by JA Andrews
15
Utter darkness crashed back into the room accompanied by earth-shaking thunder. Mags shrieked and Tomkin’s heart slammed against his chest, and he shoved himself back. Mags grabbed on to his arm and he crouched against her, his eyes stretched wide against the darkness.
The black shape of Vorath’s head moved against the window as he lifted it off the floor and hung it over them. Dry air washed across Tomkin’s face, the smell searing his nose and throat, tasting like hot metal. Or blood.
A blast of fire shot out of Vorath toward the side of the room. The brightness drove knives of pain into Tomkin’s eyes and he buried his face in Mags’ shoulder. She cried out and clung to him, shaking.
When the sound of the flames stopped, he looked up cautiously. A broken table near the wall was burning, the flames looking cheerfully out of place in the room.
“We didn’t mean to wake you.” Mags’ voice was thin and trembly. “We’re terribly sorry.”
In the firelight, the dragon was breathtaking. As he breathed, ripples of ember and darkness shifted across his body, like a living bed of coals.
Is this the sword you are looking for? Vorath slid Tomkin’s sword toward them with one long claw, scraping it across the flagstones with a screech.
The hilt of the sword spun toward Tomkin and the garnet flashed in the hilt, as though it held a sliver of the dragon.
Tomkin’s heart gave a little lurch to see the sword in one piece. His hands clenched and the scale he had found earlier dug into his palm. When he glanced down at it, the glowing scale peeked out through his fingers, shifting between orange and red in the firelight.
A scale—Vorath was missing a scale.
He ran his gaze along the creature’s back, looking for the weak spot. Tomkin glanced at the dragon’s face again, trying to gauge emotion on the still, scaled face. The dragon merely looked back at him.
“May I have my sword?” he asked, his voice high and pitiful.
The dragon inclined his head in a nod.
It lay out of reach of where Tomkin knelt. Something in him rebelled at the idea of crawling forward to get it so, slowly, he stood up.
The room shifted and the dragon’s head moved without moving. Mags reached for him but he waved her hand away. He could take a couple of steps on his own.
Hopefully.
He pulled himself up straight and took one step forward, then another, keeping his chin raised and his eyes on the dragon. It took three steps through the shifting room before he reached the sword. Carefully, slowly, he squatted and picked it up. The hilt was cold and lifeless beneath his fingers. The sword was heavier than he’d expected. It felt like trying to lift an anvil. There was no way he was going be able to stand up holding it.
He stuck the tip into a crack in the floor, and using the sword as a crutch, pushed himself up. The blade made a grinding noise against the stone and Tomkin had a brief image of himself working for days to hone the blade while his father, brother, and even Granduncle Horace, back from the dead, watched with glares of disapproval.
Tomkin shook off the vision. He was about to redeem himself, about to impress even Horace. Clenching the scale in one hand and leaning on the sword with the other, Tomkin searched again along the dragon’s body, looking for the weakness left by the missing scale. The only question would be whether he could reach the area and plunge in the sword before the monster killed him.
He’s missing a scale. Tomkin clung to the idea. He’s missing a scale.
I am missing many scales. Which one are you referring to?
Tomkin froze.
Let me show you what it is like when a dragon is missing a scale. Vorath sounded bored. He rolled over onto his side, revealing more stomach. Come see my great weakness.
Vorath left his clawed hand resting on the floor in front of Tomkin, but as the firelight shimmered across the dragon’s side, Tomkin saw a flaw. Right behind the dragon’s right arm, in an area where, Tomkin assumed, a sword could pierce the creature and drive straight into his heart.
Tomkin walked forward slowly, planting the sword tip into cracks between stones before each step and leaning on it for balance.
There was something there, a darker spot that didn’t reflect the firelight quite right. Tomkin kept waiting for Vorath to make him put down the sword, but the dragon looked unconcerned. Tomkin’s grip on the hilt was sweaty. He reached the creature’s belly and felt the heat rolling off it as though he stood near a fire.
