The king stood up slowly, his white-knuckled free hand clutching the chair’s armrest. “Magwaddle’s dead.” He looked up, staring at Smegdor, who froze.
“Your great bronze dragon?”
The king looked down at the floor. His chest heaving, he moved to his work table chair. “Magwaddle dead, I never thought it possible. The beast was among my largest and fiercest dragons. While only having the brain of a bronze dragon, his mass and power were equal to that of a silver one.”
“He was a magnificent beast, Your Majesty.”
“I’ve lost three of my most vicious and destructive creatures.”
Yes, and their energy drain has been enormous, thought Smegdor. What he lost in energy and power, he’s compensated for in increased rage and bitterness. His need for vengeance has only increased as he’s blamed his enemies for actions he initiated.
“Smegdor, go back down to the Well of Souls to extract another tortured spirit. I’ll need a replacement for Magwaddle, and I can only create that while my corrosive energy is at its height.”
Smegdor trembled as he fled the king’s rage but slowed to a crawl out in the hallway. I’ll have to go back down there where dark things that should never see the light of day again swirl in the fiery void, desperate to escape. The assistant felt goose bumps as a shiver went down his spine. The smell of sweat and mildew permeated the passages. His crippled leg seemed even heavier as he dragged it along in the dusty, rough-hewn corridors and tunnels that twisted and turned ever downward. The air grew even drier and smokier.
Many levels below, where the orcs, ogres, and trolls lived and bred, the air got heavy and acrid with the foul smell of decay permeating everything. Bones of the rodents that sustained the army were strewn everywhere. A specialized group of subterranean slaves bred and raised the giant rats in the catacombs. These caretakers herded the fattened creatures to the soldiers, who grabbed the squealing victims and tore them apart, eating the still pulsating flesh. The rats in turn fed on the army’s dead after the dragons had their fill.
Smegdor passed through these levels with great trepidation. He saw many and felt more of the endless eyes in the shadows watching the cripple that waited hand and foot on the Dark Lord above. They look at me as though I’m their next meal, he thought. If the Dark Lord should withdraw his protection for a moment, these foul creatures would devour me as just another fattened rat. He passed on along through the endless levels of military barracks, only recently thinned as troops formed up in cohorts and legions and marched south to the wars.
A sudden movement startled Smegdor. He jumped to the side of the tunnel as a huge, screaming rat, trailing blood from claw marks, dashed by him with a bloody mouthed orc snatching at it from behind. The orc cast a gleaming, red-eyed look at Smegdor and raced on along in the darkness after its quarry.
Once past the levels assigned the soldiers, Smegdor had to cover his nose and mouth as he passed through the dark tunnels that honeycombed the Munattahensenhov’s bowels. The rats’ beady red eyes follow my every move, he thought. The heat and smell down here are dreadful. Smegdor wiped cold sweat from his brow as his aching leg reluctantly dragged along deeper under the mountain. Finally, in the depths, Smegdor could see the torch light from the chamber surrounding the Well of Souls.
Once again, he darted into the archive cave where the creatures imprisoned down in the well were catalogued. Startled, a small rat jumped outside, only to be snatched by a ghostly hand that shot from the well, then it drew back its squealing victim into the well.
Shaking at the sight, Smegdor searched frantically amongst the damned for a suitable candidate to draw from for his master. He dropped several cards from his shaking hand, flipping through many trays of cards, looking for a suitable contender. This one’s a victim, that one’s not wretched enough; it seems I’ll never find a suitable ‘resident.’ This one had no remorse at all.
Something ran across Smegdor’s foot. He automatically snatched up his leg in response. A chill pulsed through him, but whatever it was, was gone when he looked down. Several file cards flew up when his leg bumped the table, and a mica card fell back into his lap. He picked it up and read the profile. This one has the characteristics I’m looking for. When Smegdor closed his hands around the mica, the pain and anger surged through him before the cripple could even discern the particulars.
