Enemy of the Realm

by Wesley King

  “You sure you don’t want me to take him out?” Nolong growled.

  “No,” Marcus said. “He’s mine.”

  Nolong growled, but flew off again to rejoin the battle, leaving the two of them alone.

  “You have a lot to answer for,” Marcus said.

  Francis smiled, his hands still clasped behind his back. “Is that so? What for? Progress?”

  “You killed innocent people. Humans and dragons. And for what?”

  “For a better world,” Francis said, as the fire and bullets swirled overhead. “A new Dracone. What more can anyone ask for? I took the office on those promises. I am only doing exactly what I said.”

  Marcus gripped his sword with both hands, feeling his skin heating up. “You cannot build a future on the blood of innocent people. It doesn’t work that way. You are a monster, and nothing more.”

  “Is that so? And how about your father, Marcus? This is all his doing, you must know that.”

  Marcus met his eyes. “He tried to fix this. He tried to make amends.”

  “Did he? Maybe so. But he brought the drones here, boy. He turned them on the dragons, he created the factory and told me how to change this world: how to use steel and iron to build greater buildings and machines, how to mine the countryside for minerals and oil, and how to equip my growing armies. He told me that a new Dracone could only be built when the dragons were gone. It was his dream that I shared, and I learned from him. And you have his blood. You share in this too.”

  Marcus lowered his sword, shame burning on his cheeks. “I am not my father.”

  “You look like him,” Francis said, still wearing his arrogant smile. “But maybe you aren’t him. He was weak. Pathetic. He would never have challenged me in battle like this. So perhaps you are different. But it doesn’t matter, Marcus. Don’t you see? I know the Flames have come, but my drones are invincible. And you will die, and Dree will die, and your Resistance will die with it, just like Abelard Reiter.”

  Marcus gripped his sword and stepped forward. “I think you’re the one who is in trouble.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Francis said.

  Suddenly, he turned and scooped something off the table behind him, fitting it over his shoulder in one fluid motion. It was the launcher that Rochin had used to kill Vero. “One of your father’s parting gifts. That fool Rochin failed with it, of course, but what can you do? At least I get to enjoy the oh-so-delicious irony that your father’s most recent invention will be the very thing that kills his son.” Francis smiled. “It’s almost like a song, but far more amusing than any I have ever heard, I think. Goodbye, Marcus.”

  Then he pulled the trigger.

  Chapter

  26

  Marcus dove to the right as a massive fireball exploded from the nozzle, bursting into the brick wall behind him and erupting into flames. The concrete floor hit him like a truck, and he felt something shift in his still-sore right shoulder as he scrambled forward on all fours, trying desperately to hold on to his sword.

  Francis laughed. “Good . . . it wouldn’t have been as much fun if you died on the first shot.” He stared at Marcus as he climbed back to his feet, clutching the sword in two hands. “You know, I considered replacing your father with you for a while. I suspect you could have built something grand.”

  “I never would have joined you,” Marcus spat.

  “Oh, not willingly. But it’s all about leverage. If, say . . . I held Driele Reiter captive, on promise of death if you did not agree to join me . . . I think that might have worked, no? What do you think?”

  Marcus felt rage stirring inside of him again. “You aren’t going to touch her.”

  “Well, I decided I’d rather just kill her. And you. Too annoying . . . both of you. Activate!”

  Two Surveyors floated up behind him from the shadows, each armed with a single light machine gun. Above them, the fight was still raging on, and Marcus heard screams and battle cries and the sound of tearing metal. He knew every second wasted was another that Dree could be killed. He couldn’t allow that. If she died, then it was all for nothing. He saw no future in Dracone without her.

  “Kill him,” Francis said calmly.

  The two drones opened fire, and Marcus again sprinted out of the way, taking refuge behind a computer station. The bullets chewed into the machinery, shooting sparks across the dungeon and shattering the screens. Marcus gasped as one bullet clipped his left arm, tearing out a chunk of skin above his elbow. Blood seeped out of the wound, and he narrowed his eyes. He needed to fight back, and fast.