Tomkin’s heart sank. There was the missing scale, the break in the pattern of scales. Tomkin held up the scale in his hand and it fit. But when he pulled it away, it showed the truth no old stories mentioned.
Dragon scales overlap. Each scale layered over the one next to it so there were at least two scales coving every bit of the dragon’s skin. Even with this one broken off, Tomkin could only see the slimmest crescent of pale skin. He let the scale drop back down by his side.
Vorath was missing a scale. And it didn’t matter.
Tomkin stumbled away from the dragon. There was no way to defeat him. Tomkin was trapped here by a creature whose weakest point still outmatched him, and who planned on killing him in a few hours. It felt as though Vorath had already pulled Tomkin’s heart out with one, vicious claw.
Now that you see you cannot kill me, I would like your attention. Vorath rolled onto his stomach and fixed Tomkin with his usual flat gaze. It is my desire to live here in peace.
The idea was so ludicrous that a laugh burst out of Tomkin. “Right,” he said weakly. “Because no one will mind that a dragon’s moved in down the way. You’ve only been here a few days and people are already terrorized. And you’re already stealing livestock.”
I must eat. I cannot help it if the sight of me terrorizes the fainthearted. I won’t promise not to prey on the weak, superstitious farmers. But I intend to harm no city or large homestead. I will not attack the men-at-arms. Marshwell is welcome to go about its business free from my interference.
“Except for fainthearted farmers.” Tomkin felt his fury begin to rise again at the arrogance of the monster.
Vorath inclined his head slightly. To impress upon Marshwell how serious I am, I wish them to know I have the duke’s son as my prisoner. If the fighting men of Marshwell attack, I will kill you.
Amidst the vision Tomkin was having of Vorath terrorizing the countryside, Tomkin felt a quiver of hope in his chest. Vorath wasn’t planning to kill him in the morning. Maybe there was still a way out.
“You could write a treaty,” Mags offered. “Marshwell is an honorable dukedom. They will abide by a treaty.”
Vorath nodded his head slowly. You will write one for me that I will deliver.
Tomkin’s heart faltered at the idea of Vorath flying over Marshwell Holding, circling in the sky, the people below terrified. He imagined the holding burning and his mother, alone, holding a treaty she must sign to save her son.
That was not a story Tomkin could let play out.
“If you show up at the holding,” Tomkin said, “the men will rally to fight you, no matter what the treaty says. They’ll be too frightened to do anything else.” He glanced at Mags, his mind lighting up at an idea. “But you could send her, instead.”
Mags’ eyebrows rose.
The girl has value to me. But your idea has merit. Humans are stupid when frightened. The dragon considered the two of them. Write the treaty and send the kobold. He can travel more quickly than a human, correct?
“Only over short distances,” Mags said. “Not all the way to Marshwell.”
Then he can walk. Is he near you right now?
Mags nodded uncertainly. “He’s always near me.”
Have your kobold fetch some paper so we can proceed.
Mags scowled, but raised her voice and said, “Go ahead, Wink.”
The room was silent for a few breaths before Wink appeared with paper, the reed pen and a clay bowl that held crushed berries for ink.
“This is a bad id
ea, mistress. I should not go so far from you. I will not be able to hear you call—” He shot a withering look at the dragon. “—should you need me.”
Tomkin couldn’t help but agree with Wink. This felt like a terrible idea.
“Just for this one trip.” Mags took the paper and set her hand on Wink’s shoulder.
She sat on the floor and began to write. Vorath dictated the terms, insisting Marshwell agree to never attack Colbreth Castle. Mags offered suggestions, correcting Vorath if she thought he had misspoken.
“That treaty’s very light on Vorath’s responsibilities,” Tomkin broke in. “Will not attack a homestead is vague. What qualifies as a homestead? Multiple buildings? A certain number of people?”
Mags’ brow knit slightly. “That is a valid point, Vorath.”
“The treaty must state that you will leave every single person in Marshwell alone,” Tomkin said, glaring at the dragon, “or no one will sign it. And you must leave our livestock alone. And our buildings. And no flying around terrorizing people.”
