The Author's Blood

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  The vaxor’s eyes shone, firelight dancing on his face. “And what of the Dragon?”

  “His defeat is sure. He will not rule this world or any other.”

  Velvel harrumphed. “You say that as if you really believe it. Yet here you sit in chains, with no army and all the forces of the Dragon against you.”

  “But I have seen the end of this war already. I have spoken with the one who wrote The Book of the King—”

  “Tell me of this book.”

  Owen hesitated. “I don’t know if I can trust you. In fact, I’m pretty sure I can’t. Why should I?”

  Velvel narrowed his eyes. “I think of myself as a fair warrior. If the Dragon asked me to kill you, I would.” He lowered his voice. “But I sense something in you. And if there is a chance you could be right . . .”

  “Listen carefully,” Owen said.

  Rogers tried to comfort Talea, but the girl could not stop crying. “Why did I care for those eggs so well,” she said, “when I should have known my family was dying?”

  “You couldn’t know,” Rogers said. “You were working to keep them alive.”

  A shout came from the edge of the camp. “Vaxor on horseback!”

  Starbuck and Rogers left Talea to gather with the warriors. They would be hopelessly outmatched against any of the Dragon’s forces, but they quickly flanked the invading rider from behind.

  “Now!” Rogers said.

  Starbuck threw his spear, and the rider fell with a thud. Several men held knives at his neck as he slowly rose. The spear had only knocked him off his horse; it had not pierced his armor.

  Tusin stepped forward. “Identify yourself.”

  “I am Velvel, chief of the vaxor forces of Dragon City, leader of the imperial guard.”

  “And what reason have we to let you live?” Tusin said.

  Velvel glanced from face to face. “I’m looking for Starbuck.”

  “What do you know of Starbuck?” Tusin said. “Who sent you?”

  “He who sent me said you would know who he was by the fact that I knew Starbuck’s name.”

  Everyone grew quiet.

  “How is he?” Tusin said.

  “Chained, imprisoned. He has been beaten.”

  Rogers raised his spear. “Let’s kill this one now before he alerts others.”

  “There are no others,” Velvel said. “I’ve come alone.”

  “What do you want with me?” Starbuck said, pushing his way through the crowd.

  “I was told you hold the book.”

  The crowd gasped and Starbuck winced. “No books are allowed in the Lowlands—you know that.”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know I’m talking about The Book of the King. Your leader asked that I retrieve it.”

  “Don’t believe him!”

  “He’s a liar!”

  “The truth is not in him!”

  “Don’t trust someone who works for the Dragon!”

  “Quiet,” Tusin said, studying the man.

  “He’s luring us into a trap,” Rogers said. “We let him go and he’ll lead the rest of the horde here.”

  Tusin grabbed Velvel’s chin and forced him to look him full in the face. “Your eyes have been opened, haven’t they? You’ve heard the truth about the King.”

  The vaxor wrenched away. “I listened. I haven’t made up my mind about what is to come.”

  “You’re playing both sides,” Starbuck said. “You’ll go with the Dragon if he wins and the Son if he does. But that won’t work. You have to choose.”

  “The book says, ‘If you stand on a fence in the middle of battle, you can’t help but fall,’” Rogers said. “Which side will you serve?”

  Velvel looked around. “I risked my life and my career to come here. Don’t accuse me of not choosing. Plus, your friend told me you would believe me if I explained what he said.”

  “And what was that?” Starbuck said.

  “That the King’s plans are coming true. No matter what happens, believe the Dragon will be defeated. But your friend has need of the book. And he must have it now.”

  Early in the morning, even before the sun would begin to bathe Dragon City, the Dragon sent for his prize prisoner—the sworn archenemy and last threat to his throne.

  The Dragon had not slept, pacing and plotting how to best elicit from the Wormling the whereabouts of his last egg and then dispose of him. Some had suggested he raise the boy high on a stake so the sun would bake him for days. Others said he should bury the young man alive. Still others felt he should be bound and thrown into the shallow muddy pit of the crocodile, perhaps the most ferocious and underused beast in the arena. The Dragon worried, however, that the Wormling/Son would use his power over the croc as he had the tigren.

