faeries needed, as those under Oberon’s rule had always done.

  In truth, Finaarva’s feral magic had forced the river to split around the land and push the terrain up as if troops of monstrous ogres had been whipped and cajoled into doing the work. Even though it had been a few hundred years since the Rebellion, the memory of the earth heaving and crying out in its torture still made him wince. Rocks had screeched into the shapes Finaarva wanted, dirt had exploded when it resisted his will, trees had groaned as their roots were stretched and twisted into unnatural positions.

  All those who’d joined Finaarva in the rebellion against Oberon had been forced to watch for five days and nights as their king wantonly forced his magic on a land that resisted until finally, broken and beaten down like goblin slaves, the glen had risen and the Cathaoir River tumbled along its new course.

  A pale pinkish glow encased the island in a dome, shimmering faintly in the moonlight. It was one of Finaarva’s greatest spells, and one that Tigano grudgingly respected each time he flew through it; not for the size, which was greater than even Oberon could achieve, but for its strength. An army of ogres could not break through the magical shell without Finaarva’s permission. Only a concentrated dragon attack could destroy it, if that.

  He changed direction abruptly the moment he sensed he was above his tree. Collapsing his wings against his body, he plummeted until, at the last possible moment, he suddenly snapped his wings wide, fluttering furiously. Even so, he still thudded hard against the gray, rock-strewn beach and staggered painfully, cursing softly as his wounds reopened once more.

  Crouching as still as a boulder, he allowed his changeling magic to fade him into the rocks while he glanced about furtively and caught his breath. There was no sign of life within a hundred yards of his tree, and even that was a dead snag. Not that he’d expected anyone. No one came to this end of the island by choice, which was as he would have it.

  His tree, a lonely tower on the rocky beach, was not tall but broad. All other trees were uprooted debris lying half in the river, half on the bank like the bleached bones of giants. His own tree must have once been massive: its trunk was at least a dozen feet wide. It might have been a cedar or a hemlock at one time; now it was just dead, its bark stripped, the trunk glinting white as fish scales in the moonlight. The ragged top had been blasted off by a lightning strike. Branches stuck out, the bare arms of tortured souls, lacking any needles. Gray fungus crept over the trunk, a disease swallowing several of the boughs.

  How the snag stood—when all its mates had toppled—would be a mystery to any visitor. In fact, the entire rock beach, including fallen logs and dead moss, appeared exactly as it had centuries earlier when he had first claimed this beach for his own.

  The dead tree suited his purposes well. All around the trunk for many yards, the ground was rocky and bare save for small patches of moss. At its base was a wide fissure, large enough for a faery to enter if he ducked. The aperture itself was free of any sign of rodents or insects, as if even the smallest crawlies knew better than to invade. The whole area stank of death: not the pungent odor of decay or blood, but a dry, dusty smell of old bones, cobwebs, and a sense of hope forgotten. It was this opening he entered, for it was home and suited him well.

  “Osclaim,” he said with a small hand pass. The whorl on his silver ring glowed hotly like red coals for a moment, and he winced. The ground inside the trunk split open with a weary reluctance, revealing a long, spiraling stone stairway descending deep into the earth. A lone torch about halfway down on the third turn of the stairs lit the passage, its greasy, oily smoke staining the walls. As the opening snapped shut behind him, he trudged downward, wincing often.

  At the stairwell’s base, a second smoky torch lit a foot-thick oak door bound with wide iron strips. Above the door was a metal plate with a black whorl deeply engraved, a symbol similar to that on his ring, which he raised. The engraving glowed, at first a dark red like congealed blood but, within seconds, a brilliant crimson like blood freshly spilt. Stepping forward, he lower
ed his hand, and the thick door opened of its own accord.

  Inside, a long hallway with walls of block stone curved away to the left and right. The air was murky: a dry, slowly swirling mist prowling with the malevolence of an assassin closing in on its prey. He strode down the left passage, determined not to allow his servants to see weakness. The vapors parted around him in hesitant swirls, drifting off in other directions as if seeking a new scent to follow.

  Pale lights in black metal cages hung occasionally from the ceiling, feebly illuminating the hallway so that long shadows crept across the stone slabs like vast spiders. A hunched form detached from the shadows, shuffling towards him. He awaited it beneath a caged light, one hand deep in a pocket, fingering the rack of vials.

