Bane of the Dragon King

by J. Keller Ford

  Mr. Stine nodded. “I got the planes.”

  David made a fist and pulled his arm to his side. “Yes! You’re the bomb, Mr. Stine. Where do we have to go?”

  “Langley.”

  “That’s a five-hour drive. We don’t have that long.”

  “I’ll take care of you getting there,” Lily said. “What do Aldamar and I need to do?”

  “Keep Havendale safe. Don’t let Einar destroy us. Mind-weave with me to let me know when the rift opens, and whatever you do, don’t close it. We’ll need it open.”

  Lily kissed him on the cheek. “Be careful, David. Come back to me.”

  “I will. Stay safe. I love you.”

  Lily told Mr. Stine where to stand, and with a snap of her fingers, they were on restricted military grounds.

  Mr. Stine swayed for a moment, belched, then said, “Stay with me.” They ducked behind a storage unit. Mr. Stine pulled out his cell phone. He spoke to some guy named Jim who told him to wait where they were. Minutes seemed like hours as David sat on the ground, drumming his fingers against his leg. Daylight started fading, and the cotton candy sunset splash began.

  “Where is he, this friend of yours?” David bounced his leg up and down. “He needs to hurry.”

  “Patience, David. We’re working with a team here, not some rogue pilot who wants to save the world. He’ll come. Just calm down.”

  David was about to go postal when Jim showed up.

  “Sorry it took so long. We had to call in the pilots.”

  “That’s good,” Mr. Stine said. “What have you got for us?”

  “Well, it was hard to get, but we’ve got twelve F-16 Fighting Falcons, twenty-four F-18 Hornets, five F-22 Raptors, and two A-10 Warthogs.”

  David’s insides tingled. It was like Christmas all over again.

  “How soon can you have them in the air?”

  “How soon do you need them?”

  Mr. Stine looked at David. “Son. You have an ETA?”

  “Hold on.” He moved a yard or so away and tried to connect with Charlotte. He found her but there was a lot of static.

  Charlotte. If you can hear me, talk to me. What’s going on?

  It … dark … there … Grids … breaking.

  Charlotte.

  Have … go … coming.

  No, no, no! Charlotte? Charlotte!

  Silence.

  He popped his eyes open and jumped to his feet. “We need to get in the air. Now.”

  Charlotte

  Einar launched Charlotte from his talons into the cave. Pain ricocheted through every bone. The beast morphed into the devil clothed in silk finery. Venniver grabbed Charlotte by the hair, yanked her off the ground, and flung her into the center of the cave. “Where are they? What did you do with the Numí?” Black wings protruded from his back then shrank away. His face grew scales while his head increased in size, but then returned to normal.

  She rose to her feet. Blood trickled down her arm. “Does that hurt, you know, when you morph? It looks like it would be painful.”

  He rushed her, picked her up by the throat, and tossed her against the wall. She fell in a heap, her head pounding as if it had been cleaved in two.

  “You tell me, mistress. Did that hurt?”

  His eyes were swirling amber. Vertical slits emerged in the center.

  She got on her hands and knees, the air trying to find its way back in her lungs. “You know what? You really need to work on your anger issues.”

  She thrust her right hand under her belly and fired a purple ball of light. It hit him in the gut, sending him backward. Purple threads of magic erupted all over him until he was encased in hot sparks. He roared and stood. Wings, huge and black, extended from his back again. His hands and feet turned to talons. Charlotte watched in horror and fascination as his body transformed into the beast she knew. The one that killed Eric.

  He hovered the same claw over her that pierced her friend, the boy she could have loved.

  She reached up and grabbed it. “Go ahead. Kill me. I dare you.”

  A blinding barrage of white magic hit him in the back. Charlotte rolled out of the way before the talon came down. Einar spun around to face his assailant. A dozen or more scales were gone from his back. His skin smoked and burned red hot.

  Charlotte peeked through his legs toward the mouth of the cave, but no one was there.

  Einar whipped his head around. “I’m going to ask you once more, where did you put the Numí warriors? Answer me or I will kill everyone you know and love.”

  “That would be a really big mistake.”

