The Dragon's Egg (Dragonfall Book 1)

by David A. Wells

  Then the devil stepped into the room.

  Hound brought up his shotgun and unleashed a round. The blast passed straight through the creature without so much as a scratch. Wind blew into the room, extinguishing the fire in a gust, plunging the room into darkness.

  Footsteps rushed in next. Ben heard angry shouts, as if women were barking curses at him. A voice from outside chanted guttural, menacing words in a language that he couldn’t understand. Imogen screamed again, her cry cut short by a sickening thud.

  The devil roared, deafening and filled with rage. And then it was gone. The room fell into silence for a brief moment. Ben was left bewildered and stunned by the sudden and entirely incomprehensible events.

  Cyril lit his lamp and held it high, scanning the room, a look of pure horror and dread on his face.

  It was only then that Ben realized that Imogen was gone.

  “Hound, go get Frank,” Cyril said.

  Rufus stood wild-eyed, shotgun in hand, face pale white. “What the hell just happened?” he asked.

  “We were attacked with magic,” Cyril said, coming to face the big mercenary. “I need you to go find Frank before he gets himself killed. Bring him back here and wait for us.”

  Hound nodded but didn’t move.

  “Go, now!” Cyril demanded, pointing at the back door, only turning to John after Hound was in motion. “Do you have your wits?”

  “No more than usual,” John said, a tremor in his voice, but steady enough. “Where’s Imogen?”

  “Taken,” Cyril said, turning to Ben and checking him with a look. When Ben nodded readiness, he was rewarded with a brief but sincere look of pride. He realized in that moment that just a few days earlier he might have bolted with his brother. His trial with the stalker had stretched the limits of his fear and left him with more courage than he ever thought he might be able to muster.

  “Bring your weapons, leave everything else,” Cyril said, heading for the door.

  Ben followed, sword still drawn. Questions swirled in his mind, but he pushed them aside in favor of action. John was a step behind him.

  “Head for the smoke,” Cyril said.

  John took the lead, not bothering with stealth, moving into the center of the road, arrow nocked, head swiveling this way and that. They moved at a trot, turning north on the main road through town. It wasn’t long before they saw a glow in the distance. The drizzle had stopped, but the sky was still black with heavy clouds. The light in the distance had the character of fire, orange and flickering.

  John took them to the edge of the road and into the front yards of the houses lining the street, using the bushes and trees for cover as they approached the light. He stopped behind a low hedge, going to a knee and peering over at the scene beyond.

  Set well off the road, in the middle of a grassy field was a church surrounded by at least a dozen large lamps set atop posts in a circle. The building was simple, rectangular, and pure white as if it had been painted yesterday. It was fifty feet long and half as wide, two stories tall with a steeple on the end closest to the road.

  The devil stood on the front porch, his appearance all the more terrifying in the light.

  “How is that even possible?” Ben whispered.

  “Listen to me, both of you,” Cyril said. “Those are apparitions. They have no substance, but they can play tricks on your mind. You have to resist the urge to fear them. That is their power.”

  “If you say so,” John said.

  “What’s our plan?” Ben asked.

  “We don’t have time for anything but a frontal assault,” Cyril said. “Rush the building, ignore the apparitions and kill everyone inside except Imogen.”

  “Subtle, I like it,” John said, leading them to the end of the hedge. He looked back to see if they were ready.

  When Cyril nodded, they all bolted for the church.

  The devil didn’t seem to see them, standing stock-still as if a statue. Even so, John and Ben hesitated to approach the thing. It looked as real as anything Ben had ever seen and far more terrifying. Cyril ran up the stairs onto the porch and slammed into the door with his shoulder. It was locked. A chorus of women shouting curses erupted from within. He wedged his sword into the crack between the double doors and levered one until the wood broke around the lock. Then he stepped back and kicked with all his might. The door slammed open and he rushed inside followed by Ben and John, both giving the immobile devil a wide berth.

  Ben felt like he’d stepped into madness itself. The inside of the church was one large room with a high arched ceiling. A dozen tall stained-glass windows lined the walls, six to a side with an oil lamp burning beneath each, casting dim, shadowy light into the chamber. The far wall held a large crucifix … all vestiges of the godliness that had once adorned this hall ended there.

  Where the pulpit had once stood was a statue of a beast so grotesque and unnatural that it hurt Ben’s eyes to look at it. The thing was ten feet tall and made of charred wood and bleached bones cobbled together into a monster with three arms and a wide maw gaping in rage at the world.

  At the feet of this monstrosity was a circle drawn on the floor with what Ben could only guess was dung. The stench of death and offal filled the place. At five points around the circle, braziers burned some foul incense, sputtering black smoke into the already fetid air.

  Within the circle was an altar formed from bones piled up and wired together with animal sinew and intestine. Imogen lay semiconscious on the altar, an angry welt on her cheek. A man stripped bare to the waist, wearing only what appeared to be a long skirt made of black leather stood before her, facing the beastly statue. Angry scars of crudely cut dragon runes stood out across his back and shoulders. He held his arms up and out, a long dagger in his right hand, as he chanted in the same tongue that Ben had heard at the house.