  As the Dragon waited for RHM and vaxor guards to deliver the boy—as he insisted on referring to him—he was pleased to see that his own ornate quarters were expansive and clean, with fresh fruit and juices all around. That alone should show the cursed boy the difference between his predicament and the Dragon’s existence. One lived in splendor, waited on by staff eager to do his bidding (if they knew what was good for them), while the other was chained to a hulking vaxor in a dank, musty, smelly, cramped, dark dungeon.

  When the Dragon finally heard footsteps in the long corridor, he took one last peek at his visage in a full-length mirror. His eyes looked droopy from lack of sleep, but he was otherwise pleased with every green scale, horn, tentacle, claw, and talon. He spread his wings and lifted his tail so that his ginormous body filled the frame. Baring his teeth and turning his head this way and that to admire them all, he wondered why humans found his kind repulsive. Why, if he had the time, he could gaze at himself all day.

  When the knock came at the door, the Dragon hurried to the window and struck a reflective pose, gazing at his empire in the pink light of dawn. “Enter,” he said, but when a second knock came, he realized RHM could not hear him with his back to the door. He craned his neck and bellowed, “It’s open!” then returned to the view.

  The Dragon stood cupping one arm and stroking his chin. Behind him he heard the clanging and scraping of vaxor armor as well as the jangling chains of the prisoner. He waited until RHM cleared his throat, then turned, as if surprised. “Oh, unchain the lad,” he said. “Free both hands and feet. You are no flight risk, are you, son? We are now but businessmen hammering out an agreement; are we not?”

  The young man, who looked less than heroic after what had to have been a rough night for him, merely stared at the Dragon as the vaxors removed his chains. His clothes were torn, and there were marks on his face and chest. He winced when the vaxors removed his handcuffs from behind, and the Dragon knew his back had to be raw from his beating.

  “Sit, sit, please! Fruit? Some juice perhaps? I’m not sure these are offered below, are they?”

  It was not lost on the Dragon that the boy glanced longingly at the bowl of fruit, even while declining. The boy sat straight, avoiding pressing his back against the chair, as RHM and the two guards stationed themselves near the door.

  The Dragon sat and took a deep breath.“Then let’s chat, shall we? I’m curious why you would invade my arena and allow yourself to be taken. Is there a rational explanation, some strategic objective, or are you simply crazy?”

  “I am here doing my father’s business. There are things he wants me to accomplish.”

  “Like destroying my legacy and my children? How cruel of you and your father.”

  “It is not cruel to rid the world of evil. Your children would have followed in your footsteps.”

  “How can you know? Perhaps one may have rebelled, become the Prodigal Dragon, as it were. Maybe he would have switched sides.”

  “You had your chance and chose to disobey. The Book of the King says, ‘Do not be deceived by the smooth talk of the enemy. He has conceived sin, and when it is full grown, it will bring forth death.’ That is why your offspring, save one, have been eliminated.”

  “
But if one remains, have you not gone against your father’s wishes?”

  “You do not understand. My father and I have the same goals. I’m simply doing what he asked. You, on the other hand, have been a liar and a killer from the beginning.”

  Did this boy not fear for his life, talking like that? The Dragon was glad he had resisted the urge to hold this conversation in the arena before thousands. Who knew whom the lad could sway with his persuasive speech, speaking with authority and power and a strength the Dragon had rarely seen. He was not used to people looking him in the eye, especially when defying him and calling him names. Most who dared try that wound up as his midnight snacks, medium well.

  “Interesting,” the Dragon said, collecting himself. “You wipe out my family and call me a killer. How about you tell me where the egg is and I offer you a quick and painless death?”

  “I thought surely you would try to convince me I would go free if I led you to the egg.”