  “Tell me!”

  “You’re going to die today, Einar, and I’m the one that’s going to do it. Do not waste your threats on me.” She stood on her feet, her shoulders back, plum hair billowing behind her. “I am Numí, and I eat dragons for breakfast.”

  She thrust her hands out. Long strands of electricity unwound from her palms, winding and weaving through the air like vines. They wrapped around his neck, binding into his flesh.

  He shrieked and flew from the cave, with Charlotte still attached.

  She held on and tightened her hold.

  Einar flew left, then right. Down below, metal clanged, Men cried out in anguish. Fires raged upon the land. Einar dive bombed the army approaching from the west and laid out a line of fire. Charlotte watched the men fall to the ground. She heard their cries, their screams. Her heart broke. She had to end this before more innocent people died, but how could she forgive him?

  He flew to the west then south. Banking slightly, his talon ripping a hole in the sky.

  Her mouth fell open. “No. Oh dear God, no. Daaaaavid!”

  David

  David looked to the sky, Charlotte’s cry for him clear as if she were standing beside him. Jim’s walkie-talkie burst into life.

  “Mayday! Mayday! We’ve got a situation here. It seems we have multiple sightings of a dragon flying over Bristol and the Cherokee National Forest. You heard right. A dragon.”

  Lily called out to David. He’s here.

  He started running toward the airfield. “Time to go. I’m with you, Mr. Stine.”

  “To hell you are. You can’t ride in an F-22.”

  “We’re getting ready to fight a dragon the size of Texas. I’m going with you.”

  “Then we’ll have to take a Hornet. Only one seat in the F-22. I thought you knew that?”

  “Short-term memory loss.”

  They ran in and out of pilots racing to their planes. Sirens blasted on the base. The smell of fuel hung heavy in the air as engines turned over. They reached their plane. “Go up front. Man the guns. I’ll fly.”

  “Sir, you can’t get in the plane without a jumpsuit.”

  Mr. Stine grabbed the suit from the young airman’s hands. “I need one for him, too.”

  “He’s a civilian, sir.”

  “Get him a damn suit!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Stine slid into his uniform. A few minutes later, the young man arrived with another suit. David snatched it from him and put it on.

  “I’m not supposed to do that, sir,” the young man said.

  “We have a dragon to fight, boy. I don’t think anyone will care. David, go. Up the ladder.”

  David slid into the front seat. Mr. Stine set him up with his helmet, did some stuff on the console, and gave him a crash course in how to shoot the weapons on the plane.

  “I got it, I got it,” David said. “Let’s go. Gotta save Charlotte.”

  Within minutes, the F-18 Hornet was screaming into the night sky.

  “Whoaaaaaa!” David yelled. “Yes! Hell yes!”

  Minutes passed, and his heart calmed to a slow, steady beat. Outside the bubble of the jet, stars glistened. Streetlights blended with house lights. To the southeast, the forest blazed red, and a shadow of a dragon passed over it.

  Mr. Stine uttered an expletive. “How big
again is that thing?”

  “About as long as a football field, his wings just as wide. We need to get him out of Havendale. Let’s send him back home.”

  Mr. Stine lead the charge followed by the F-16’s and one Warthog. The F-22 fanned out to the right, the rest of the F-18’s banked west.

  A string of curse words slipped from Mr. Stine’s lips as they passed through the membrane between worlds, pushing Einar back through with a barrage of firepower.

  “Here’s for you, Eric,” David said. “I hope you’re watching.”

  David laid on the trigger until he realized who was hanging onto Einar. Panic socked him in the chest.

  “Mr. Stine! Call off the weapons. Now. Charlotte’s riding him. Call them off!”

  “All squads, pull back. I repeat, pull back. Do not shoot the dragon.”

  The planes banked away.

  Einar circled around and spit a stream of fire at David’s plane.

  “We’ve been hit! We’re going down. Hit your eject button, David. Now!”

  Two seats soared into the air as the plane careened into a fiery mass below. Parachutes opened, and David drifted down to the ground. His landing was a little less than desirable, but he was alive, and that was all that mattered.