  “Lord Tigano,” it croaked, its bald head cocked slightly and its bulging orange eyes not daring to look above the faery’s waist. “You’ve returned. All is ready as you asked.”

  It was a goblin. Worn, non-descript beige robes covered most of its grey-skinned, gangly-limbed body. Scars shone ghost-like on its face and arms. Fear of punishment was clear on its narrow, ugly face. All his goblin servants had a similar look in their eyes and scars on their bodies from when they had failed to obey quickly enough.

  He removed his coat but did not deliver it to the waiting hands of his servant.

  “My lord!” it screeched. “Your favorite shirt! Torn and bloodied! Are you hurt?”

  He tried to wave the goblin away but winced. He had to lock his knees to avoid teetering. Taking a deep breath, he tried to draw on his magic again, but whatever reservoir he had was desolate.

  “Does milord need healing?”

  Tigano stared at the goblin, unable to discern his servant’s intentions. He did not like the taint of goblin magic. He might as well eat moldy cheese or a wrinkled apple, but he had no other option. The king had expected him to report yesterday. He had priorities, however, and extended his coat to the goblin, who staggered as if the weight was unexpected. His servant’s nose wrinkled, and it sniffed.

  “So much blood, milord! It is…it’s not all yours, is it? The scent is so strong. And rips, milord! Who dared attack you?”

  He ignored the questions.

  “I need this cleaned and repaired before I return to the king’s glen in the morning.”

  “Of course, milord. And a fresh shirt.”

  “One last thing, Hagr.” He unbuckled the bag at his waist.

  “Within is a rack of vials needing storage. Label them as dragon blood and place them in secure storage.” Extraordinarily long fingers with chipped, dirty nails fingered the bag and its orange eyes swelled, a greedy light glimmering.

  “So many, milord?” There was a lurid excitement in its raspy voice and it stroked the coat lovingly.

  “Your thoughts betray you, little worm. I know the number of my vials. Each is worth a thousand of goblin blood. Consider the price carefully.” He could see the creature calculating the cost. Hagr Twyllo knew it was too valuable a servant to be one of the thousand. It was, in fact, this cold selfishness that made this goblin so valuable to him. Its willingness to sacrifice its own kind to achieve its own wicked ends separated it above all others. Not even another changeling could he so use.

  By the gleam in the goblin’s eyes, it was not a question of if Hagr would take a vial, but how many thousands of goblins would be required to pay the price. He was certain he’d be ordering the ogres to destroy a village or two very shortly. It’s no great loss, he thought. Goblins breed faster than rabbits.

  “It shall be as you say, Lord Tigano,” Hagr cackled, then scuttled away, his lord’s coat draped reverently over an arm, long fingers petting the black fabric.

  “Hagr!” The goblin scuffled to a stop, turning reluctantly.

  “Milord?”

  “Come to my throne room shortly. I have decided that I do require your healing.”

  His servant bowed as low as possible with its load, then scurried away. The faery strode down the hallway until he arrived at an intricately carved iron lattice gate. At his approach, violet prisms hanging in metal cages beyond the gate glowed just enough to reveal a shadowy passage. The mist shrugged back as if frightened by the illumination, then fled when he touched the center of the gate. A bronze glow spread from the point of contact, running swiftly ran along the metal until the entire gate shone eerily, then silently swung open, welcoming Tigano.

  He marched through the curving passage until he reached a broad chamber with stone masonry walls and a flagstone floor. More violet prisms glowed dimly. At a word from the changeling lord, the lights blossomed with an erratic, strobe-like pulse that caused the shadows to dart and flit. Shelves along the walls appeared, each filled with sealed jars of magical detritus. A pair of tables at the rear held empty, cold beakers and burners awaiting his attention. For now, they could wait until he was ready to experiment with the dragon blood.

  His attention focused on the room’s center where, between two stone pedestals, a dais rose, crowned with a wooden chair that dwarfed the faery. His throne had once belonged to the king of the ogres, a gift when he had spared the king’s life. He clambered onto the seat, filling it like a small child with his legs sticking straight out. A faint nimbus surrounded him as the vitality of the ogre princeling seeped into his body, slowly replenishing his own magic.

