Blood of the Dragon

by Jay D Pearson

  While things between he and the king had become strained, he had not anticipated some of his own changelings turning against him. Or had Månefè laid a trap? In this moment, it did not matter. This was not the moment for self-recrimination. He was cornered, and to enter Finaarva’s council chambers would mean entering his tomb.

  His eyes scanned the hallway, searching for the nearest entrance to the servants’ passages. Finaarva might anticipate that move, but Månefè would not. He spotted the telltale sign—a particular gold sconce with two candles—at the end of a hallway he was passing and made a hard right.

  At the same moment, four more changelings—two from each direction—rounded the corner by the sconce and marched towards him. Had he faced normal faeries, he would have simply shifted the air and disappeared, at least to their eyes. He had trained every changeling, however, and he could not fool them with his own changeling magic.

  He halted, realizing all the changelings he had passed and those approaching him now were all younger faeries whom he had trained within the past century. Månefè was responsible for this. He grinned contemptuously as he slipped his hands inside his long sable coat. His faithful lieutenants would have drawn weapons by this time.

  The ones in his path charged the moment the smirk crossed his face, but his hands were already whipping out, flinging daggers. Two changelings dropped before they could reach for their own weapons, knives through their windpipes. The next two were gurgling before they could unsheathe their swords.

  He dove forward, somersaulting and spinning to his knees. Lightning sprayed from his fingers towards those behind him. Vases shattered as his magic struck, and most of the changelings dove for cover. One, however, stood transfixed, arms outstretched and head back as his body flashed with purple light, then crumpled, skin bright red and hair smoking.

  Tigano was rolling before the changeling died, managing to retrieve two of his daggers by the time he was on his feet. He hurtled himself at the servants’ passage, his shoulder smashing the narrow doorway. A blade pierced his bicep and he staggered, cursing, but more because his coat was now torn than from the burning pain.

  He tossed back one more blast at the entrance, lightning exploding from all his fingertips. The detonation knocked him backwards, his ears ringing and dust choking him. He lurched forward, the hand of his good arm feeling along one wall, not waiting to see if he was being followed.

  He ran into only one servant, using his magic to throw the surprised goblin as far as the constricted passageway would allow, before he exited into the kitchens. He could move faster in the open, and an ambush likely awaited him at the servants’ exit. Quickly he shifted the air, hiding himself from the view of normal faeries and goblin servants, then snapped his wings open. Changelings would see him, but he hoped his path would be unexpected. He sped just above the counters, his wings beating so rapidly that plates and bowls flew, shattering as they smashed on the floor. He angled up the stairs and into the portrait hall where he had dined with the king and other nobles. Other than goblins preparing for breakfast, it was empty. He remained low, skimming the long tables recklessly. Speed was all that mattered, not how much devastation he left behind for the servants to clean up.

  The doors to the great hallway stood shut. Without slowing, he fired several quick bolts of lightning until the thick wooden doors exploded outward and he burst through.

  Changelings battled each other the length of the corridor with both swords and magic. Guards who had not fled lay dead while nobles screamed, staggering in drunken terror. His explosive entrance had not gone unnoticed, but his speed was too great for any to catch him now. The front gate stood wide open, and he only had seconds to wonder at how so many changelings could be battling each other before soaring through.

  The battle continued onto the palace grounds. A group of changelings launched towards him, shrieking and waving swords, and he readied his magic. Before he could attack, however, multiple blasts of magic erupted from below, engulfing his assailants, and they plummeted. A second group of changelings flew up towards him, and he recognized each as his most trusted lieutenants. He hovered, knowing they were too many to fight, and hoped they remained loyal.

  “Lord Changeling!” called one as they approached. It was Dyfed, his long blond hair flowing wildly. “Come with us. We will see you safely to your home.”

  If he could not trust Dyfed, he was already lost, and so nodded. For some time, the only sound was the rushing wind as they soared in a direct line for his home.