  He struggled out of the harness and dropped the parachute to the ground. Mr. Stine landed a few yards away, crushing a couple of trolls. Mangus and Trog forged toward him, their expressions priceless looks of disbelief.

  “What are those things,” Trog asked, looking at the sky.

  “Fighter jets. Charlotte needed air power. We didn’t have dragons. I got the next best thing.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mangus said. “I don’t like them.” His eyes popped open wide. “Get down!”

  David dropped to his stomach. Mangus spun and swung his sword from the right and the left, the veins in his neck bulging in tight cords. As if in a perfect synchronized dance, Trog moved the same. Sweat flung from his brow.

  Fire came from the attackers. David dared to look up. Ifrit. Two of them. Rushing toward Mr. Stine. He tucked his arms and rolled, knocking them off their feet. A black cloud of magic swirled from Mangus. The wisp turned and folded, elongating until a sword took shape. “Veris!” he shouted. The misty sword split in two, each half plunging deep into the Ifrit. Their bodies twitched and fell still, disintegrating into the earth.

  “Where are your arrows, boy?” Trog asked.

  “I-I don’t know! I lost them.” He couldn’t remember the last time he had them. Time was passing at crazy speeds. His brain traveling faster than his body could go. How idiotic could he be to go to a shoot-out without a gun?

  “Here!” Mangus said. He tossed David a sword no longer needed by a fallen comrade.

  “Sir!” Trog yelled at Charlotte’s father. “Get a weapon. Any weapon. Fight!”

  Planes screamed and criss-crossed overhead. Trolls and giants stopped and looked up.

  The Grid flailed the trolls and giants across the battlefield.

  Punch.

  Smack.

  Kick.

  David leapt and jumped, spun and stabbed. Sweat flung from his brow. Huge, heavy bodies of flesh flew.

  The stone giants stomped on, squashing the enemy of men—Dalvarian rebels, Fauscherian assassins, Braemarian drow, all of them, flattened like road kill beneath a tank.

  Magic spells soared through the air, lighting up the sky in purples, blues, greens, and golds.

  Einar winged high overhead. Numí swarmed around them.

  Panic flooded into David. Where was Charlotte? He scanned the field. There were too many people. Too much fighting.

  In the center of the fray stood the girl he loved, her thick, lavender hair billowing around her. She raised her arms in the air, a bright amber light shining from an object in her hand. She swept her arms from side to side, up and down, her limbs a graceful dance.

  “The reisenstone,” Mangus murmured. “She has the reisenstone.”

  She thrust her arms downward, eliciting a crack across the battlefield. A portal formed, its rim glimmering, the opening a pulsing membrane. She turned and repeated the dance. Another portal appeared followed by another. A wave of spirits flooded through. They charged the shadowmorths, taking the brunt of the wounds. The war dogs attacked the drow. Talagorns raided the battlefield. Mangus sliced through the ifrit. Blood splattered on his face as Mangus continued to dance around their attackers. With the shout of a spell and a point of his finger, four enemies dissolved into dust before David’s eyes. He looked at the mage who winked and said, “You’re welcome.”

  From around the cliffs sailed a goliath of a ship. Seven masts, stories high, their bulging sails came into view. His breath left him. It was the largest ship he’d ever seen, at least two football fields long. On its bow in huge letters was the word Windsong. A chill went through him as if he’d been touched by a ghost.

  Jared. He’d arrived. And he’d brought friends. A fleet of them.

  Bolts and balls of magic and light streamed from the Windsong in an endless bombardment. Cannon fire resounded from the ship, the shells sailing over David’s head and into the advancing drow.

  Einar soared overhead, his flames aimed at the sails, but the Windsong remained intact.

  Of course. It’s enchanted.

  Overhead, F-16s and F-18s dipped and turned. Rounds of bullets found their way into Einar’s hide. He shrieked and shot fire back, exposing his golden belly. The A-10 Warthog positioned in front and blasted away.

  Frrrrrrr. Frrrrrrr. One thousand rounds of armor-piercing incendiary rounds fired in a single minute. They lodged into Einar’s chest. Blood dripped down his scales and onto the ground.

