The Dragon's Egg (Dragonfall Book 1)

by David A. Wells

  “Oh God, this is really bad,” Imogen said, trying to stop the bleeding. John handed her a cloth and his belt. Ben felt cold.

  “Focus on my voice,” Homer said. “I’m right here with you, you just have to stay awake.”

  “All right,” Ben said, his eyes falling shut, coldness flowing into him.

  Hateful laughter echoed into the room.

  Ben opened his eyes and saw Cyril kneeling over him, one hand on Imogen’s shoulder, the other on his wound. Warmth began to flow into his leg.

  “Stay awake,” Homer said, nosing his face.

  Ben struggled to keep his eyes open.

  More laughter.

  Cyril ignored it as he went to the back of the room.

  Ben raised his head slightly, trying to watch his grandfather. He saw Cyril touch a panel on the wall, and after a moment, he heard a low whirring sound. The panel lit up, casting a dim rainbow of light over him. He looked toward the laughter and saw something that made no sense.

  There was a gap in the space within the pentagram, a tear in the world. It looked like a rip, the edges glowing slightly red, the space within entirely black. While Ben watched, the space within became more distinct. A room came into view. Walls of stone, a flickering candle, a door made of stout timbers bound with heavy black metal—the place looked medieval.

  “What the hell?” he muttered, pointing weakly at the figure stepping through the portal.

  It was a human man, pale as a ghost with ice-blue eyes and shock-white hair. He wore black armor with spikes on the shoulders and elbows, and he carried a staff with a large talon bound to the top. He surveyed the scene, then smiled at Ben with calculated malice.

  Imogen yelled a warning a moment after he raised his staff and pointed it at John. Darkness flowed out of the talon. Streamers as black as night, wispy yet solid, struck John in the chest and flowed into him. His eyes went black and he stood calmly, turning to face the man.

  “Command me, Master,” John said, his voice devoid of emotion, numb and dead.

  The man spoke in a language that was entirely alien.

  John nodded and drew his knife, turning toward Ben.

  Through his delirium, Ben found himself reaching for the pistol tucked into his belt.

  “What are you doing?” Imogen snapped at John.

  He ignored her, raising his knife slowly over Ben’s chest.

  Ben pointed the gun at the man and focused on steadying his hand.

  The man smiled, raising his staff and speaking a few words. A shimmering field of darkness appeared in the air as if he had erected a magical shield. He stood behind it, his eyes shining with confidence.

  Ben fired. The bullet passed through the shield and tore into the man’s shoulder, bright red blood spraying across the room.

  The man shrieked in pain and rage, turning to look at Ben with a mixture of murderous rage and uncertain disbelief.

  Ben pulled the trigger again. Another sharp crack reverberated through the basement, this time missing completely.

  The man shouted a command to his diminutive minion and they fled up the stairs.

  John blinked, frowning at the knife in his hand. “What happened?”

  “Magic,” Cyril said. “Get him up.”

  Ben struggled to maintain consciousness as they carried him into a room unlike any he’d ever seen before. The ceiling was lit through some power other than flame and the walls were fashioned of metal, dull grey and smooth. Shelves and tables were filled with a variety of strange devices and objects.

  “Lay him here,” Cyril said tersely, holding what looked like a large bird egg over him.

  As Ben tried to focus on it, he thought he saw scales covering its surface. Somewhere in the distance, Homer whined and then Ben felt a great warmth flood into him … followed by oblivion.

  Chapter 25

  He woke slowly, his mind thick with confusion. His mouth was dry and sticky, his eyes wouldn’t open. He groaned.

  “He’s awake,” Imogen said from somewhere very far away.

  “You’re safe,” Homer said. “Take it easy—go slow.”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “You got stabbed,” Homer said. “That little runt that threw a rock at you stuck you in the leg with a knife.”

  Memory of the event returned in a flood, bringing more questions. He worked his eyes and managed to open one and then the other. The grit of dried tears felt crusty and old on his eyelashes. The ceiling was lit uniformly, casting a cold white light into the room. He closed his eyes again, warding them against the brightness.

  Imogen brought him some water, which he drank eagerly, sputtering a bit for his enthusiasm. Pain stabbed into his leg and he gasped, taking a moment to lie still and assess the extent of his injuries. After the intensity diminished, he opened his eyes again and let them adjust to the light, looking around the room and trying to make sense of where he was.

  “What is this place?” he asked.

  “That’s not important right now,” Imogen said. “We’re safe. Here, drink this.”

  After downing the sweet syrupy liquid, he felt warmth flow into his chest followed by a wave of sleepiness that claimed him in a matter of minutes.

  The last thing he heard was Homer telling him to rest.

  When he woke again, he was more alert and clearheaded. He didn’t try to move. Instead, he opened his eyes and allowed them to adjust to the light before turning his head from side to side. To one side was a large door on giant metal hinges, locked from the inside with a series of bolts three inches thick. Turning his head the other way, he saw Cyril lying on a cot next to him, unconscious and bleeding slightly from a wound on his leg.

  Ben rolled onto his side, fear and worry overcoming caution. The pain in his leg was greatly diminished.