  As they neared the great scar of the dragon fire, he finally asked how they had known.

  “Fireflies, m’lord. I did not know anyone but children used them, but we had no doubt they were sent by your wife. Of course, we’ve suspected Månefè’s deviousness had spread to seducing the most foolish changelings but had no proof to bring you until now.”

  His stomach clenched. For all his clever deviousness, he had not foreseen this blatant grab at power by his rival. The demise of the Sluagh Sidhe seemed eminent, and still the other faery sought revenge over saving his own people. If Månefè would stoop to such selfishness, what wouldn’t he do?

  His wings froze, coasting. His wife would be next, regardless of whether he himself had escaped or perished in Finaarva’s palace.

  “My lord?” the changeling closest to him asked.

  Àibell was his only thought. He snapped his wings rapidly, urging the others to greater speed until the air hummed.

  They had not gone far, however, when Dyfed cursed, raising a hand to halt their flight. Instantly, Tigano knew why.

  The clash of weapons and war cries of faeries shattered the air not far ahead in the forest between them and the great scar.

  “The Daoine Sidhe attack again so soon?”

  Before Dyfed could answer, an explosion ripped the air. For several moments, he could hear nothing. White smoke billowed followed by flames soaring hundreds of feet, blocking their path south. As sound returned, the smoke darkened to dense grey and the screams of not only wounded faeries filled the air, but something else as well.

  “Goddess!” swore one of his lieutenants. “There are dragons!”

  He had never heard a dragon shriek in agony. Piercing and brutally loud, it was the first sound to ever frighten him. He stared upwards as dozens of dragons flew west, many with tattered wings and barely able to stay above the flaming trees. Beyond, all remains of the dome were gone.

  “It stinks!” another lieutenant swore.

  As the smoke continued to billow, it carried a horrible stench. It wasn’t the reek of carnage or charred wood or even magic. He choked. His most abominable experiments did not smell so unnatural. All he could think of was some combination of the chemicals Hagr would often use in its experiments.

  He blanched. Whatever had just happened was tied to his servant, and he recalled his order for it to distract Månefè. Had Hagr just caused the death of dozens, if not hundreds, of faeries?

  Am I responsible for Hagr’s actions? His stomach churned at the thought and he nearly retched.

  Dyfed tugged at his sleeve, gaining his attention.

  “My lord, come, we must get you safely home.”

  By now, faeries from both Sidhes were scattering below him, weapons discarded as they raced for safety. Fear and confusion guided their haphazard steps, and he sensed the same emotions threatening him. He allowed Dyfed to choose their course that, once past the wall of flames, was a direct path to his home.

  As they flew past the burning trees, he glanced towards the area where the explosion had happened. A massive crater smoked, treeless now except for a few blackened stumps. A part of him appreciated the raw force that had so badly wounded the forest, but mostly the unnatural power sickened him further.

  Is this my fault? Àibell, will you ever forgive me?

  The remainder of the flight was a blur. He replayed the scene in his sanctuary with his servant over and over. Each time, it was more obvious he should have given Hagr differ
ent orders. By the time the changelings reached his home, he’d nearly convinced himself he had personally built the device that must have caused the explosion.

  As they dropped to his beach, a small figure stepped out of the trunk marking the entrance to his home. He did not recognize who it was at first, for the vest it wore was made of elaborate green brocade, with matching breeches and top hat. Fine white hose came to its bony knees and it even wore shiny brown shoes with silver buckles. It bounded with each step, eagerness on its narrow, scarred face.

  It wasn’t until the creature cocked its top hat with its extraordinarily long fingers that he realized Hagr awaited him but garbed as no goblin servant had ever dared. His own face burned, humiliated that his loyal changelings should see a servant of his dressed in such finery.

  He landed lightly and strode towards Hagr as if the goblin was always clothed in such a manner, but the other changelings hung back. He did not know if they were embarrassed for him or merely being polite, but he was grateful and hoped he could confront his servant quietly.

