Tears of a Dragon

by Bryan Davis

  “Don’t worry, Mom. We’ve done this before.” Billy winked at Bonnie. “Ready?”

  With wings spread out behind her and a radiant halo over her head, Bonnie truly looked like an angel. “Ready!”

  Billy placed a finger on the page and read the words as reverently as he could.

  The blade that bears the light of truth,

  The word of God made sharp and bright,

  O send us now our God we pray

  To chasms filled with holy light.

  The dragon’s gem, the walls of red

  Must now become a house of white.

  Rejecting pride reserved for knaves,

  The dragon bows to take a knight.

  Billy gave the book to his mother, then took Bonnie’s hand. Inhaling deeply, he nodded again at the professor. Bonnie’s hand squeezed his fingers, and their rubellite rings clicked together. The professor, his face steeling like the bronzed image of a warrior, swung the beam straight toward them. A flash filled Billy’s vision. Sparks flew everywhere. He lost all feeling—no weight, no touch, no sense of shape or proportion. It was like being back in the candlestone, except there was no roller coaster ride down a waterfall of light, no sense of floating in a black void with an anchor pulling back. It was more like liquid consciousness, real, yet unreal. Still, he sensed a presence, and he “thought” out loud, much like he did in the candlestone.

  “Bonnie? You there?”

  “Right next to you. . . . I think. . . . Where are we?”

  “According to Fama Regis, it’s called Dragons’ Rest. It’s sort of like limbo, where the souls of dragons go.”

  “Don’t dragons go to heaven?”

  “I don’t know. The poem in the book was really confusing, but I think I caught the gist of what I’m supposed to do.”

  “Okay. I’ll just stick close and try to help.”

  “Let’s figure out how to move around. I have no idea how much searching we have to do, but my dad’s in here somewhere, and we’re going to find him.”

  Ashley tried to read every gauge at once. Altitude was fine. Speed was high, but it would work. The fuel gauge said . . . Uh-oh. Those Watchers had better show up soon.

  A new voice broke her concentration. “So what’s the next step?”

  Ashley spun her head and yelped. “Walter!” She slapped her hand against her chest. “You scared me half to death!”

  Walter slid into the copilot’s seat. “Well, I had to wait till we were airborne. Otherwise you wouldn’t have let me come along. Besides, I thought you’d just read my mind like you always do and figure out I was here.”

  “I don’t read minds!” She shook her finger at him. “This is dangerous! Why did you stow away?”

  “’Cause I knew you’d do this,” he said, waving at the dashboard. “Besides, dangerous is my middle name. Or is it Dangerfield? Anyway, I’m not getting any respect here.”

  She shoved him against the window, a little harder than she intended, but she kept her voice firm. “Cut the clowning. This is serious. Either we’re going to get picked up by Watchers, or we’re going to run out of fuel and crash. Pick your poison.”

  Walter eyed the dashboard. “No door number three, huh? You can’t land this thing?”

  “I didn’t consider that an option when I took off.” She tapped the fuel gauge. It budged a little, but the wrong way.

  Walter leaned over the dash, his eyes filled with wonder.

  “You don’t look scared at all,” Ashley said.

  He waved his hand. “Nah. After you’ve faced a dark sorceress and a bunch of demons in Hades, you kind of run out of the heebie-jeebies.”

  A loud bump sounded from underneath the plane.

  “Hide!” Ashley ordered. “You’re not supposed to be here!”

  Walter crawled down the aisle and climbed into a crate in the back.

  The engine died away. The plane kept flying with no change in altitude, but it began accelerating so fast that Walter’s crate slid to the back of the cabin.

  “Remember what I said about heebie-jeebies?” Walter called, his voice muffled. “I think I found a few.”

  “Shhh!” Ashley withdrew her hands from the yoke and pulled the computer from her belt. “Larry, you got my position?”

  “Tracking you at a speed of 352 knots at an altitude of—”

  The computer suddenly exploded in Ashley’s hand. Sparks flew through the cockpit. She dropped the fried remains, leaving her palm a raw, sizzling mess. Grabbing her wrist, she moaned, her fiery fingers splayed.