  “Go easy,” Imogen said. “You’ve had a rough couple of nights.”

  “What happened?” he asked, reaching for Cyril.

  “Stop!” Imogen said. “He said we’re not to touch him until he wakes.”

  Ben blinked the sleep and confusion away, sitting up carefully.

  “Don’t overdo it,” Homer said.

  Ben frowned, examining his leg. His wound was mostly scarred over, still tender and red, but far more healed than should have been possible. He looked back to Cyril and saw that he bore a similar wound on his leg, his bandage red with blood. He lay on his back with both hands resting on an egg in the middle of his chest. Ben leaned in, looking at the egg more closely. It was six inches long and half as wide. While the surface was pearly white, it was covered with scales like those of a snake.

  He sat back, questions and suspicions swirling in his head. “What happened?” he asked again. “Tell me everything.”

  Imogen nodded, pulling a chair up next to him.

  “Lie down,” she said.

  He eased himself back to the cot and looked at her pointedly.

  “Your grandfather is the Wizard … but you already knew that,” she said. “You were injured by the servant of the man who came through the portal, the one you shot.” She smiled, laying a hand on his shoulder. “And it was a good thing too. Dad said he would probably have killed us all if you hadn’t driven him off.”

  Ben gestured toward Cyril. “What happened to him?”

  She shook her head, frowning with worry and confusion.

  “He used magic to take your wound onto himself so he could stop the blood loss. He said it was the only way to save you.”

  “How is that possible?” Ben asked, looking over at his grandfather with renewed concern, and respect.

  Imogen shrugged. “I don’t really know. He didn’t tell me much more about magic than he told you. I’ve always known that he was the Wizard, ever since I was a child, but he swore me to secrecy.” She stopped, frowning more deeply. “I think he put a spell on me so I wouldn’t tell anyone. I’ve wanted to tell you several times, but I always seem to forget. It’s strange.”

  “Will he be all right?”
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  “He said he’ll be fine. It’ll just take another day or so for him to heal. How’s your leg?”

  “Sore.”

  “He said it would be. He also said you should drink this.” She held up a bottle filled with bluish liquid.

  “What is it?”

  “He called it tech medicine. Once he stanched the bleeding, your heart started to give out. After it stopped for the second time, he said that this was the only thing that could save you. You woke up, so it must be helping.”

  “It is helping you,” Homer said, “but it’s doing something else too.”

  “I have so many questions,” Ben whispered, looking over at Cyril.

  “Me too,” Imogen said.

  “What about Frank and Rufus?” Ben asked, suddenly realizing that they weren’t in the room.

  “We don’t know. We haven’t opened the door since we carried you in here, and your grandfather made it very clear that we have to stay here until he wakes.”

  Ben noticed John lying asleep, his face pale and beaded with sweat. “What happened to him?”

  “That man who came through the portal—Dad called him a ‘warlock’—he used some kind of black magic to take control of John. He came down with a fever a few hours later.” She looked over at him, worry etched into her face. “I’m hoping my father can help him once he wakes up.”

  Ben gave her hand a squeeze, drawing her attention back to him. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so,” she said. “We’ve been friends since I was seven years old. In fact, I met John the day we moved to K Falls.” She sighed, shaking her head sadly. “If I hadn’t been such a fool, none of this would have happened.”

  “What do you mean? This isn’t your fault.”

  “But it is. I have terrible taste in men. John has always been there, he’s loyal and honest and good, but I wanted excitement and adventure, so I’ve kept him at arm’s length. I’ve been so unfair to him, and now he’s lying there dying, for all I know. And it’s all my fault.”

  “No … it’s the warlock’s fault or it’s the dragon’s fault, but it’s not your fault. John’s here because he cares about you and he wants to protect you. He chose to be here and he did so for pretty good reasons. So don’t blame yourself.”

  “But I do,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “All of this, you, my father, John, my baby. It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t let Enzo—”

  “Stop it!” Ben said. “Women fall for assholes all the time. At least you have an excuse. You were charmed.”

  “Doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “No, but it does make it not your fault. We have enough to worry about without carrying burdens that aren’t ours to bear.”

  She nodded, handing him the bottle of medicine.

  “We’ll get through this, Big Sister, I promise.”

  She smiled. “Drink up.”

  He took a swig of the syrup, draining the bottle, and then drifted off to sleep again. He woke feeling much better but still took his time assessing the state of his injuries before sitting up. His leg was still slightly sore, but he thought it would support him, though certainly not comfortably.

  Cyril was still asleep with the egg on his chest under both of his hands. His wound had stopped bleeding. John was wrapped in a bundle of blankets, his face pale and sweaty, his teeth chattering with each wave of chill.

  “Go easy,” Imogen said.

  Ben nodded, gently probing the scar on his leg and shaking his head in wonder. The wound had been deep. Now it was just a tender scar.

  “How long has it been?”

  “Three days.”

  “My wound—”

  “Magic and tech,” Imogen said, shrugging.

  “John doesn’t look so good.”

  “No, and I’m worried about him. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Did you try magic?” Ben asked.

  She frowned and shook her head, then looked at Ben more seriously.

