Bane of the Dragon King

by J. Keller Ford

“Where are we? What is this place?”

  Mangus reached behind him and handed her a leather belt complete with a long, sheathed sword on one side and a dagger on the other. “Put this on, please.”

  She hesitated before taking it. After all, they were tools of death and destruction. They’d probably killed someone in the past. But protesting wouldn’t get her out of this class. She inhaled a deep breath and strapped the belt around her waist, the weight of the sword heavy on her hip, the dagger cold and unfeeling.

  “I know they feel like poison to your soul,” Mangus said, staring into the distance. “I can sense your distaste, but with training, they will become your friends.”

  “I’d rather use magic.”

  Mangus’ shoulders straightened slightly. “Do you think magic is without its dangers? Do you believe magic cannot kill?”

  “No, but I’d rather learn to control it than control these.” She gripped the hilts of both blades.

  “Why not learn to do both?”

  She had no answer.

  “As with defensive magic,” Mangus continued, “you only use your weapons when you need to save your life or the lives of those around you. At first, you will find them awkward, but in time, you will grow to respect them, even admire them. Before that can happen, you must understand them. Each has its own strength and potential. My job is to introduce you to them, let you experience them for yourself. Let you know and love them the way I do.” He faced her, his eyes soft. “I don’t want you to end up like Eric.” His voice quaked. “Dead, in the ground, with so much more of your life to live. I want you to be this phenomenal creature, a woman who is strong in both muscle and mind. A woman revered by all. But you need to know how to defend yourself and those around you. Magic isn’t always the answer. Weapons aren’t always the answer, either, but you need to be experts at both to make the right choice.”

  “You talk about them as if they are human, as if they had some sort of mortality.”

  He nodded. “They do in a way, except for those.” He pointed to the weapons hanging from her waist. “They are trainers, dull as eggs, just not as brittle. A true blade however,” he laughed, “a real blade can get your enemy to back down just by looking at it … and the wielder.”

  Charlotte’s memory strayed to the night she, David, and Trog arrived at the Inn of the Nesting Owls in Gable. The innkeeper wanted to haggle. He thought he could outsmart Trog, until Trog placed his dagger on the counter. The innkeeper had rubbed his chin, eyed Trog with speculation, tried once more to bargain. In the end, he gave Trog what he wanted without a single drop of blood being spilled. She liked that. She liked that a lot.

  “For most people, weapons breed fear.” Mangus’ voice drew her back to the present. “They don’t understand them. They see them as dangerous and that’s all. What they fail to understand is the weapon, on its own, is not dangerous. It only becomes so in the hands of the person holding it.”

  “I don’t want to be dangerous.”

  Mangus shook his head. “You don’t want to be villainous. You do, however, want to convey strength and power. You want respect.” He moved toward her, his height and broadness engulfing her, but she no longer felt timid in his shadow. He looked down at her, his expression one of faith and compassion, maybe even love. “The people already adore you, Charlotte. They are in awe of you. Now you need to make them respect you. You are a Numí princess, which makes you a fighter. A champion for them. They already see you as their savior.”

  She eyed him narrowly. “I’m a kler. You said so yourself.”

  “You are of Jared’s blood which makes you more mage than I will ever be. Embrace it.”

  “Why can’t Slavandria or Lily fight Einar? They’re true Numí with powers far beyond anything I can dream to accomplish in a few days or weeks.”

  He smiled, his gaze traveling to her hair, her face, her eyes. “No, little one. You have unbelievable powers. The way you blocked Slavandria and me from your mind? That was not taught. That was inherent. Today is the day you stop underestimating yourself. You are the youngest heir to Hirth, and you are Numí. Einar and Seyekrad may only think of you as a witch now, but they will tremble in fear one day when they discover the truth. That does not mean they won’t come after you with every ounce of magic they possess, and their attack will be brutal. You must be prepared to fight them. Are you ready to become who you were meant to be?”