  A low, sinister voice penetrated the cabin from somewhere outside. “Bad form, my dear.” It breathed a mocking tsk, tsk, tsk. “I know, I know. I didn’t tell you not to bring a tracking device, so technically you haven’t violated our demands, but surely you knew Morgan would not be pleased if anyone followed you.”

  Ashley found a half-empty water bottle and poured it over her stinging hand. “Cut the blather, will you? I’m not here to please Morgan, and you know it.”

  “Very well, I will forgo diplomacy.” The plane suddenly shook, rattling everything inside. Ashley clutched her seat, hanging on like she was riding a raging bull. Walter’s crate bounced. Books and papers flew all around the cabin. The voice returned, now growling. “Since you prefer to speak to Samyaza unmasked, you will get your wish.”

  Chapter 8

  THE KING’S CAP

  Excalibur’s beam wrapped around Billy and Bonnie, instantly transluminating them and leaving a pair of sparkling silhouettes. Their remains streamed toward the pendant on Marilyn’s chest. She heaved in a breath and held it, fixing her gaze on the silvery ribbon as it flowed into the rubellite. Seconds later, the stream vanished in a splash of sparks.

  The professor extinguished the beam and lowered the sword, his shoulders sagging. “May God bless your journey, my friends.”

  Marilyn slowly exhaled, then caressed the pulsing gem. “So, Sir Patrick, they’re actually inside this thing?”

  “Yes, it would appear so.” Patrick extended his hand toward her. “May I see the book?”

  Marilyn handed Fama Regis to him. Patrick flipped the book open, turning to the most recently translated page. Professor Hamilton joined him, looking over his shoulder. Both men murmured in base tones, their eyebrows scrunching as they turned page after page.

  Marilyn tried to peer over their arms. “What does it say?”

  “It’s quite remarkable, Marilyn.” The professor slid his hands under Fama Regis. “May I read it out loud, Patrick?”

  “By all means.” Sir Patrick pulled away, leaving the book with the professor. “While we are awaiting word from the search team, there is nothing else to be done. We can’t leave without Walter.”

  “Very well.” The professor, his spectacles still on, stood erect. “I will begin here with the explanation of the ‘king’s cap.’ Apparently Merlin is speaking to King Arthur about protecting Guinevere from Morgan. It seems that Morgan had demon cohorts back in the sixth century, not Watchers, but some other rank of fallen angels. This is important, because it leads to the decision William made about his journey to find his father.” He placed his finger on the page and cleared his throat:

  The king paced about the room, his head hanging low. “So, you are saying, Master Merlin, that while a battalion of my finest men cannot protect Guinevere from those devils, a mere wave of my sword can?”

  “Actually, seven waves, Your Majesty, in a circular pattern. It creates a covering called the king’s cap. Although its most extraordinary power is unleashed when a father applies it to his daughter, it makes any female wearer invisible to demons.”

  “Invisible!” The king stopped in his tracks. “And by what authority do you know this? A magic spell?”

  Merlin’s jaw tightened as he sat in the chair beside the throne, but his voice remained calm. “You know I do no magic, Sire. I am a prophet, and God has told me what to tell you. Is this any different than Moses being told to strike a stone to draw water?”<
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  “No. I see your point.” He resumed his pacing, now circling Merlin. The prophet remained motionless, not bothering to follow the king with his eyes.

  At length, the king asked, “Then why did your own wife fall prey to Morgan? Could you not conjure up a protective device for her?”

  Merlin’s cheeks burned. “A day will come when Morgan—” He cast a sideways glance at the scribe. “My king, at this point I beg for privacy. Must our words be recorded?”

  “Yes, they must, Merlin. This discussion may help my sons for generations to come. But, if you lack trust in my royal scribe . . .” The king waved his hand. “Palin. Leave us now.”

  Palin laid the book in the king’s hands and bowed before leaving the hall.

  King Arthur closed the book and laid it on a table at his side. “I will record the remainder of this meeting with my own hand this evening, and I hope my memory serves me well enough to be a faithful scribe. I will add my pages to the book after Palin has left my service, so he will never see them.” He nodded at Merlin. “Go on.”