  “Chen gave you that amulet for a reason.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “Sure, if you’ll help me up.”

  Ben and Imogen sat on the floor next to John and held hands, each laying their free hand on John’s chest.

  “Are you sure about this?” Homer asked. “I mean, you don’t really know what you’re doing.”

  “We’re just going to visualize John getting well.”

  “I think you should wait for Cyril to wake up,” Homer said.

  “We have to try.”

  “So what do we do now?” Imogen asked.

  “I think it’s just like chasing off that hawk. We create in our minds what we want to happen and then let it go.”

  They shared a look, closed their eyes, took a deep breath and let it out. Calmness came over them both, flowing from them into the room. As they both inhaled for the second time, a wave of translucent, shadowy black energy exploded from John, blowing both Ben and Imogen across the floor, stunning them senseless for a few minutes.

  When Ben regained consciousness, a nagging sense of urgency tugged at his awareness, but he couldn’t remember why. He hurt all over—but more than that, he felt a foul, unclean violation of his entire body, as if every vein, every bone, every muscle had just been subjected to a deluge of spiritual filth. He lay face down, his head throbbing with each pounding heartbeat.

  A feeling of unease began to come over him. Disquiet gave way to growing inadequacy and unworthiness. A profound sense of judgment settled on him and began to take root, undermining his confidence, causing him to question his very right to exist.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Homer said, barking out loud to punctuate his question.

  Ben shook his head, his awareness coming back to the moment, the overwhelming feelings of guilt and failure receding somewhat but still nagging at the edge of his thoughts. He got to his hands and knees and looked around for Imogen. She was curled into a ball, weeping uncontrollably.

  “I lost my baby … I lost my baby,” she whimpered through her tears, each ragged breath spent on speaking the words “I lost my baby.”

  Ben went to her, shoving his own despair farther away, focusing on the present moment, clearing his mind of all concerns save for the well-being of his friends and family. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, he knew instinctually that deep personal attachments have power.

  Nothing fortifies the will like a strong emotion.

  “Imogen!” he said, rolling her up to a sitting position so he could look her in the eye.

  She kept repeating “I lost my baby.”

  Ben brushed the hair from her face and shook her gently but her eyes remained far away and fixed. Her hysteria was nearly complete. He slapped her.

  She blinked, muttering, “I lost my baby.”

  “Imogen. Come back to me,” he said, taking her by the chin and turning her head so she was forced to look into his eyes.

  She blinked again but then wailed, low and long as if she’d just remembered something too terrible to face.

  “I lost my baby.”

  Ben slapped her again. She slumped to the floor and groaned, lying still for a while before curling into a ball again.

  Ben waited for nearly an hour, listening intently to her breathing and watching over her.

  “What happened?” she mumbled, sitting up as if from a long sleep.

  “I don’t know,” Ben said. “I got blown across the room and then felt this crushing despair, like I didn’t deserve to live. It was awful.”

  “I felt the same thing,” she said, shuddering. “What about John?”

  “Doesn’t look like anything’s changed,” Ben said. “Whatever’s got him is clearly beyond us. He’ll have to hold on until Cyril wakes up. Thankfully, whatever hit us didn’t seem to have any effect on him.”

  Ben helped Imogen to a chair and then sat down on his cot. He felt unclean, as if the inside of his body had been very deliberately soiled.

  “What just happened?” he
asked Homer.

  “You played with magic that you didn’t understand.”

  “Yeah, I know. Aside from that, what did you see?”

  “A wave of blackness knocked you on your ass.”

  “A lot of help you are.”

  “I was being helpful before you played with forces of darkness beyond your comprehension—you know, when I told you not to. Now I’m just mocking you.”

  Ben looked at him and sighed, lying back down and closing his eyes. He could still feel the aftermath of the darkness within him. His mind kept wandering to ugly and dangerous thoughts. Sleep came after a struggle and he woke with a pent-up scream in his lungs, sitting quickly, searching frantically, coming aware a moment before releasing his fear in a wail of terror. He let the air out slowly, focusing on his breathing, willing his pounding heart to calm. He frowned when he realized that he couldn’t even remember what he’d been dreaming about.

  Chapter 26

  When he woke the following morning, Cyril was smiling at him.

  “You’re awake,” Ben said, sitting up quickly. Pressure built in his head, followed by pain and dizziness. He steadied himself, taking a moment to assess his new symptoms.

  “Easy,” Cyril said, putting a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “How’s your wound?”

  “Nearly healed. How’s yours?”

  “On the mend,” Cyril said.

  Ben looked over to John. His fever seemed to have broken and he was sleeping soundly.

  “How did you heal him?” Ben asked.

  “I didn’t … you did, sort of,” Cyril said. “His fever has broken, but there’s still some residual taint within him that I can’t seem to root out. Something is blocking me.”

  “You mean what we did actually worked?”

  “It did, to a point, though you utterly failed to protect yourselves—one of the many lessons about magic that you must learn. A consecrated circle will protect you from most beings from other realms, as well as their conjurings. You should always prepare a circle before you have any dealings with such forces.”

  “So now will you answer my questions about magic?”

  “I will, but perhaps I should start by telling you about my past.”