  The Dragon chuckled. “I give you more credit. Of course you would have seen through that. There is honor in death but not in the manner yours will come if you do not produce the egg. There is no honor in the way I will have you mutilated before everyone in the coliseum.”

  “The only honor I seek is watching you die in fulfillment of my father’s—”

  “Yes, yes, the prophecies,” the Dragon said, standing and gesturing. “The foretellings of your wonderful, majestic father. I’m so tired of that drivel. Thus this and thus that and whosoever blah, blah, blah. I’ve seen the book and read much of it. Does that surprise you?”

  “Why should it?” the boy said. “It did not come into your hands by accident.”

  The Dragon rolled his eyes. “Oh yes, the hand of the King moved it here.”

  RHM stepped forward. “I took the book from him on the island! His father had nothing to do with it!”

  “Not a bird falls from the sky without his knowledge,” the boy said. “Not a leaf from a tree. He knows the hearts of all and brings health to this land, where you bring only death.”

  “I’m glad your father knows when a bird falls,” the Dragon said, waving RHM back and leaning his massive face into the boy’s. “Many a bird and foe fell in that valley while you were cowering somewhere else. Even that dithering Watcher of yours.”

  Finally, the Dragon had hit a soft spot. The boy set his jaw and glared, balling his hands into fists.

  “Go ahead,” the Dragon said. “Take your best shot. I could incinerate you right now, just as my forces turned your friends into crispy critters. A shame they didn’t have skolers handy or they might have enjoyed a barbecue.”

  RHM doubled over with laughter, and even the vaxors chuckled.

  “Kill me and your offspring dies,” the boy said, “rotting where it lies.”

  The Dragon returned to his seat across from the boy. “Enough sparring. What do you want?”

  “You know what I want. You are holding my sister and the woman I am to marry.”

  “Are you sure? Is that so, RHM? Were they not released with the others?”

  Infuriatingly, RHM did not get it. He looked confused as he stammered, “N-no, Highness, I thought you said—”

  The Dragon waved him off, shaking his head. “Of course I hold them. What better bargaining chips could I have?”

  “Release them and allow them safe passage to the Amoyn Valley. Then I will tell you what you want to know and you may do with me as you wish.”

  “The Amoyn Valley,” the Dragon said, “where you reached the Lowlands through the first portal. How convenient. And speaking of the portals—didn’t the book say there were four? You came, you went, and you came again. That’s only three.”

  The boy sat silent.

  “So much for your father’s prophecies,” the Dragon said. “If I let them go, what’s to keep my flyers from eliminating them?”

  “I require news of their safe escape to the Highlands before I tell you anything.”

  The Dragon stood and paced behind the lad, dragging his rough tail between the Wormling’s back and the back of the chair.

  The boy hissed and wrenched away from the scales that reopened his wounds.

  “To the Highlands, eh?” the Dragon said. “That would be four portals. But I have a better idea. How about I have a hole dug and filled with the biting ants of Glennar? Then I pour honey all over your sister and your little fiancée and watch them die, bite by tiny bite. You will be provided a front row seat, of course.”

  “Then you’ll never learn where the egg is.”

  “And you would be next in the ant pit. I can begin another family.”

  “With the last female dragon in the land buried in the ash heap of your former home? Your greed and lust for power caused you to kill off even your own kind. Even that was used by my father. You’re the last of your breed. Your death will signal the end of a long reign of sin.”

  It was all the Dragon could do to keep from incinerating the boy on the spot. He sighed. “So we’re at an impasse. If you don’t tell me where the egg is, you never see your loved ones alive again.”

  “I’m the one you want,” the boy said. “And you have me. What possible good are they to you?”

  The Dragon gave a dismissive wave. “RHM, have Velvel perform his duty. He may do whatever he wishes except for killing him. As soon as he extracts the information, let me know immediately.” He leaned into the boy’s face once more. “Our little talk is over, but don’t forget what happens if you do not tell me what I want to know.”

  “And don’t forget what awaits you at the end of my sword.”

