RHM had long desired the authority of his leader, to take over and be the most powerful being in the Lowlands. But that would come in good time when the Dragon grew old and feeble and had no one else to whom to pass his mantle.
RHM contemplated sending a spy to shadow the Dragon, but he had no one he could trust. If his scheme was found out, both the spy and RHM would be incinerated. He had already outlived any other aide the Dragon had ever employed.
A sentry reported spotting wings in the distance. RHM climbed to the top of the castle to watch the Dragon’s descent. For some reason, this time the Dragon looked glorious, swaying in the air as if actually enjoying his flight.
As he neared the castle, the Dragon belched fire on the flag of the former resident and consumed it. He plopped down on the parapet next to RHM and gave another blast as sentries and workers gathered in the courtyard and cheered. This was hardly their choice, of course, but rather something the Dragon had had RHM command them to do each time he returned.
“Welcome back, sire,” RHM said, probing the Dragon’s face for any clue to where he might have been. “Did you have a nice trip?”
“Quite. What news do you hear from Dragon City? Is everything ready?”
“The prisons are full, Your Highness. The vaxors plan one final thrust through the land, and the animals you requested for the coliseum have been procured from the farthest reaches of the kingdom.”
“The tigren?”
“Yes. Several.”
“And the crocs?”
“They were able to capture only one, but it is magnificent, monstrous, with long, sharp teeth.”
The Dragon slammed his tail on the edge of the parapet, knocking stones loose and nearly sending RHM to his death. “I told you I wanted many of those slimy beasts for the center pit in the arena! They are to tear my opposition to pieces!”
“We could have gone with several smaller ones,” RHM whined, bowing, “but you’ll like this beast. Three sentries died just trying to subdue it.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” the Dragon said. “Perhaps one ferocious croc will be better than a whole pool full of them, eh? Give the victims the idea they might have a chance.”
“Exactly, sire, and then the teeth clamp down and—”
“Stop! You’re making me want to push up the opening ceremonies.”
“Well,” RHM said with great pomp, “all the creatures have been delivered to the coliseum, and every human not cowering in the rocks somewhere is in the prison.”
The Dragon clicked his talons together. “I want to make sure everyone in the arena will be able to see each falling body—a tribute to my power and authority.”
“We have taken care of everything, sire. We are ready to begin the ceremony on any day of your choosing.”
The Dragon smiled. “One week from today. And I want a trophy to show the audience.”
“Trophy, Highness?”
“The chosen damsel from the Highlands,” the Dragon purred. “I promised the king and queen of the west that her blood would anoint my throne.”
Deep in the bowels of the palace, Rogers rubbed his swollen feet. Over the past few days he had attempted to lure one of the guards into the cell so he could subdue him and escape, but the closest any came was when they pushed the daily ration of soggy bread through a small hole under the door. Others had beaten him to it the first few times, but Rogers had finally managed to get a few morsels.
The bigger problem, of course, was water. It was everywhere but not fit to drink. He caught a few handfuls from what dripped from the ceiling, but he needed more.
Rogers could tell the others were perturbed with him because he wouldn’t tell them any more about the Wormling. He had said too much already, for what if someone told the Dragoness and she told the Dragon?
Rogers had felt he was doing the right thing when he tried to help Talea find her family. But he realized that was not his mission, and now here he sat, having failed the Wormling.
Heavy footsteps descended the stairs.
One of the people sloshed close to the door. “Two guards,” he whispered. “It’s not feeding time. What could they want?”
“Shh! Listen.”
“They’re talking among themselves. Something about the Dragoness wanting a snack.”
“No!” a girl hissed. “I’m the smallest. They’ll pick me.”
“No, give them him!” someone said. “The new guy.”
Rogers tried to back away, but three people were already on him. “Stop it!” he said. “What are you doing? I’m here to help you!”
As the door opened, they threw Rogers at the feet of the guards.
“We need something smaller,” a guard said. “Isn’t there a young girl still in there?”
“Take him!” the people shouted.
“He’s been making trouble!”
“He stinks!”
The guard sniffed at him. “I’ve smelled worse.”
“He’ll do,” the other said.
As they carried Rogers to the main level, he squinted into the warmth of the sun, working its way through a low-hanging fog.
The guard ordered Rogers to walk upstairs. If he tried to run, they would surely kill him. He would have to wait for a better opportunity.
On the second level a blast of fire caught his attention as a door opened and a hideous creature emerged. Rogers had never been this close to a dragon. He felt he was looking into the face of pure evil. The eyes alone made him scamper back into the arms of the smelly guards.
“Toss him inside,” the Dragoness cooed. “I know I’m not supposed to play with my food, but . . .”
As soon as he was inside, Rogers ran for the window, only to be stopped by a line of fire that would have incinerated him had he continued.
The Dragoness skulked in and closed the door, then stretched her tail to also close the window. She batted her eyes at him, sniffing. “You don’t look like the rest of the rabble in the dungeon. How did you survive the flood?”
“I kept my head above water. Many are still alive, ma’am. They need your help.”
