by C. L. Werner
The object was a reptilian scale, such as might be plucked from the hide of a snake, only far grander in size and toughness. That it had come from the dragon, de Chegney did not question for a moment. But it was the symbol carved into the tough leathery scale that caused fear to gnaw at the Bretonnian’s stony heart. De Chegney had not seen that sign in many years, but it was as familiar to him as his own coat-of-arms. It was a crude representation of a drake rampant, rendered in the stylised manner of the Empire. When de Chegney had last seen that symbol, it had been upon the coat-of-arms of his vanquished adversary, the Baron von Drakenburg.
He’d thought the baron long dead, worked to death beneath the hot desert sun by Arabyan slave masters. Such was the fate he had condemned his old enemy to in the aftermath of his victory. But as he stared down at the symbol carved into the dragon scale, de Chegney knew his enemy had survived. He could feel it in the very pit of his soul. The horse, the wizard’s cloak, and the scale were all part of a message:
I live. I know what you were hunting. The power you sought is mine now and it will come for you.
De Chegney rose from his throne, letting the scale fall to the floor. The nobleman began to pace the empty expanse of his great hall, his footfalls echoing from the stone walls. He realised now what it must be like for the prisoners rotting within his dungeons, certain they were doomed to die but never knowing the hour when the executioner would call their name.