In life, the man had grown up abandoned by his parents in the streets when he could barely stand. He’d been dropped off at an institution where he was kept in a pen and fed on scraps until he could be put to work. His back was permanently twisted from hauling heavy buckets of muck from the inmates to the latrines as his first duty. Before he reached double digits in age, he’d strangled one of his tormentors and slashed the gut of a pot-bellied cook that had tried to stop him. Again on the streets, the boy was particularly violent, living by killing and stealing his victims’ valuables. When he died at thirty, he’d killed more people than he could remember and couldn’t remember if they were men or women. Finally, he’d snatched a child’s toy and its cries drew a crowd that subdued him. His last statement to the world of the living was that he would return one day and make them all pay.
Smegdor updated the mica plate with the ‘withdrawn’ status and put the plate in the ‘out’ card file. He hesitated for a moment, then slowly closed the filing cabinet. He turned and stared out the roughhewn doorway into the chamber, flickering with the well’s red glow.
I dread having to draw out this tormented soul. Still, this monster has long festered in the well’s furnace and should be ready to submit to anything else. I never know what their reaction will be, nonetheless. Occasionally, a freed soul will attempt to escape the Evil One’s control, and the consequences are too horrible to think about. Once the Dark Lord possesses their essence, they’re his forever.
Smegdor dragged his withered leg to the edge of the well, the scraping sound conflicting with the sounds from the furnace far below. There he chanted the incantation that named the one called and allowed only that soul to pass out of incarceration. He cautiously looked over the edge of the glowing pit.
The Tentacle, as this one was known in life, came slowly to the well’s frozen-scream mouth and tested the restraining veil carefully.
Smegdor stepped back. He’s been burned by the veil’s raw power before trying to escape the eternal furnace. He’s well-conditioned to stay clear of it. Smegdor summoned him several times to come forth and obey before The Tentacle’s vapor would waft up the well and form up at its mouth.
The specter looks as threatening as a spirit as he must have been in life, the aide thought. The cruel, scarred face is heavy set with large features dominated by thick bony plates over his eyes that made his bushy black eyebrows protrude in life. I recall others gave him the name The Tentacle because of his preference for wrapping his massive muscled arm around his struggling victims in a crushing hold before disemboweling them. This monster’s look chills the souls of the living even in death.
“You must come with me to the king above. Any attempt to escape will be dealt with swiftly by him, and the pain it will cause will be eternal,” Smegdor said, his voice most authoritative. I have to sound impressive, though I know the things I draw from the well have no respect for me. At least their fear of the master restrains them from trying to harm me, usually.
Smegdor then turned his back on the vaporous soul and started up the dusty tunnel. I hope the vile thing is following behind me. This is the part I hate the most. I can’t be sure the souls will do as ordered. I’ve nothing that can make them obey. The master has made it clear to those he holds in the well that failure to obey him, or me his servant, would be regrettable and eternal. I must not reveal weakness to the specter.
He moved forward as quickly as possible through the mountain’s levels. Once back at the soldiers’ barracks, Smegdor turned to The Tentacle, telling him what the rooms were for. The real reason was to see if the soul had followed as ordered. Had he not, Smegdor’s aware
ness of the disobedient soul would immediately be known to his master, who would take steps to cruelly punish the spirit. To his relief, the monstrous black essence was behind him, following his lead.
All of a sudden, a starving troll, ribs protruding, rushed from a side tunnel and grabbed Smegdor’s bad leg. He cried out and smacked the clammy hand, but the boney fingers remained clamped on his ankle. The crazed beast smacked his heavy lips. Yellow fangs bloomed in its nasty mouth as it opened to bite the calf. Smegdor struggled to pull free to no avail and felt faint. The fiend almost chomped down on his leg when The Tentacle’s fingers sank into the troll’s boney shoulder. Blue sparks shot into the dark flesh. The troll screamed, jerked his hand back, and grabbed the useless arm with his other hand. The creature glared up at The Tentacle’s iridescent yellow eyes, then whimpering, crept back into the side tunnel shadows. Smegdor took a minute to recover, and the two continued on to the workroom.