“Ma’am?” the Dragoness said. “It’s Your Majesty to you, knave.”
Rogers ducked his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Say it. Use the words.”
Rogers was looking for any edge, any way to save his life, but she was not majesty to him, and he could not bring himself to say it.
She drew closer and cocked her head, examining him from head to foot. “You know I’m going to kill you for refusing to honor me.”
Rogers closed his eyes and inhaled. “I do not respect those who treat the weak as you do.”
“What did you say?”
Rogers merely straightened and opened his eyes, but he seemed to grow several inches taller. He locked eyes with the Dragoness, finding within himself the conviction that he served the true King and didn’t have to fear this being. “You heard me. I do not revere you because you abuse your power.”
A rattle formed in her throat. “I could end your life with a mere cough.”
“You have no authority over me nor the power to burn away the truth.”
“And what truth would that be?”
“That you fight a losing battle. That the Dragon is but a pawn in the hands of the true King.”
The Dragoness chuckled and stretched herself out on the floor. She seemed to study him, moving her head this way and that. “You think the Dragon is a pawn? I assure you, he is powerful and deserves your worship as well as your fear.”
“I will never worship or fear a being that can harm only my body but cannot even threaten the truth. The truth can no more be burned from us than the sky or the mountains.”
The Dragoness laughed and traced a claw on the floor. “It’s a pity my stomach is empty. I have to keep my strength up. It won’t be long before I’ll have several little ones to chase after.”
A wing flap outside caught Rogers’s attention, and noise from down the hall distracted
the Dragoness.
“Do you really think the Dragon will allow you to live once the eggs have hatched?” he asked.
“What kind of question is that? I’m their mother.”
“Have you noticed there are no other dragons in the Lowlands? He eliminates his own kind as well as us. Why would he spare you to challenge his throne?”
Rogers saw a flash of doubt in her eyes for the first time. When someone screamed downstairs and steel sounded against steel, she rose and moved to the door.
“You must make your decision,” Rogers said. “You may never have another chance.”
She cast a burning gaze toward him. “You offer me a choice? I offer you life or death, not the other way around.”
“You know what I’m saying is true,” Rogers said. “The Dragon will never allow another to challenge his throne, and you are more than a match for him. Revenge would make you even more fierce.”
“Revenge?”
“Am I wrong? Did he spare your family? Has anyone seen them? He kept you alive only so you could bear his offspring.”
More noise from downstairs. A door opening down the hall. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
The Dragoness’s face contorted in terror—a look so horrible that Rogers knew the sound had enraged her. She flapped her wings and flew from the room.
Rogers followed, passing the still bodies of guards on the stairs and rushing toward the nursery.
There, standing beside five smashed eggs, Talea protected behind him, was the Wormling.
“You’ve killed my babies!” The Dragoness’s voice cut the air with pain and anger.
“Your evil will not live on after you,” the Wormling said.
“My children,” the Dragoness whimpered. “My beautiful babies. Where have you gone? Oh, forgive me for not taking care of you.” She bent to examine the nest, suddenly turning on the Wormling. “You didn’t do your job. There is still one left.” She pointed to Talea. “You’ll pay for this. You and your friends will die like your family. And know this: I will have more children.”
“My family?” Talea wailed.
The Wormling raised his sword at the Dragoness. “Greater is the creator than the created. Prepare to die.”
She shot fire at the two that lit the room like a blowtorch.
Rogers retreated and grabbed a spike from a fallen guard. But as he dived toward the Dragoness, the guard caught his ankle, sending him sprawling.
The Dragoness continued her blast, turning the room into a furnace and making Rogers wonder if the Wormling or Talea could survive. He kicked free of the guard and leaped onto the Dragoness’s back, plunging in the spike.
She yelped and turned, throwing Rogers off, then whirled on him and fired away again. But the flame went straight up and fizzled, and Rogers saw why. The Wormling had driven his white-hot sword deep into her heart, only the hilt showing from her chest as she thrashed and crashed to the floor atop all but one of her broken eggs.
“Is she dead?” Talea said, clearly paralyzed from fear.
The Wormling pulled the sword from the Dragoness, and her body fell limp. “She won’t harm you. We would never be able to do that to the Dragon—his scales are much thicker at the chest.”
“My family,” Talea said. “Are they really gone?”
Rogers tried to speak, but the look on his face was evidently all she needed. “There was a flood,” he said.
Talea’s eyes filled and she gritted her teeth, lunging toward the last egg.
The Wormling grabbed her before she brought her weight down on it.
“You save the Dragon’s offspring? I want every one of these gone!”
“I have need of it,” the Wormling said.
He assured Rogers that the guards had been taken care of and that he could release the remaining captives. They staggered into the light, wet, hungry, and thirsty, their clothes in tatters and their skin peeling. Many apologized to Rogers and thanked him.
The Wormling brought food and water for all, and then they burned the palace and everything in it.
As the people slowly set out for their homes, the Wormling beckoned them to follow him. Only a few did, and one family agreed to look after Talea along the journey.