  The gentleness in his voice oozed over her, coating her in clarity and confidence. She sensed no malice, no manipulation, only strength, honor, and an intense desire to champion her. She shrugged and said, “Sure. Where do we train?”

  He clasped her hand in his and squeezed tight. “The pit.”

  Her wailed protest trailed behind her as they blipped onto a thread of pewter-blue magic, twisted and spun at the speed of light, and unraveled among a copse of trees. Charlotte staggered and weaved, her brain spinning. She knelt behind a thick tree and threw up. How David found the courage to travel repeatedly in such a way was asinine. She’d be happy if she never experienced that spell again in her life.

  Charlotte straightened and dabbed at her face, wiping any remnants of breakfast away. She turned toward Mangus and screamed.

  Ghosts, thousands of ghosts converged on her, some children, some women, but mostly men. Men in ragged clothes. Men in uniform. Men in armor. All with ghastly empty faces. They reached out to her, touched her. She shook her head and backed up, her heart racing into her throat. She pulled her dagger and pointed it at them.

  “Get away from me! Get back! Don’t touch me!”

  They pressed closer to her, murmuring.

  There were so many of them. She brushed at the tingles crawling over her skin like ants scurrying over a disturbed mound. She dropped her dagger and stumbled over a root, falling into Mangus. She turned, clutching his shirt, and stared at him wide-eyed. “Make them stop. Make them go away!”

  He turned her around. “I cannot do that. You must do it.”

  “I can’t.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Their voices are in my head. Their need to touch me is driving me mad. I can’t take it. Please, Mangus. Please get me out of here. Take me home.”

  “Not until you find a way to make them listen to you.”

  She pushed off his chest and blinked back the tears burning her eyes. “You’re supposed to protect me.” She struggled to find a sense of composure. “You’re supposed to be my legs when mine can no longer stand. My eyes when I can no longer see.” Her voice cracked. “Instead, you stand there with that smug, pretentious look, refusing to help me when I need you the most. How is that teaching me anything?”

  She turned and waded through the spirits. Irritated by their prickly touches, she drew her sword and spun around, the weapon cutting the air in a loud swish. “Back off. You’re creeping me out!”

  The ghosts stared, their expressions lost. Sad.

  Charlotte lowered her weapon, compassion swelling her heart to the brink of bursting. How long had they been here, trapped in the pit? Years? Centuries? She dropped the weapon to the ground. It clanged against a rock. “Oh my gosh, I get it now. You want to move on. You want to leave this place. You want me to help you.” She pressed her palms to her heart. “I don’t know if I can help you, but give me time. One way or another I’ll find a way to get you out of here, I swear it.”

  The specters backed away and dropped to their knees, their chins to their chests. Charlotte turned to Mangus. “Why are they bowing?”

  He smiled. “Look at yourself. Look at your hands.”

  Charlotte looked down and gasped at the soft glow enveloping her. “I-I don’t understand.”

  “You are a Numí, and you have just befriended the spirits of the damned. You have given them hope and brought them a sense of peace. Find a way to save their souls, and they will fight one last time. For you. For Hirth. For honor.”

  Charlotte turned slowly, taking in all of them. She picked up her sw
ord and sheathed it. Their heads lifted, and they stood. She scoured the ground and found the dagger she’d dropped and returned it to its home. She looked up at Mangus. “Take me back to the castle. I need to talk to Slavandria.”

  ***

  Charlotte sought out Slavandria as soon as she recovered from her second trip using the thread of magic highway, but she was occupied with Trog, so she decided to visit David. She had to tell him about what happened in the pit, but he was asleep. Frowning, she let out a sigh of exasperation and turned to leave but was stricken by the amount of wounded in the infirmary and the lack of attendants. How had she not noticed it before? She remained at the hospital until well into the night, doing what she could to assist the understaffed physician and aids. There were so many wounded, so many sick and dying all because of Einar. It wasn’t right; it wasn’t fair to have all this suffering because of one maniacal being. She wanted to heal them all, just touch them and make them well, but something deep inside of her told her it was forbidden. Life and death needed to take their natural course. Charlotte snorted at the morality of it all. She could think of a few times when Slavandria interfered with life’s natural course, especially when it came to David. Her response when questioned? David was the paladin. She had to keep him alive. Once the war was over, she would back away and leave him to his natural fate.