“You’re being awfully restrictive,” Mags pointed out.
Tomkin spun around to face her. “Stop siding with him! He should not get anything! He has invaded Marshwell, stolen people’s livestock and intends to keep—”
Silence! Vorath’s voice flooded into Tomkin’s mind.
Tomkin flinched back and clapped his hands over his ears. Which didn’t stop him from hearing the dragon’s next thoughts.
The terms are not up for discussion. Finish and send the kobold. Before I lose patience.
Mags turned back to the paper.
Wink stepped up next to Tomkin, the kobold’s enormous eyes peering at the scale in Tomkin’s hand. Tomkin handed it to the kobold and the little creature turned it over in his hand. Then he brought the scale to his mouth and stuck out his tongue.
“Don’t lick it!” Tomkin hissed, but it was too late.
“This has a surprising amount of iron in it,” Wink said, ignoring Tomkin’s grimace. “No wonder dragon scales are so strong.”
“Iron? Then how can they grow?”
Wink rolled his eyes. “You have iron in you as well. Many living things do. Although not usually this much.” He handed the scale back to Tomkin.
Mags rolled up the treaty and gave it to Wink. “Tomkin, where should Wink go?”
Tomkin looked at Mags and Wink standing next to each other, then turned to Vorath. “It would be better if you sent both of them. There’d be more of a chance of the message getting through if they both—”
Only the kobold. There was a growl deep in Vorath’s chest.
Tomkin scowled, but turned to Wink. “How far can you travel when you turn invisible?”
“It’s called blinking,” Wink said, managing, even from near Tomkin’s waist, to look down his long nose at him, “and I can only move a short distance in a blink. But I can’t do it too often, it’s more tiring to blink than to walk.”
Time is of the essence, Vorath said.
Tomkin resisted the urge to scowl at the dragon. “If you can get to the top of the cliffs, head west,” Tomkin told Wink. “You should find the King’s Highway. It’s never far from the river. Take it north and it will lead you to Marshwell Holding. You should reach it an hour or two past dawn.”
Go. Before I tire of waiting.
Wink glared at the dragon, then gave Mags a quick bow. He walked to the back of the room and scrambled up to a thin window looking out the back of the castle. He turned to give Mags one last glance, and the dragon one last glare, then he blinked and was gone.
Tomkin stared at the empty window, feeling as though the castle had just closed in on him a bit more. Mags looked at the window as well, chewing her lip.
Wink was gone. All that left was him and Mags. No warriors, no magic, no power. With the departure of the unpleasant little creature, Tomkin’s mind began to churn with the possibilities that had just blinked out the window.
His stomach dropped like a rock over a cliff. Wink could have made them a way out. Or built a cage for the dragon. Or made Tomkin’s sword unbreakable. At the very least he could have built a ladder to get them over the walls.
Dread sat in Tomkin’s gut like a stone. He turned to face the dragon. “That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
Vorath merely looked at him. The truth was so obvious. The treaty had been a trick. That whole scene had been a ruse.
“You wanted Wink gone.” Tomkin felt sick.
“What are you talking about?” Mags asked.
Vorath settled his chin on the floor. His eye were flat and emotionless, but something about him, the tilt of his head, the smallest curve of his mouth, looked smug.
Tomkin’s feet felt as though they had fused to the floor. He forced the question out, even though he could manage nothing over a whisper. “What do you intend to do?”
Vorath looked lazily at Tomkin.
In the morning, before the kobold delivers his message, I will take your body to Marshwell Holding and drop it at the gates. Then I will burn your home to the ground and kill anyone I find.
Everything stopped. Tomkin’s breath, his heart, his thoughts. The little hope he’d been holding on to slipped away.
I will raze Marshwell to the ground, and then I will be left in peace. Vorath’s eyes slid shut.
Mags gasped. “You lied!” She stepped toward Vorath with her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You’re going to kill them all—including Wink! You sent him to his death!”