  Merlin’s cheeks faded to pink. “A day will come when Morgan will pay for all her sins. I told her about the hostiam, because I had hope that she could be redeemed. And how did she repay my kindness? She poisoned my wife.” Merlin’s chin trembled, and his voice lowered to a growl. “Her hellish food robs both life and soul. The meat and meal of devils chokes out life, then empties the soul of its vitality. And now she wanders in the so-called Dragons’ Rest, like one of the dragon spirits without a heaven for a true resting place . . . or a hell to reap the bad seed they have sown.”

  “Dragons’ Rest?”

  “Ah, yes. Of course you don’t know. There is much I have to teach you, and there is so little time.” Merlin stood slowly, looking older than usual, and braced his back as he straightened. He strode toward the corner of the chamber, gesturing for the king to follow. “Come with me on a short journey. It would be best if I show you so that you will never forget.”

  Merlin pushed on a panel at the back of the room, opening a door that had blended perfectly with the surrounding wall. The two ducked under the low exit, then stepped cautiously on a craggy stone floor. Only a tapered shaft of light from the chamber illuminated the room, revealing a narrow passage under a low ceiling. A scruffy rat sat up on its hind legs, its eyes twinkling. With a skittering of its claws, it scurried into the shadows. A musty odor filled the passage, a reminder of abandonment—melancholy, but not unpleasant.

  Merlin took an unlit torch from a metal wall bracket. As he closed the door, darkness swallowed the remaining light. His voice echoed as if several Merlins occupied the long corridor. “Your Majesty. If you please.”

  A bright sword suddenly appeared, Excalibur shedding its royal glow, its hilt firmly grasped in the king’s hands. Merlin set the end of the torch against the blade and whispered, “Eshsha.” First as a tiny spark, then spreading across the torch’s fiber and fuel, a flame came to life.

  “A magic word, Merlin?” the king asked.

  Merlin led the way through the carved-out tunnel. “No, but you probably grow tired of my denials. I simply commanded fire from Excalibur in Hebrew. Since its light represents truth and knowledge, it responds to quite a number of commands.”

  The king followed close behind. “Do you know any other languages?”

  “Yes. Latin, of course. And if I am dealing with evil forces of pagan origin, I often use Greek commands to counter them.”

  The two tramped down a slippery stone slope for several hundred yards before leveling off and beginning a climb back to the surface. The ceiling and floor drew closer together until both king and prophet had to stoop to continue, ending on their haunches when they finally reached a dead end. Merlin handed the torch to the king, then pushed up on a wooden panel above his head and straightened his body. Pressing his hands on each side of the opening, he lifted himself out of the tunnel and stretched. The king followed, his sword still in hand, and slowly turned to gaze into the surrounding woods while Merlin put the hatch back in place and covered it with dirt and leaves. “I tamped out the torch,” the king said. “We can use it again on our return.”

  The moon’s glow framed a dark forest, shedding light on phantasmic oaks that stretched out their branches to snatch up unwelcome wanderers. Merlin nodded toward a thin line of dirt that weaved the narrowest of paths through the darkest part of the forest. He took a deep breath, his chest rattling slightly. “This way.”

  As the two stole through the woods, Excalibur’s light leading the way, Merlin whispered, “Remember this path. It is the way to Blood Hollow, a place Devin likely does not know. It is also the hiding place of one of the former dragons, one with whom I have gained a close bond.”

  They waded across a knee-deep stream, then followed a path so obscure that it must have been made by deer or perhaps rabbits. Descending once again, they pushed through thick brush and came out into a clearing, an elliptical, rocky space that resembled a miniature, sunken amphitheatre.

  Merlin stood at the center point, lifted his head, and whistled a nightingale’s call. He then stooped, signaling for Arthur to join him. “Devin will soon launch his rebellion,” Merlin said, “and I will conduct my greatest, and my last, experiment.” He bent close to the king, as if fearing that someone might be hiding in a bush to eavesdrop. “Valcor will be here soon. When he comes, you will learn a secret about dragons even the dragons themselves do not know.”