  “Your sword? Your sword! You mean that one?” He pointed to it on the wall. “It’s merely a trophy now, boy. My trophy.”

  Velvel arrived back in Dragon City just in time to fulfill the wishes of the Dragon—to take the Son to the brink of death to get information. As he entered the dungeon, vaxors were strapping the boy down, face-first, on a tilted table. Instruments of torture were laid out beside him.

  “Leave us,” Velvel said, picking through the various sharpened implements and whips. When the others had gone, he ripped the shirt from the boy’s back. “I have to make this sound good,” he whispered.

  “I know. Did you find my friends?”

  “I did. And you were right about the young one. He did not trust me.”

  “Tell me you brought the book.”

  “No.”

  The boy’s shoulders slumped. “Then I don’t know what to do. Everything hinges on the book.”

  “I understand,” the vaxor said. “But in the end they thought it too risky.”

  A guard passed and Velvel raised a whip. “Now tell me what I want to know!” With terrible force he lashed the Son’s back, tearing his flesh anew. On the second strike, the Son yelped and blood ran.

  Velvel leaned close. “Say something. Help me stop this.”

  The boy shook his head and yelled, “Never!”

  As the Son writhed and cried out with each new torture and blow, more vaxors appeared, apparently eager for their turn at him.

  But the more Velvel focused on his task, the more he came to respect the Son. Velvel had never had a victim go this long without breaking and revealing whatever information the Dragon wanted. But there was something deeper working in this lad.

  Something about the Son drew Velvel, but as he flailed away, he had to admit to himself that he wasn’t entirely sure what he would have done with the book if he had it. Something was going on inside him that he didn’t understand. He had always been committed to the Dragon, but now a sliver of doubt had crept in. He wanted to be on the winning side and enjoy the spoils of victory, to march into the arena to the cheering crowd and exult in the Dragon’s fire. But the way this boy talked, the way he recited from a book that seemed to possess him, made Velvel wonder if he was on the right side after all.

  To make matters worse, as he pummeled this human, something began to pierce his heart. What the boy had said about becoming whole s
truck him. Was it possible that he, a vaxor—a brutal warrior with nothing but bloodlust coursing through his veins—could be changed in some way, himself made whole?

  He put the boy on a rack that stretched his legs until they nearly broke, which caused screaming but no talking.

  “You want to tell me where it is now?”

  The other vaxors laughed and pointed, shouting insults.

  But finally Velvel knew he had to stop. He turned to the crowd outside the cell. “Leave me alone with him. I sense he’s at the breaking point.” He put down the whip, released the boy from the device, and sank to his knees in the dirt. Was this nagging in his mind just the effects of bad wine and moldy cheese? Or had some strange hope been planted in his heart that, just maybe, there was more to life than killing, pillaging, gorging himself, and drinking himself into a stupor, all the while trying to please the never-satisfied Dragon?

  A vaxor returned. “Let me relieve you,” he said.

  Velvel shook his head. “Stay out. I nearly have him talking.”

  “You nearly have him dead. You could bathe in his blood.”

  Velvel waved him off and leaned down to look into the boy’s eyes. He was breathing—that was all. And suddenly, as if falling from a fence, Velvel’s heart went cold. What had he been thinking? Would he give up everything the Dragon promised for words from this otherworldly lad?

  He rose and rushed from the cell, locking the door and ordering that no one should enter while he was gone. He ran to the top floor like a beast ready to tear apart his prey. RHM tried to intercept him, but Velvel brushed past him and into the Dragon’s quarters, only to find the imperial ruler slumbering, drooling on the great table.

  “I beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty,” Velvel said as the beast started and raised his head. “But I have news about the prisoner and the whereabouts of his companions.”

  All the while Owen was being tortured, he set his mind on a passage from The Book of the King: When you are called on to suffer, no matter how deep the pain, know that your love and faith are being tested. Persevere and do not give up. The ill treatment you endure will help make you complete.