The kobold will be spared. Vorath cracked one eye at her. But you had better hope he is as loyal as you think, Lady Lissa of Greentree.
Mags shrank back. “You know who I am?”
The boy is not the only one who shouts his thoughts. Vorath turned his head and settled it on the floor next to his tail. His yellow eyes closed.
If your kobold does not return to fix my castle, I will have no more use for you. Except as an example. A sort of purr rumbled deep within his chest. Not that I will mind. Nothing gets people’s attention quite so much as the death of a maiden.
Mags’ face drained of color.
Meanwhile, you may continue your exploration of the castle. The way you were heading leads to the kitchen and storeroom. But temper your hopes. You will find no escape from this place.
16
There was no way out.
Tomkin felt his legs weaken with the truth of it. He wanted to run, to slam into the walls of the castle, to pound until the stones gave way and he could escape. Except he could barely stand. And maybe that’s what he’d been doing this whole time, pounding on solid rock with nothing but his fists and expecting the wall to notice.
The little strength left in his body drained out. The first time he’d seen Vorath, he’d known he wasn’t brave. Now he knew it didn’t matter. Bravery was useless to the powerless.
Tomkin wasn’t a hero, he wasn’t important, he was just helpless, and more afraid than he’d imagined possible. All the things Tomkin had imagined about himself blew away like smoke.
In their place, fury grew. This whole situation was unbelievable. Why would a dragon, especially one as cunning as Vorath, come to Marshwell? Why spend his time destroying one of Queensland’s least important holdings?
“Why are you here?” Tomkin demanded. “Why Marshwell? What do you want?”
The dragon’s eyes opened and he fixed Tomkin with a simmering glare. His voice pounded into Tomkin’s mind. What do I want? His reptilian head slid forward until Tomkin could have reached out and touched the smooth, layered scales shielding Vorath’s face. Tomkin forced himself not to step back. The dragon dropped its voice to an echoing hiss. What do I want?
An image slammed into Tomkin’s mind. The sword, Granduncle Horace’s sword, flashing though the air, glinting in the firelight. And there were scales, not orange, but golden as summer honey.
Tomkin was seeing an image of this hall—but bright with fire. Colorful tapestries burned on the walls, furniture lay shatte
red on the floor. The world was stark, crisp. Every motion in the room played out in vivid detail.
He wasn’t looking through human eyes. He could see his own flaming orange scales rippling in the firelight. He was looking through Vorath’s eyes.
He hunched in a corner, encased in darkness, watching the golden dragon spin and slash and burn men around her. Her wings filled the room. She was glorious and powerful and vicious. A goddess compared to the creatures attacking her. She was—
—his mother.
The men had invaded, with their swords and their armor. Their presence defiled this haven, this home, reeking of violence and terror. The place he and his mother would live in, would rule from.
The dragon, flashing yellow and gold in the firelight, screamed and spun, sending the nearest knight’s broken body into a corner. Vorath felt a stab of terror as the men closed in on her. Behind her, a man crept along a ledge, holding the sword in front of him.
The four men who still stood attacked her, keeping her attention on them.
The golden dragon stretched out one enormous wing and behind it, a white pucker of flesh was visible, scarred and scaleless. The man on the ledge stared at it and poised himself to jump.
Vorath set one small foot towards her. It glinted orange in the firelight.
“Keep in the shadows!” her voice snapped like a whip in his mind and he flinched back into the darkness.
In that moment, the man on the ledge jumped.
A terrible, reptilian scream ripped out of Vorath’s throat. The men spun towards him, the whites of their eyes and the smell of their fear growing as he stepped out of the shadows. The golden dragon twisted toward him, fear for him in her eyes.
Time slowed as the man fell, as he slammed into her side, as he dug the hateful sword deep into her white flesh.
The golden dragon screamed and thrashed, sending the man crashing against the wall. His sword clanged to the stone floor, covered in blood so dark it looked black. An orange gem flickered in its hilt.
The other men backed away from the wounded creature, holding their swords ready.