  Doubtful, but it was her story. She was entitled to it. Still, knowing the rules didn’t make it any easier. It was difficult to look at those in pain and not wish for a little divine interference.

  She set about washing a mound of soiled rags in a sink when a girl about her age with red curly hair and skin as pale and delicate as porcelain drew up beside her, a basket of stained cloths in hand. She looked familiar, but Charlotte found it difficult to place her.

  “You have a knack for this sort of thing,” the girl said, setting the basket on the table. “It isn’t often you find someone who enjoys helping others. The patients seem to appreciate it, too.” She wiped her hands on her apron and smiled, stretching out a hand. “I’m not sure if you remember me. My name is Emelia. We met at Eric’s father’s place not long ago.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember now,” Charlotte said, nodding. She dried her hands and shook Emelia’s. “I’m Charlotte.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Emelia stepped aside as two young aids filled a sink with water from kettles nesting above a low fire. She thanked them as they scurried away and set about jabbing the soiled cloths deep in the water with a long stick. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been taking care of all this laundry by myself for several weeks. You’d think I’d have arms the size of Sir Trogsdill’s by now with as much thrusting and stomping and washing I do.” Charlotte smiled. “The older women around here are great with the beds and the chamber pots, which I would hate to do, so I guess I shouldn’t complain. Still, I’m thankful for the help, any help, with the laundry. There seems to be an endless supply of bloody sheets, rags, and bandages coming through here, thanks to that evil monster of a dragon.” Sweat dotted Emelia’s brow, and she swept it away with her arm. “You may want to use a beetle instead of your hands to wash with. There’s one above you on the shelf. And be careful if you use the lye. It will take your skin off. I prefer the lavender soap.”

  Charlotte pulled down what looked like a baseball bat and placed it in the sink. “Were you here the day Einar attacked? Did you see him?”

  Emelia nodded. “It was horrible. The screams. The fire. The smoke. The panic. We lost so many people that day.”

  Charlotte remained silent. She knew the disaster Emelia spoke of. She’d heard the sounds of war, the breaking bones, the screams that rippled through her body, each one taking a piece of her soul with it. She’d felt the wind from the beast’s wings, smelled his foul, rotten egg stench. She’d faced him, stared him in the eye, and for the first time in her life, she hated something so much she wanted to kill. The thought sent a chill through her. What he did to Eric and Trog and all those souls that now served him as shadowmorths was unimaginable. And now Gertie and Garret were gone, and she couldn’t fathom what nightmares the ifrit left behind for David. That kind of evil should never exist in the world. It had to end, and she had the power to do it.

  She swallowed and shoved the growing rage back into her belly. As much as the idea of killing something gnarled every inch of goodness in her, she would not let Einar take the decency and love from her. If she lost those two things, he would win. Never in a million, trillion years would she allow the dragon to win, not as long as she breathed.

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Charlotte said, stabbing the beetle into the water. “Did you lose anyone close to you?”

  Emelia nodded. “My father died the day of the attack. My mother passed away a week later. There were others.” She jabbed her stick in the water.

  Slosh.

  Slosh.

  “I’m sorry.” Charlotte unstopped her sink from below and let the dirty water flow down the drain in the floor. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost my parents.” She restopped the sink and collected more water from the hearth.

  “To be honest, it hasn’t set in yet. I know they’re gone, and I miss them terribly, but for some reason Squire Eric’s and Squire Sestian’s deaths have affected me far worse. Did you know Sestian?”

  Charlotte dunked another mound of laundry in the water. Blood swirled in the heat and steam. “No, though I heard Eric speak of him a few times. He must have been a decent guy for Eric to like him so much.”