  As he approached, Hagr removed the hat and gave a deep, clumsy bow, waiting for Tigano to acknowledge it.

  He took a deep breath, then commanded, “Rise and report.”

  The goblin stood tall, settling the top hat back on its head. Its bulging orange eyes swiveled, taking in the other changelings and the dark slitted pupils narrowed. Clearly, Hagr had expected him to return alone.

  If at all, he realized.

  It fingered its new finery with pride, then reached inside its vest and pulled out a small bulging purse. It opened the purse conspiratorially, just wide enough that only he could see inside and not any of his lieutenants. Gems sparkled, enough for the goblin to buy a fine faery home and servants of its own.

  As he stared, it croaked, “Lord Månefè was exceedingly pleased with my diversion, master. Are you not also proud of your servant? Will you reward me too?”

  If they had been alone, he would have likely strangled the goblin. There was no doubt of what it had done. He swallowed the bile that rose. He had to ask to be sure.

  “How did you do it, Hagr?”

  The goblin rubbed its hands together, and eagerly expounded how it had mixed this ingredient with that element until the powder was ready. As it described each step, his breathing grew quicker until he battled his emotions to keep them in check.

  “The final step,” the goblin said, “Was the dragon blood. I showed Lord Månefè how to add just the right amount so it could kill dragons. Are you not pleased, my master?”

  His eyes widened. “Dragon blood? But…”

  Hagr bobbed proudly. “I still had two vials left. I was careful, master. I did not destroy mine.”

  He could hear the accusation in the goblin’s wheezing voice. It had taken its revenge by showing his rival how to use dragon blood. Faery was no longer safe now that Månefè had gained this knowledge. The imbecile was too smart not to realize how blood of a dragon could magnify any magic and would stop at nothing to acquire more. He’d destroy every Sluagh Sidhe if that was what it took.

  “Do you know what you have done, Hagr?”

  Hagr frowned, and he realized it had clearly expected him to be grateful.

  “Master, are you not pleased with so much killing?” It tucked its thumbs under the lapels of its new green vest. “Lord Månefè was very pleased.”

  “Did you betray me? Did you tell Månefè I was coming?”

  The goblin shook its head so furiously he realized his rival must have been preparing the trap since the colored dragons had entered the war. Månefè had realized the inevitability of Finaarva failing. He was sickened, however, that his servant was so pleased with its device and how it had killed so many faeries and dragons. Àibell had been right about Hagr, and his own fear of losing his servant’s vast knowledge of the arcane arts.

  “I cannot let you return, Hagr, but neither can I risk you going to Månefè.”

  The goblin’s eyes widened, surprised, then narrowed and its face grew dark.

  “What are you saying, master?” it squeaked. Tears filled the bottom of its large eyes, although the rage that furrowed its brow betrayed those tears as false.

  He had spoken in haste when he had ordered Hagr to divert Månefè’s attention. He could not afford the same mistake now. He held up his hand and pointed his silver ring at the goblin until the dark red whorl in the black onyx shone. He ignored the sting of the metal as he chose his words carefully.

  “Your device killed faeries, Hagr. You are therefore banished from Ath Dara. You will destroy all your remaining vials of dragon blood. You may no longer serve any faery. You may no longer speak to any faery. You are no longer a part of the house of Tigano. I give you one day to depart Bruagh-na-Boyne. Criochnaithe!”

  With the final word of the spell that had bound Hagr to his service, the dark red glow of his ring snapped, and the onyx was instantly black once more. The goblin staggered so hard its top hat fell off. He could feel the break himself and was surprised at how light he suddenly felt. It was not merely a physical weight that seemed to vanish, but a dark cloud inside his soul evaporated.

  Hagr bent over, grabbing its hat, which it jammed onto its head. Any false regret was gone, replaced by fury, and its face was crimson with humiliation.

  “You will regret this, Tigano,” it sneered. All subservience in its voice was gone, replaced by hatred and rage. “One day I will have my vengeance on you and every faery!”