  Crouching low, he waited for the first drone to make the turn around the console, and then he slashed downward with all of his strength, bringing the sword right through the front of the Surveyor and smashing it into the floor. The second drone was close behind, however, and opened fire immediately, causing Marcus to again dive out of the way. He threw his sword at the drone, forcing it to dodge; and then he launched himself right on top of it, grabbing hold of the Surveyor in desperation.

  The drone shook back and forth and started to zoom around the control room, carrying Marcus with it. He felt his legs slip off the ground as the drone carried him upward, and he heard the cruel laughter of Francis. The drone continue to climb, and Marcus realized it was going to try to drop him to his death. He quickly reached over, ripped off the control panel, plunged his hands into the circuitry, and yanked.

  The drone shorted out, and they dropped together to the floor. Marcus managed to throw himself into a roll, taking away some of the impact, but he again smashed his shoulder into the concrete.

  Groaning, he looked up to see Francis walking toward him, pointing the launcher at his chest.

  “A valiant effort,” Francis said. “But a vain one. Your mother was a Dragon Rider, as you know. She always liked to seem so noble . . . so brave. But she was as arrogant as the rest of them. And in the end, for all her pretended heroism and honor, it was the dragons that killed her. Fire. And so ends her son.”

  Marcus looked up, images of his mother and father flashing before him like a newsreel. He saw his mother standing over him, her long golden hair hanging almost to her waist, and her eyes bright. She didn’t seem afraid, and he wondered why that was. Her only son was about to die, but she was not weeping.

  Instead, she smiled.

  And then Marcus realized what Francis had said. Fire. And a Fury would not be killed by fire.

  Francis pulled the trigger just as Marcus raised his hands, focusing on the fire that had burned inside of him since he was a child. He let it wash out of him, controlled and powerful, and as the shot leapt from Francis’s nozzle, it met Marcus’s own energy, and the fireball abruptly stopped in midair, spinning. Francis’s eyes widened as the fireball hung in the air between them, still hovering there like a star.

  “How?” Francis breathed, lowering his weapon.

  “I am a Dragon Rider,” Marcus said, climbing to his feet. “And a Fury. I cannot be killed by fire, Prime Minister. I am fire.”

  The fireball erupted, sending Francis flying across the room. He slammed into the wall of surveillance screens and collapsed to the ground, rolling onto his back as he frantically slapped out the flames that had sprouted all over his clothes. Marcus picked up the launcher, slowly closing in on him.

  Francis finally put out the flames and turned to see Marcus stalking toward him. He blanched.

  “Easy now, Marcus,” he said, backing up. “We can come to an agreement, I’m sure.”

  “I’m done talking,” Marcus said, aiming the launcher at Francis’s chest.

  A million things raced through his mind: his emaciated father strapped to the chair for years, the outskirts of the city—ruined and decimated, the innocent people killed or forced from their homes. He thought of the people who had died in the school attack and the Resistance fighters who had been killed in the
battle this morning. He thought of Erdath and Abelard, who had both sacrificed their lives to defeat Francis and the drones. And as Francis backed up, Marcus caught the glint of his dragon-tooth necklace—from one of the hundreds or even thousands of dragons he had killed. He deserved to die.

  Marcus narrowed his eyes and tightened his finger on the trigger. Francis cried out, but Marcus wasn’t listening. All the anger and pain and suffering had taken over now. It was time to finish the war.

  “Stop!” a familiar voice cried out, cutting through his single-minded focus.

  He paused, his finger hovering on the trigger. Marcus turned and saw Lourdvang swoop in for a landing, Dree on his back. Her face was singed, and her broken leg hung uselessly at Lourdvang’s side, but she was alive. She looked at Francis in disgust, and then gestured upward.

  “It’s over, Marcus. We won.”