  As he awaited Hagr’s arrival, he gingerly fingered the rips in his bloody shirt. An inch deeper on either side and he might never have made it home. If he dared, he would ignore Finaarva’s command to report, but without immortality, he remained dependent on the king’s support. Of course, it was a symbiotic relationship: Finaarva required the strength of the changelings to control the Sluagh Sidhe and keep the nobles who might challenge his rule—especially Lord Månefè—at bay. The other nobles hated the changelings with their unique magical abilities and dragonfly wings. When he gained immortality, the changelings could leave and form their own Sidhe, far away from the Sluagh or the Daoine, a place where they would be no one’s tools, where they would not be the despised. If only they were not so few. Immortality would change all of that forever.

  The dragon blood could change one thing immediately, however. With it, he could destroy Månefè once and for all. Hopefully, it would take little to unlock the magic he needed to unleash terror on his foe. Hagr’s own experiments, if he motivated the goblin properly, could be the weapon he needed. Maybe it was time to draw his servant into his plans.

  Hagr’s shuffling steps echoed in the corridor beyond and he sighed. For now, the changelings of Bruagh-na-Boyne were no more to Finaarva and his nobles than goblins were to him. As his servant approached, however, he sat up straight. If Månefè’s demise were handled properly, the nobles would have no choice but to respect the changelings.

  Chapter 6

  The Faery

  Hagr’s delight at healing his master lacked any joy that Tigano could see. His servant’s glee resembled a torturer’s bliss rather than a doctor’s contentment. The goblin’s bulbous orange eyes glimmered each time the faery winced or groaned as the dirty magic coursed through his flesh, knitting the wounds and restoring strength. Allowing a goblin’s inferior magic into his body was like cleaning a wound with the unwashed hands of a ratcatcher, and he was forced to use what little remained of his own magic to stalk behind, sucking out the taint like venom from a snakebite. Finally, he was able to shoo his servant away, ordering it to mend his coat and find him a new shirt while he sat back in his oversized throne. As the throne’s magic bolstered his strength, he plotted how he could bring down Månefè once and for all.

  With the inevitable escalation of the war, his enemy would interfere, taking every advantage to obfuscate not only him, but Finaarva in order to supplant the king and gain control of the changelings. Tigano would have no time to experiment with dragon blood, let alone implement his plans for the changelings or his search for immortality.

  By the time Hagr finally returned with the coat and a fresh shirt draped ov
er his arm, he had regained enough strength that he could fly to the king’s glen near the center of the island. He could afford no further delay, but he could not leave Hagr alone with the dragon blood the goblin had no doubt kept for itself without guidance.

  Tossing his bloody, torn shirt aside, he stretched luxuriously, cat-like, allowing Hagr to think he was fully recovered before putting the new shirt on. He hid every aching movement, but there was no longer any danger of the wounds reopening.

  “Hagr,” he announced. “Lord Månefè has become a nuisance who needs to be dealt with. When I return, I would like to explore options.”

  The goblin cackled. “Will you be planning something…permanent?”

  “That is indeed the opportunity I expect to look at.” He glanced about his orderly chamber, every beaker and vial in its place and the shelves and tables wiped clean. “However,” he continued, his eyes narrowing, “I also expect no messes in my chamber when I come back.”

  Hagr bowed deeply. “As you command, milord.”

  He took the coat from his servant’s arm and slipped into its comfortable weight. Indirect orders always produced superior results with the little monster and he was certain the goblin would have concocted a dozen twisted options that no faery could ever conceive by the time he returned. Without looking back, he marched out, exiting his home to a moonlit rocky beach as his dragonfly wings snapped out of the slits in the back of his long coat.

  The flight to the king’s glen was short, as the island of Bruagh-na-Boyne was only a few miles long. He flittered just below the magic dome, skimming the tops of the enormous trees. The garish lights of the glen’s heart where most of the Sluagh Sidhe faeries dwelt flickered into view. Instead of the simple green and yellow lights of Oberon’s glen, Tir-nam-beo, Bruagh-na-Boyne’s brassy blues, vivid purples, and brazen reds radiated from the trees and he squinted. This view always pricked him, a sting of regret he’d rebelled alongside Finaarva. Oberon would always honor the old traditions and fuse with nature rather than conquer it