Once at the Dark Lord’s apartments high on the mountain, Smegdor took the lost soul in to the king and backed away by the workroom door. The Dark Lord turned to face The Tentacle.
*
“You’re about to have another chance at destroying life on the continent,” the king said, looking at the specter wafting before the worktable.
The spirit remained a silent black vapor in the room’s center. Its glowing yellow eyes followed the Dark Lord as he walked around the room.
“I need a new, very powerful ‘servant’ who has no remorse or feeling for life. I see you fit the requirements.”
“You did well in your selection, Smegdor,” the king said. “Prepare the worktable with the special items I ordered earlier.”
Smegdor darted back around the specter to the fireplace. There, under the Dark Lord’s cold eyes, he stoked the fire in the great charred fireplace and swung the cauldron over the glowing coals. In went the liquids assembled earlier, then the dried animal parts, and finally the powdered components. Smegdor stirred the cauldron’s contents slowly, while the dried animals cooked down, and the pasty stew bubbled thick and black. That done, he swung the heavy cauldron out from the fire and bowed deeply to inform his master the ‘soup’ was ready. Smegdor withdrew to the relative safety by the doorframe.
“Excellent, Smegdor, you’ve done well this day,” the king said in an oily tone that belied his cruel intent. He turned to the vapor and motioned it to follow, then held it with his yellow-eyed gaze.
The king drew the specter to the fireplace, where the cauldron bubbled still. The twisted soul followed the Dark Lord obediently. Suddenly, the Evil One snagged the specter with his sorcerer’s wand and forced it into the cauldron, where the goop sucked it into its new life. The silent frozen scream on the vaporous face was the last thing sucked into the glossy black sludge.
When the brew cooled to a gelatinous state, the sorcerer spooned it out and fed it to the newly hatched thing nestled in an iron pot behind the door. With this ingredient, a new dragon began to form.
I have my new ‘servant’ to replace my beloved Magwaddle, the sorcerer thought. He patted the little gurgling, lip-smacking dragon and snatched his hand away just as it snapped at his fingers. The little monster will be raised above in the dragon stables by the other dragons that will keep it tormented so its hatred can develop thoroughly. This reptile has a splendid beginning with The Tentacle’s soul at its core.
The Dark Lord caressed his double chin. It’s been a successful day’s work. As Smegdor left with the potted monster to take it up to the dragon stables above, the Evil One rested, drained of the blood and energy needed to bring it into being.
* * *
Dreg and Earwig sat drowsily on rocks, enjoying the radiant warmth from the fire Dreg had going for the evening. He had just put a skewered rabbit on the fire to roast and relaxed, watching crows gather in a tree. The embers frosted over with ash; then a stick crumbled into coals. The fire and attendants settled down peacefully. One last poke at the fire with a charcoal tipped stick and Dreg looked at Earwig to be sure she was all right.
Nodding, about to doze off, Earwig suddenly bolted upright. She yelled some incomprehensible syllables and then slumped back down on the rock, nearly sliding off, mumbling and babbling.
Earwig’s behavior startled Dreg. He dropped the stick and started to grab the witch before she fell and hurt herself again. Then he caught himself and sat back, watching her, but said nothing. When she began to recover, she mumbled bits of the story.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dreg asked. “You messed up?”
Earwig sat upright, stretching her tattered coat around her excessively flowered dress, which, like the coat, was too small. The ensemble accented her lumps, folds, and sagging body parts. She ran her clawed fingers through her scraggly hair and snorted her sinuses. Then she responded to Dreg’s questions after clearing her throat.
“I was hit by two large surges in the energy fields I monitor.”
“Surges?” Dreg settled back on his rock and picked up the stick, poking the fire again.
“There was an enormous energy drain. Something destroyed one of Dreaddrac’s most powerful creatures connected to the king himself.” She cleared her throat again and looked at Dreg. “That surge and collapse was so powerful and abrupt it made me jump. My subsequent weakness was caused by the Dark Lord draining energy from the grid to activate something, I think. He’s exhausted so much energy in forming his creations he must now drain the planet’s energy grid. It worries me.”