  “Begone, Hagr, before I have my changelings hunt you.”

  Chapter 19

  The Faery

  “W

  e cannot remain in Bruagh-na-Boyne, husband.” Àibell’s voice was sharp, but no longer harsh towards him. They were finally alone, sitting on opposite sides of the divan in their bedroom, goblets of chilled nectar in hand and their eyes focused on the fire rather than each other. With all the events of the past day—her family moving in, Månefè’s explosion that had killed so many faeries, and Hagr’s dismissal—she seemed to have forgiven him somewhat, but physical contact had yet to be renewed. She was still angry about his decision to not fully reverse the baby switching spell but held out hope they could return both babies to their proper families with no one else the wiser.

  He’d argued Månefè would not dare let anyone know for fear that others would realize how he’d been weakened, and his rival and Finaarva were now too tightly aligned for the king to risk revealing it. Hagr was dismissed, and Tigano had ordered Morvyn to make certain the goblin left Bruagh-na-Boyne. The banishment spell was strong, so Hagr’s knowledge of the baby-switching spell might never be known. Àibell appeared to be the only other faery who knew Arawn and Pwyll had been switched.

  Dyfed had been to the palace and back, bringing news that the changelings who had rebelled against Tigano had either died in the battle or now begged for mercy. Dyfed had executed on the spot the two who wavered, then set the remainder to guard the Lord Changeling’s home from not only another attack by Månefè, but from the dragons as well.

  His lieutenant had intimated that not only were all the changelings now standing behind him, they were ready for a coup. Àibell, however, was adamantly opposed to anything costing more faery blood.

  “You know my family has long been ostracized,” she said firmly. He nodded. Her father had helped arrange their marriage as a way to gain enough status to prevent Månefè from taking what little of their land remained. “If my grandfather had known the type of king Finaarva would become, he would have never supported the secession. Unfortunately, my father lacks fortitude and would not stand up to the king after grandfather’s murder.”

  “Wait,” said Tigano, surprised. “I thought your grandfather’s death was an accident.”

  “Of course you did. Finaarva has always been clever at arranging ‘accidents.’ Every noble who has opposed the king has either suddenly changed his or her mind, or been found dead from an apparent ‘accident.’”

  He nodded slowly. The
moment she spelled it out for him, he knew it for truth. He’d even arranged one such accident a couple of centuries previous. He had hated being asked to assassinate anyone but had done so ostensibly to maintain stability.

  “Finaarva will be seeking the same for us,” he said, not bothering to hide his disdain. “If he survives the dragons.”

  “We won’t survive any attack, husband, whether dragons, Finaarva, or the Daoine Sidhe. We cannot wait for one or the other.”

  He sat silent on the divan for several minutes, staring at the fire and slowly sipping his nectar. Its chill was fading, but he did not notice as he considered her request.

  Finally, he glanced over at her. She was studying her goblet, her long dark hair falling forward so he could not see her eyes. He wanted to argue for some other option, but the moment he looked at her, he knew every option ultimately ended with their deaths.

  “You are right, my love,” he said as tenderly as possible, hoping to breach the barrier erected by his choices. He wanted it gone, to return their relationship to what it had been before he’d given into temptation, and only one choice would allow that.

  Àibell turned her large dark eyes towards his. For several moments, he allowed her to study him. He had nothing to hide from her anymore, and patience finally came easy.

  “Then you will allow me to go to the Daoine Sidhe at first light,” she said. It was a command, or so he thought, the first time she had ever spoken to him so firmly, but it did not anger him.

  “Can you send him a message by firefly first?” he asked. “Let him know you’re coming so he greets you rather than takes you prisoner?”

  She smiled, then rose and strode to her jar of fireflies, and another dark cloud lifted from his soul. They were not reconciled yet, but they were one step closer. One very large step. He took a sip of nectar and collapsed against the divan. Weariness flooded him. This night he would sleep well.