Finally, Rogers was alone with the Wormling once more.
“I wish we could have spared the Dragoness and enlisted her against the Dragon.”
The Wormling shook his head. “We are at war. We cannot convince evil to change. Evil consumes everything in its path. Do not feel bad that we rid ourselves of some of it.”
The Wormling helped Rogers prepare the people for their trip, then explained some of his plan as he led Rogers to Grandpa for their flight.
“Why are you keeping one of the eggs?” Rogers said.
“You will find out,” the Wormling said.
Rogers was surprised to see Machree.
“No one must know of his involvement with us,” the Wormling said.
Rogers nodded, but he worried whose side the bird was on.
Clara had used her back door key and moved Connie into the boarded-up Briarwood Café. It was a good place to hide, where she could find food and water. The aging process had further attacked Connie, making her even thinner and nearly unable to swallow.
Clara dragged a table in the corner to a booth, making a long table, and used several tablecloths to keep Connie warm. Clara made sleeping quarters for herself in a booth nearby, where she could see outside through gaps in the boards tacked over the windows. She had seen police cars and ambulances since carrying Connie from the bed-and-breakfast but not much else.
Early in the morning Connie was rasping and coughing. Clara had seen shadows move past the windows, though when she peered out, she found nothing but wind in the trees and a dim streetlamp.
“Water,” Connie moaned, barely loud enough to be heard.
Clara brought her a glass and lifted her head.
Connie took a few sips, then lay back on the pillow Clara had made from linens.
“How are you feeling?”
“As bad as I look,” Connie said. “I’ve always dreamed of being a princess, but when my horse-drawn carriage arrives, it had better be a wheelchair.”
Clara pushed the hair from Connie’s eyes and smiled. “It’s good to see you still have your sense of humor.”
“With all these wrinkles, it’s the only sense I have left. What about you? What are you supposed to see in this new world of your father’s?”
“He didn’t tell me much,” Clara said. “I assume he’ll tell me when I’m supposed to know. I’m still getting used to who he is and who I am. I’m not sure I want to know everything just yet.”
Connie nodded weakly and took a shallow breath. “Do you think he meant for this to happen to me?”
Clara looked away. “Well, if he’s truly in control, I suppose he could have prevented it. So there must be some purpose in it.”
“In feeling like you’re going to die? I can’t imagine.”
Clara fumbled in her pocket for a scrap of paper. “I wrote something from The Book of the King down. Listen. ‘Every detail of your life is woven like a beautiful tapestry. Whether it seems good or bad, it perfectly fits into the design. Your father loves you—’”
“Shh . . .”
The doorknob turned slowly. A deep voice. Then something pressing against the door.
“Stay there, Connie.”
“As if . . .”
Clara grabbed a chair and shoved it under the knob, wedging it tight.
When the next volley of pushing came, someone cursed. “We’re going to have to break a window.” Clara recognized the voice.
“Let me try,” another said.
The door banged, cracked, and rattled, but the chair held. More cursing. “Once we’re in, check the register just in case. I’ll look for pies or those ice cream cakes from the freezer.”
Clara took a deep breath. “Looks like company,” she said in her most manly tone. “Call the cops and I’ll get t
he gun.”
Someone laughed and slammed against the door, splintering the wood and sending the chair flying.
Clara screamed and rushed to Connie, covering her.
“Gordan!” she said as he crashed halfway through, pant leg caught in the wood.
“Who is it?” someone behind him said. Clara assumed it was one of his usual lackeys.
“Clara. The pretty one with dark hair. The waitress. How’re you doing?”
“What’s that?” someone said outside.
“Let’s get out of here!” another said.
“Guys,” Gordan said, “don’t leave because of a little fog. Honey, can you give me a hand over here?”
Clara shook her head as a misty white seeped in and billowed about.
Gordan coughed and struggled. “Come on. Help me!”
Before she could move, a sticklike arm shot through the opening. Several feelers extended and wrapped themselves around Gordan’s chest. His eyes grew wide as they tightened, squeezing the breath from him.
Clara rushed to pull at the spiny tentacles, but they were so tight she couldn’t even get her fingers underneath. Something snapped, and Gordan looked like he wanted to scream. Clara actually felt sorry for him for the first time in her life.
An object—curved and sharp and glistening—moved through the broken door. It looked like the talon from some ancient bird. With a quick pull, Gordan disappeared into the mist. Clara heard a gurgle and something splattered on the door. Then a thump on the ground, as if someone had dropped a sack of groceries. Clara froze as a tentacle reached into the room, twitching as if sniffing.
The thing, whatever it was, moved farther in, displaying more tentacles, more feelers. When its huge head popped through the door, it looked like Karl, only bigger, stronger, and more hideous—with a smell that rivaled a pail of dirty diapers.
Clara stepped back, bumped into a table, and toppled over a chair.
The creature headed toward Connie and began removing the tablecloth.
“No!” Clara shouted, attacking, but one thrust of a small tentacle sent her flying across the room.
The Author's Blood Page 10