  He followed her gaze and saw that the battle had indeed stopped. The air was full of dragons, and the drones had been cleared from the sky. The surviving Resistance fighters were now circling the city.

  “The soldiers are all surrounded. The drones are destroyed. Leave him.”

  Marcus looked at her, the launcher still aimed at Francis’s chest. “He deserves to die,” Marcus whispered.

  Dree nodded. “That may be true, but you’re not a killer, Marcus. We can’t be. We have to be better than him. If we’re going to build a better Dracone, we can’t start like this. We can’t find peace with blood.”

  “Now is when you decide what kind of a Rider you are going to be,” Lourdvang added.

  Marcus met eyes with Francis, letting his anger subside and fade away.

  Then he slowly lowered the weapon.

  “You’re right,” Marcus said. “Let’s get you to a cell, Prime Minister.”

  Chapter

  27

  Dree stretched out gratefully on the soft feather mattress, still keeping pressure off her broken leg. It was set now, and the doctor said it should heal normally, though it would take time. She could walk with the splint and a crutch, but she had been ordered to rest as much as possible. That was fine by Dree. She hadn’t slept well in weeks.

  She and the rest of the Resistance fighters had taken up in the palace while everything was sorted out. There were homes to rebuild, people to feed, and a lot of justice to be handed out. All of Francis’s personal cabinet had been locked up, as had much of the Protectorate. Even Rochin was sitting in a prison cell, facing charges of murder for Vero. He had begged Dree for mercy, but she left her brother’s fate to the tribunal.

  Francis had already been charged with everything from treason to murder to abuse of office, and his trial would be held in public—overseen by the Dragon Riders, who had once again assumed the defense of Dracone. Any citizens who had taken advantage of the death and destruction of the poorer outskirts were also being stripped of their newfound wealth, and much of it was being spent to rebuild the docks and other ruined areas, including the outlying villages. She knew her father would be very proud to see the ancient order restored, though that had been little consolation for losing him. Her mother had hardly stopped weeping since she heard the news. Dree kept dreaming of his last words, and she woke crying more often than not. She and Lourdvang had gone to retrieve his body after the battle and laid him in state until the funeral.

  But a small part of her knew that her father had found his peace before the end.

  Dree’s old school, which had been completely destroyed by the drones, was one of the first rebuilding projects, and Dree had even received the honor of naming it. The choice had been easy: the Abelard Reiter Academy. Her father’s picture would hang forever in the front hall.

  There was a light knock at the door, and she turned to see Marcus walk into the bedroom, smiling. He was dressed like a true Draconian now—a beige woolen tunic and coarse brown pants, as well as a sword slung at his waist. Nolong had requested that Marcus become his Rider, and Marcus agreed happily. The two were already sailing over the city every day, keeping peace over the rebuilding process.

  Marcus sat down on the bed beside her, looking over her injured leg. “How’s it feeling?”

  “Broken,” Dree said. “But mending. How are things out there?”

  “Moving along,” he said, shrugging. “Nathaniel was out earlier policing the reconstruction at the docks, and we have gotten just about all of the displaced families out of Forost and into temporary homes.”

  “Good. It’s amazing to see the city taking shape again. It almost feels like a dream.”

  Marcus smiled. “I know. I was thinking about where I would live, actually. Do you know—”

  “Excuse me,” a timid voice rang out. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  They turned to see one of the Resistance fighters standing nervously by the door.

  “What is it?” Dree asked.

  “I just wanted to ask what you two thought about the plans for the reconstruction of the docks. The teams were wondering if you had any changes. Oh, and Porter wanted to know if he can start going through the palace records to see if there are more Dragon Rider descendants in the city. Is that okay? And what about the Flames? Should we send an emissary to Helvath or . . .”

  Marcus laughed and shook his head. “That’s a lot of questions at once, and Dree is trying to rest. I’ll come meet with you later tonight and we can map everything out. Sound good?”

  “Perfect. Thank you, sir.”