  All of this horror assaulted Ben in the first moment that he stepped inside the pure-white church. The next moment, chaos erupted as three women dressed in tattered, dingy dresses charged them with horrible fury, all three wielding long knives.

  Cyril didn’t even flinch, almost as if he knew what to expect. He advanced toward the first woman, sword at the ready. She hurled herself at him with reckless abandon, neither fear nor strategy driving her attack, but instead something else, something like desperation. Cyril stepped to the side away from her knife hand and thrust quickly into her ribs, withdrawing his blade an instant later and turning toward the man standing over his daughter, ignoring the woman as she slumped to the floor with a groan of pain.

  The man’s chanting came to a crescendo as he raised the knife in both hands over Imogen, standing on his toes in preparation for his strike. An arrow sank into his shoulder, turning him and driving him forward with a grunt. Only then did he seem to notice the commotion behind him.

  Imogen came fully awake in a panic, shoving against the man who’d fallen on top of her, driving him away and toppling herself off the altar and onto the floor.

  One of the women crashed into John. He managed to get a hand on her wrist before she could plunge the blade into his chest, but the force of her charge drove him against the wall. He hit hard, his head leaving a dent in the plaster.

  The third woman charged Ben. He let her come, a feeling of calm settling on him in spite of the danger swirling around him. He gave himself over to his training, meeting her downward thrust by slipping to the side and sweeping up with his blade, cleanly severing her knife hand at the wrist. She shrieked in pain as he spun and kicked her in the back, sending her crashing into the wall near the door. The building shook with the force of her impact and she fell still.

  He turned in time to see the other woman raising her blade over John’s unconscious body, but knew he would be too late to help him. Homer darted in and bit the woman in the leg, shaking and growling for just long enough to make her cry out in pain, before letting go and scurrying out of reach.

  Ben raced to John’s side and kicked the woman in the belly with all p
ossible force, curling her up like a bug and sending her crashing against the wall. She too fell still.

  A roar of pure malice tore into the night directly behind Ben, freezing him to the spot for a moment. He turned and came face-to-face with the devil, a giant battle-axe in its hand. It raised the blade and brought it down at him. Despite Cyril’s warnings, Ben simply couldn’t make himself stand his ground against the beast. He flinched backward, falling to the floor in horror as the thing came for him, bringing the axe down on him with terrible force and speed. He rolled to the side, doubt flooding into him as the sound of splintering wood erupted behind him.

  The man in the circle turned his full attention on Cyril while Ben scrambled to his feet, turning once again to face the devil … but the thing vanished, transforming into black smoke in the space of a heartbeat.

  A moment later, two men in black plate armor, armed with broadswords and shields appeared between Cyril and the man in the circle. It was only then that Ben saw the deformity of the man. His face was hideously misshapen, as if one side were made of wax, heated to the point of melting and then allowed to harden once again. His eyes shone with madness and pain. Festering boils stood out on the side of his neck. His stringy black hair was patchy … it looked like large chunks had been pulled out all over his head.

  Cyril ignored the two plate-clad men, walking between them even as they swept their blades through him with absolutely no effect. The hideous man snarled a curse at him, raising his hand and barking words in some unclean language. Smoky blackness flowed from his outstretched palm, hitting Cyril and stopping him in his tracks. He struggled to move, but the darkness held him fast.

  With a sneer, the man pulled a revolver from his waistband and slowly raised it. Ben didn’t have time to think, he barely had time to act. In the back of his mind, he wondered how the man could behave so calmly with an arrow jutting out of his shoulder. He raced toward him, ignoring the two apparitions that moved to intercept him, hoping beyond hope that his grandfather was right about them. Their blades passed through him without a scratch only a moment before he released his sword, throwing it overhanded at the man in the circle.

  He had practiced the technique countless times before, just as he’d practiced every other technique he’d been taught, but he’d never thrown at a live target. The blade flew end-over-end, its dull tech metal glinting in the lamplight until it struck the man just below the shoulder, taking his arm off above the elbow a breath before he could pull the trigger. The severed limb fell to the floor with a sick thump, the pistol clattering out of the hand’s grip, a round firing harmlessly into the far wall.

  The man shrieked with a mixture of pain and perverse glee as he turned to his altar, allowing his own blood to flow into the stack of bones and gristle, all the while chanting with triumphant exaltation.

  Ben stood in stunned horror as the statue began to come to life.

  Imogen regained her senses and her feet, drawing her knife and rushing at the man, only to bounce off some unseen force as if there were a wall of impenetrable glass surrounding him.

  The magic holding Cyril vanished when the man turned his full attention to his new incantation, his voice rising higher and louder with each verse of his terrible spell.

  “Run!” Cyril shouted at Imogen.

  She turned just in time to see the statue come to life, solid and deadly. It raised its fanged maw to the ceiling and roared with such force that the walls shook. Imogen rolled out of the way a moment before it brought one if its three arms down like a club, smashing floorboards with the force of the blow.