  Emelia broke off a chunk of lavender soap and handed the block to Charlotte. “Sestian was one of a kind. Charming. Mischievous. Impetuous. He died in the room next door. It was awful the way his body was all mangled and crushed. So many bones broken. His death nearly killed Eric. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way he wailed and sobbed. I’ve never felt someone else’s pain the way I felt his stab through me. They had been best friends for so long. They grew up together. They were supposed to each marry some lucky lass, and the four of them were to grow old together.”

  “Let me guess. You were hoping to be one of the four?”

  Stab. Thrust. Stir the bloody cloths.

  Emelia smiled. “I was hoping, but neither had an eye on me.”

  “Who would you have wanted?”

  “Eric, of course. He was far more handsome of the two, and much more educated, and when he looked at you with those brooding green eyes … ” Emelia sighed.

  Charlotte grinned. She knew exactly what Emelia was talking about. Eric did have amazing green eyes, the kind that made her want to crawl inside of them, curl up, and never leave.

  “You know someone else who is quite dapper is your David,” Emelia said. “The first time I saw him a few weeks ago, I gave him little thought. He seemed so puny and unsure of himself. Now … now he seems changed somehow. Stronger, as if he has a purpose. And his eyes. I’ve never seen any so blue.” She drained her water down the drain and put the washed rags in another basket.

  Charlotte stiffened. She’d never heard another girl talk about David as if he were interesting or appealing. She gave her laundry a last swish and cast the dirty water down the drain again. Emelia retrieved Charlotte’s load and dumped them on top of hers.

  “I’ll take care of these,” Emelia said. “Why don’t you look in on David one last time and retire? You look exhausted, and tomorrow is another day.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you with all this work.”

  “Pfft. The next shift is coming in to relieve me soon enough. Go on. Take a nice warm bath. Let all of this wash away. You’ll thank me later for the suggestion.”

  Charlotte laughed. “I’m sure I will. Thank you.” She undid her apron and placed it on the back of a chair.

  Footsteps sounded behind her. Charlotte glanced over her shoulder at a female shime approaching from the east wing, her long, green translucent arms burdened with a basket brimming with stained wash. Her human face wa
s drawn, her shoulders slumped, her eyes filled with sadness and remorse.

  “May I drop these off?” she asked Emelia. “I will need more, if you have them. And bandages, too.”

  “Yes. Of course,” Emelia said, taking the basket and setting it on the floor. “Wait right here.”

  The shime female stood regal in her spot. She flared her webbed, lime-green wings just a bit, not in an aggressive or flashy way, but more as a stretch to relieve a dull, tired ache. They folded against her back, the vibrant feathered tips dragging on the floor.

  “You look exhausted,” Charlotte said. “When was the last time you rested?”

  The creature looked at Charlotte with big, round, amethyst eyes. “We rarely sleep, and it has been weeks since I have seen any relief and tranquility.” Her accent was thick, almost Transylvanian. Charlotte practically expected Count Dracula to walk around the corner. “It will be weeks, maybe months more before I can do so.”

  “Let’s hope it will be sooner.” Charlotte yawned, her mind finding it difficult to imagine a life with no sleep.

  “You appear weary as well,” the shime said. “Your role in this world must also be taxing on the mind and spirit. It must be difficult seeing so much death. Destruction. Feeling such pain and sorrow. It must resonate with your kind in ways no one else can imagine.”

  Charlotte lifted a brow. “My kind?”

  “Yes. It is my understanding Numí sense these things on a much more spiritual plain.”

  Charlotte stepped closer and whispered, “You know I’m a Numí?”

  The shime lowered her chin and knelt. “Please forgive me. I do not know why I spoke in such a manner. I know it is forbidden. You seemed so human, and I let my tongue slip. If you feel the need to strike or punish me, I shall understand.”

  “Strike or punish you? Why would I do such a thing? I’m confused, and please rise.”

  The shime stood but refused to meet Charlotte’s gaze. “It is the penance for conversing with the divine in such a casual manner.”