  The man hurried off, and Dree looked at Marcus, raising her eyebrows. “Sir?”

  He flushed. “They’ve all been calling me that. They keep asking me questions.”

  “I know the feeling,” Dree said. She reached out and took Marcus’s hand, letting the comforting heat pass between them for a moment. “We did it, Marcus. For a while I thought we were all dead.”

  “Me too,” Marcus said. “Are you going to be okay for tomorrow?”

  The ceremony for Erdath and Abelard was going to be held in the city center the next day—a full funeral procession and a resting place of honor outside the city. Dree felt her stomach tighten, but nodded.

  “I think so,” she said. “I know my father would be proud of me. I just wish he could be here for all of this.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Marcus said.

  “Marcus, Dree?”

  They turned to see Nathaniel standing at the doorway. He still wore his black armor, and his blond hair had been slicked back, giving him a severe look. But as of late, he had barely stopped smiling.

  “We have a few new citizens who are being held on suspicion of collusion. Do you think we should hold them for a few days until you’re ready to see them or do you want me to question them or . . .”

  Dree sighed. “Let them go for now. We can bring them in tomorrow to question them. Maybe assign Tami to handle that. She has a knack for it. But we won’t be holding anybody without proof.”

  Nathaniel nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll see to it personally. Feel better, Dree.”

  He disappeared down the hallway, and Dree looked at Marcus and smiled. “I think we might have to give up on private conversations for a while,” she said. “Let’s get dinner later, though. I could use a break from this bed. Where’s Lourdvang? Or should I say Chief of the Nightwings?”

  Lourdvang had been elected by his kin to take Erdath’s place, and though Dree had to miss the ceremony, Marcus and Nolong made sure to be there.

  Dree felt herself glowing with pride at the thought of her little brother leading the Nightwings.

  “I saw him earlier,” Marcus said. “He is still getting things organized in Forost. He asked me to tell his big sister to get back on her feet soon so she could help him out. There’s no time for laziness.”

  “Sounds like him,” Dree said, smiling. She glanced past Marcus. “We have another visitor.”

  Jack walked in, looking distracted
. He was dressed in his clothes from home, his glasses still perched atop his nose. He smiled at Dree. “Hello, Dree. I trust you’re feeling better?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Dree replied.

  “Marcus,” Jack said, “can I speak to you alone for a second?”

  “Sure,” Marcus said.

  He squeezed Dree’s hand and quickly followed Jack out of the room. Dree watched him go, and then lay back, wondering if Marcus still might consider leaving Dracone now that the war was over. She hoped he would stay, but she knew it was a decision he’d have to make for himself.

  Marcus looked out from the top of the palace tower, scanning the sprawling city below. It was midday, and the sky was spotted with clouds, doing little to block the warm sun. Below was a scene of organized chaos. Buildings and stores and homes were being rebuilt, while food stands were again open for business, with new ones replacing the dragon market that had been torn down. Marcus and Nolong had been part of that process, and they enjoyed it greatly. To the east, a long line of citizens filed back into the city.

  Marcus looked up and saw dragons soaring overhead, bearing some of the first ten Dragon Riders—the only ones who had survived the battle with the drones. They flew with heavy hearts for the fallen: Ciaran, Eria, Abelard, and others. He even saw a Sage working near the docks, helping move supplies to rebuild the homes. Citizens worked hand in hand with the golden dragon, and together they forged ahead.

  “It’s a great thing you did here,” Jack said.

  “You too,” Marcus replied.

  Jack smiled. “I feel as if at least some of my guilt has . . . I don’t know, faded away. It’s a beautiful world, this Dracone. And a big one. Who knows what lies out over those horizons?”

  “For now, we’re busy enough with this section.”

  “No doubt,” Jack said. He turned to Marcus, suddenly serious again. “I need to head back to Earth, Marcus. I’ve decided to leave today. I’ll track down George and make sure he’s safe.”