  When she came up, she yanked the dragon-bone amulet from around her neck, met her father’s eyes and threw it to him. Ben watched his grandfather catch it with his free hand. Cyril went perfectly still for just a moment before pronouncing a single word with terrible, reverberating force. Ben felt a shockwave wash over him, setting his hair on end with a feeling of power and warmth. The man in the circle flinched and yelped. The animated statue was driven back long enough for Imogen to race past her father to safety.

  Then Cyril began chanting, his words now light and airy, filled with hope and promise. A look of horror came over the man in the circle as Cyril sheathed his sword and motioned to the ground with an open palm. A circle of light appeared around him, as if projected on the floor from some higher plane. A swirl of faintly glowing motes of light surrounded him as well, filling the space inside the circle.

  “You have no place in this world!” he shouted, motioning to the ground again as if slamming his hand onto a table. The circle of light expanded by double. The man shrieked in horror, turning to run, but then stopping at the edge of his circle as if caught between two equally terrifying options.

  “Return to the foul realm from whence you came!” Cyril commanded, thrusting his hand at the ground again. Again the circle of light expanded, this time overlapping the enemy’s circle. The dung that had been used to draw the outline burned away in an instant when the light flowed over it, thick black smoke rising into the air.

  The moment the circle was broken, the animated statue turned on the man who’d summoned it, taking him up with all three arms and clamping its fanged maw on to his hip. The man screamed in terror. The statue seemed to struggle for a moment, its whole head shivering with the effort, the dying man’s screams turning from fear to agony. Then it bit through the hipbone, pulling one of the man’s legs free and hurling it into a stained-glass window with enough force to shatter it.

  The beast lifted the man overhead and deliberately clamped its jaws on to his head and one shoulder, again struggling to bite through him, but succeeding in a matter of moments. When the hideous man died, the creature lost cohesion and fell to the floor in a jumbled mass of bones, charred branches and stones amidst its summoner’s remains.

  Cyril turned in a circle, searching for any other enemy. Seeing only the two women that Ben had subdued, both slumped unconscious against the walls of the defiled church, he released his magic and retrieved his grandson’s sword and the man’s revolver without a word, tipping over three of the oil lamps on his way to the door.

  “Get John,” he said to Ben as he went to Imogen and looked her in the eye, asking without words after her well-being, wincing at the angry welt on her cheek. She nodded tightly.

  Ben picked the Highwayman up and carried him out of the building a safe distance before laying him gently on the ground and checking his breathing and pulse. Cyril knelt next to him, placing his hands on his head while closing his eyes for several moments.

  “He’ll have a headache, but he’ll be all right with some rest.”

  They watched the flames build within the church. Once it was fully engulfed, Cyril turned to Imogen and handed her the amulet.

  “No,” she said, “you should have it.”

  “Chen gave it to you for a reason,” Cyril said, pressing it into her hand. “Keep it safe and keep it secret. Frank can never know you have it.”

  She nodded reluctantly, retying the thong and putting it around her neck, hidden under her shirt.

  “You’re the Wizard,” Ben said.

  “I am,” Cyril said, turning to face him, apprehension etched into his face.

  Ben was quiet for several moments, holding his grandfather’s eyes before he nodded firmly.

  “We have to kill the dragon.”

  Cyril’s eyes went glassy with tears. He blinked several times before hugging Ben fiercely.

  “Yes, we do.”

  Chapter 21

  John leaned on Imogen while they walked back toward the house. The burning church filled the night sky with an eerie orange glow behind them.

  “Are you sure you can travel?” she asked him.

  “No choice,” he said. “The fire will attract stalkers.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” she muttered.

  Ben walked with his grandfather in silence, questions swirling in his mind. He trusted John, but the secret he now shared wasn’t his to tell so he
kept it to himself, all the while making a list of things he wanted to ask when the time was right.

  “Here,” Cyril said, handing Ben the revolver. “It has five rounds.”

  Ben took the weapon, nodding seriously. “You’ve never taught be how to use a gun.”

  “I’m sure Hound can give you a few pointers.”

  Ben tucked his new weapon into his belt at the small of his back. The sound of footsteps coming up the road met his ears.

  “Smells like Frank,” Homer said.

  “We saw the fire and came as quickly as we could,” Frank said. “What happened?”

  Cyril walked past him without meeting his eyes.

  Frank watched him walk by, his arms out to the sides, his hands held up helplessly. “What?”

  “Not now, Frank,” Ben said, without stopping.

  “I just wanted to help,” he called after them.

  “Give them some space,” Hound said, stopping Frank from hurrying after them.

  Dawn was just beginning to lighten the sky when they arrived at the house. Ben frowned at the walls where he’d seen the apparition leave scorch marks. They were unmarred. He found it a bit unnerving that magic could make him see things that weren’t there, adding that to his long list of questions.

  They built a fire and cooked a hot breakfast before setting out for the road. It was a cold morning, but the heavy grey clouds didn’t rain on them. Ben was almost as happy as Homer about that fact. They walked on until dusk, taking frequent breaks to give John the time he needed to recuperate.

  “We should hold up here,” Cyril said. “I don’t want to camp too close to the road, and we don’t have much light left today.”

  “How about the level ground at the base of that hill?” John said, pointing at a small rise several hundred feet into the forest.