  Jared jumped off the ship. Red flares shot from his hands. Streams of pewter blue fired from his eyes. Both found their mark. Einar spun out of control.

  Down, down, down he came.

  The fighters on the field scattered, but it was too late. Einar smacked on the ground and hundreds of voices fell silent forever, squashed by the beast’s magnificent weight.

  Numí warriors flooded the battleground. Their swords dipped in green magic, swept through the air. Sparks flew, disintegrating the enemy on contact. The spirits of the dead pushed toward the sea, absorbing shadowmorths as they went.

  The jets screamed overhead. Bombs fell.

  Boom. Boom.

  Rapid fire sprayed down on Einar, his body jerking with the barrage.

  Cheering erupted on the field.

  “Idiots!” Trog yelled, his sword slicing the belly of an attacker wielding a lance.

  Dalvarian rebels stormed toward David, yelling. He fell to his knees and scoured the blood-drenched ground, searching the lifeless bodies, looking for anything to use. A knife sang past his ear and into a masked assailant. The man fell lifeless at David’s feet.

  An army of brownies flooded the ground around him. Swords clanged. An arrow landed beside David’s hand.

  “Get up!” Fig said. He twisted his body and shouted behind him. “Bring it!”

  A fox scampered toward him and morphed into a boy. In his hands were David’s bow and quiver of arrows. “We brought you something you lost.”

  Overhead, a murder of crows swarmed, hundreds of them cawing. Yards away, Trog and Mangus danced with the enemy. Sweat flew from their brow. Their hair hung in wet sheets. Blood covered them from head to toe.

  Two more fox arrived and shifted. David jumped to his feet. Rusty and Ravenhawk’s army of shapeshifters.

  “I don’t believe it. You found it. You came.”

  “You didn’t think we’d let you have all the fun, did you?” replied one of the fox boys.

  “Fall out!” Fig ordered. He glanced up at David. “See you back at the castle.”

  They ran and scattered across the field yelling in the name of Hirth.

  David gripped his bow, the feel of it comforting in his hand. Fighting mode kicked in. Arrow after arrow streaked th
e air. Ifrit, drow, goblins, and ogres alike fell by the wayside.

  The jets roared overhead, releasing one last round of ammunition before disappearing through the rift.

  David caught up to Trog and Mangus, each of them tearing up the enemy in their own way. How they kept going, where they found their energy was beyond him. He could barely stand, much less wield a sword. The magic had to drain Mangus, yet he kept swinging and fighting and summoning spells that were far more dangerous than any dagger or bow.

  David looked down at the faces of the dead, his heart jolting when he came upon Seyekrad lying face up in a pool of blood. His body had taken on several bullets.

  So much for the man who would be king.

  He kept walking, his mind in a daze. The smoke, the fire, the blood, and the bodies … all smells melded together in a horrid, rank odor. Vomit burned his throat. He choked it back until he couldn’t hold it anymore …

  A barrage of fireballs sailed over his head. David staggered back and unfolded himself and followed the direction of the attack. Through the trolls and giants, knights and soldiers, Dalvarians and Numí, Master Pusrig strolled forward, Slavandria’s head wedged in the crook of his arm, her body dragging limp behind him.

  Jared’s voice boomed across the battlefield, and the air literally moved in waves. “Release her, Pusrig, and I may allow you to live.”

  Mangus froze. “No. No! You bastard!” He darted forward, magic sparking from his hands.

  Trog yanked him back, grappling him by the arms. “No! Let Jared have him.”

  The pyromancer laughed. “You’re too late, Jared. I have drained the life from her, and now I will drain the life from you.” He tossed Slavandria to the ground. “Seyekrad. He’s all yours.”

  David glanced behind him at the bullet-ridden body of the sorcerer. Laughter bubbled from the depths of his soul. The irony. He sauntered forward toward the fire mage.

  “Oh my gosh, for a mage you’re an idiot. You were relying on Seyekrad to fight your battle? Look at him.” He pointed behind him. “Your savior is dead. Unless you have another traitorous sorcerer in your pocket, I suggest you bend over and kiss your butt goodbye because you’re about to be obliviated.”