  Bushes rustled. King Arthur rose to his feet, Excalibur at the ready. A man emerged from the darkness, his hands raised, palms out. “I am Valcor, unarmed and at His Majesty’s service.” He bowed low.

  The king returned the sword to its sheath, then touched the man’s head. “Arise, Valcor. I recognize you from the day of transformation. You seem more fit than ever.”

  “Enabling me to serve you with more vigor, my king.”

  Merlin laid his hand on Valcor’s shoulder. “You have learned diplomacy well, my friend.” He waved his hand across the depressed clearing. “I have chosen this place because the dividing wall between this world and the world to come is as thin as papyrus. Here, creating a portal to that world requires only the paltriest skill.”

  Merlin knelt and placed a gem at the lowest point of the depression. Its crimson glow pulsed, like a dragon opening and closing its eye. “This rubellite,” he explained, “belonged to your father, Makaidos. As dragon king, he was aware that Devin would target him first when the war against dragons began, so he told me where it would be hidden should anything happen to him.

  “As you know, the gem itself represents the essence of a dragon’s soul, beautiful in form, as is the dragon, yet scarlet, the color of the unredeemed. What you may not know is that when a dragon takes the stone as his own, his soul becomes tied to it, and it becomes his gateway into the dragon afterlife, a place where humans are not meant to go. I expect, however, that any rubellite will absorb a dragon’s spirit, for not all dragons have their own gem.

  “But, if a dragon has one, as long as there is the slightest glimmer of a dragon’s soul remaining, his chosen rubellite will be red, and when he passes through the gateway into Dragons’ Rest, the gem becomes a pulsing beacon, indicating his presence there for the benefit of those he or she left behind in this world.”

  Merlin laid his hand on the rubellite, capping its glow for a moment. Then, raising his hand slowly, the glow seemed to follow his hand, growing into a vertical column, a rising scarlet pedestal that finally stopped when it reached the prophet’s height. Merlin drew an oval around it with his finger, and the pedestal seemed to bleed in all directions, filling up the frame Merlin had drawn until it formed a scarlet ellipse.

  Merlin backed away, joining the king and Valcor as they gaped in silence. He waved his hand, his palm pointing toward the flaming halo, and spoke in a resonant tone.

  O make the passage clear to men

  Who wish to see the gate,

  The path no dragon deigns to cross,
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  For death is not their fate.

  From top to bottom, the halo’s red hue faded to pink, then to white. A horse-trodden path appeared, straw lying here and there, and as people crossed from one side of the road to the other, they trampled the straw under their feet. The scene appeared to be a marketplace—two young women standing in front of a hut, their handmade wares displayed on the tops of wooden tables; a burly man carrying a pole with a deer carcass hanging from its hooves; and a matronly woman bearing a fruit basket in each of her meaty arms.

  Merlin took two quick steps forward. “There!” He pointed near the top of the ellipse. His voice grew excited, even agitated. “See the woman standing next to the nobleman? The one carrying the scrolls?”

  The king leaned closer, squinting. “The gray-haired lady handing him a scroll right now?”

  “Yes! Yes! She’s the one!”

  The king stroked his chin. “She is familiar to me, Merlin. Very familiar.”

  “She should be.” Merlin’s face reddened again. “She is my wife.”

  “Your wife? So we are looking upon Dragons’ Rest?”

  Merlin’s expression turned vacant, as though his mind had flown into the scene before them. His fingers hovered over the image of his wife, caressing her face from afar.

  “Merlin?” The king shook the prophet’s arm. “Is that Dragons’ Rest?”

  Merlin tore himself out of his trance and stepped back from the oval. “Yes.” He took a deep breath, now keeping his gaze on the king. “As I told you, Morgan’s food not only kills the body, it drains vitality from the human soul, and this dungeon is reserved for the dead who enter into eternity without a living, human soul. Now my wife languishes there, not knowing who she really is or why she is there.”

  The ellipse suddenly grew dark, shifting to gray, then black, the darkness seeping out of the oval like a night fog. Billowing smoke crawled along the ground, then rose into a column, slowly solidifying into a human form, slender and feminine, the shape of Morgan Le Faye.