Nothing more was said that night. The two went to sleep, but Dreg noted the witch had a fitful night.
“We really do need a horse; we’re not making much progress,” Dreg said, while nursing the hag the next day. He put a cold compress on her hairy forehead.
She slapped his hand, knocking it off, and sat up. “Really!” Earwig said, her voice shrill. She upturned her hand, pointing at the baggage stacked by the road. “Perhaps the King of Dreaddrac will send a carriage for us. Why don’t you call out and see?”
Dreg said nothing in response but tried to put his bedroll under her neck when she settled back down.
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to make another attempt to ‘arrange’ transportation, since the most you seem to be able to do is lose the horse and cart,” Earwig said. She punched the makeshift pillow into submission.
“Yeah, well, Zendor ran off because you talked so bad about him. It was your messing in magic what made that fanged rat-horse that tore up the cart.”
“Yes, well, never mind the details,” the agitated witch snapped. The evil woman shuffled and wheezed propping herself up on her elbows. With Dreg’s assistance, she rolled on her side, then pushed herself up, and was able to wobble and stumble about. She propped her still undulating bulk against a twisted tree. “I just don’t understand why there are so few travelers on this road.”
“Can you make it to that empty barn over across the road?” Dreg asked. She can’t make it much farther, he thought. “We needs to get inside.” He looked up and pointed to the swirling dark clouds.
“Good idea.” Earwig held out an arm with the flesh sagging like a drapery cornice. “Give me your shoulder to lean on so I can walk over there.”
Dreg nearly collapsed under the corpulent hag’s weight as she virtually fell over on him. With an involuntary groan, he heaved her up and slowly managed to regain his upright stance. A deep breath and he managed to move a leg forward to encourage her to do the same, but she seemed hesitant. “You gotta try to walk, too?”
“Yes, of course,” she said through her sticky fake smile. “How thoughtless of me.”
They managed to move forward and out across the road. Each step was a labor for them both with Dreg carrying most of the load. Both huffed and puffed. The sounds were gruesome to hear, and Earwig broke wind with most steps. Dreg laughed, and Earwig became indignant.
“How dare you laugh at me; I’m doing the best I can,” Earwig said. She jerked back wobbling, attempting to stand to face him.
&
nbsp; “I was just thinking how much you’re like Zendor,” Dreg said, laughing.
Unsteady, Earwig stood with her arms on her rotund hips. She stared at the helper and turned an uglier shade of purple. “Are you comparing me to that gas-filled bone bag?”
“Sorry, it was just a funny thought,” Dreg said. He tried to stop laughing but couldn’t choke back the chuckles.
“I’d kill you, but that would be too easy. You’re going to pay for that remark.” She held out her arm again for his support.
“You shouldn’t oughta talk to me like that.” Dreg stepped back, facing the witch.
Earwig’s eyes narrowed. “Oh the pain and suffering you’re going to endure before you wish for the release of death.” With that, she drew back and shot the first of several energy shots at her assistant. The witch was very unsteady on her feet, and the shots went wild. Dreg was easily able to dodge the bolts, and the sight of her standing in the middle of the road, firing off wizard-fire this way and that, was really comic. He began to laugh again before he could catch himself. Earwig hurled the bolts faster in response.
One bolt struck an unfortunate rabbit that squealed and kicked up into the air, coming down as a snake that shot off into the underbrush. Another bolt hit a fence post. It began to jerk in its hole until it pulled free, grew limbs, and ran south down the road. Another bolt hit the barn and set it on fire. The two of them stopped and stared at the barn as it collapsed in flames and smoke. In no time, their refuge was smoldering ash.
“There you go again losing your temper. Now we got no place to get out of the rain,” Dreg said. He sat down, plucked a grass seed shaft, and chewing that, wrapped his arms around his knees and waited.
The dark clouds over them opened up, and rain poured on them as if all the heavens were draining just there. Both looked, and smelled, like wet dogs. There was no place to take shelter, so they sat staring at each other reproachfully in the downpour.
The Dreaddrac Onslaught (Book 4) Page 24