In the Shadow of the Dragon King

by J. Keller Ford

  “They cannot protect you forever, David. I’m coming for you, and when I find you, death will be the least of your worries.”

  ***

  David woke to Twiller shaking him into consciousness.

  “Go away. What do you want?”

  “You have been asleep long enough. It’s time to join the living. Her Grace awaits you and Lady Charlotte upon the WindSong. I’ve taken the liberty of running you a warm bath. Your clothes are on the chest at the foot of the bed. Please be ready when I return in fifteen minutes.” The little man strutted from the room, closing the door behind him.

  David slung his legs over the edge of the bed and eyed the gauze-like undergarments, nut-brown corduroy trousers, matching vest, and long-sleeved shirt the color of butterscotch. On the floor was a pair of calf-high leather boots. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  He hurried through his bath, mulling over the conversation between Slavandria and her father he’d heard in his dream. Two hundred years ago he’d been chosen, but for what? How was that even possible? He scratched at the marking on his chest, now set deep within his skin as if he were a marked brand of cattle. What have my parents and Lily gotten me into? What did I get Charlotte into?

  David layered on the clothes, surprised at their comfort. He pulled on the last boot as Twiller knocked and announced it was time to go.

  Charlotte faced him as he entered the sitting room. His breath hitched at the sight of her dressed in form-fitting wheat-colored trousers and a forest-green shirt with puffy sleeves. A plaid corset cinched her waist, popping her breasts over the top of the lace trim.

  His mouth opened then shut as he struggled to find the right response.

  “Don’t say it,” Charlotte warned, “and keep your eyes above the neckline. I already feel self-conscious enough without you staring at my boobs.”

  His cheeks flushed. “I wasn’t—honest.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Come on. Let’s see what the great and powerful Ozette wants.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. Somehow I don’t think there’s a hot air balloon or red slippers waiting to take us back home.”

  They followed Twiller down the twisting, turning, tunnel of stone until it emptied into the main room where the sails of the WindSong flapped in a magical breeze heavy with the scent of salt and sea. Slavandria emerged from below and joined them on the deck.

  “Please sit down.” She gestured to a settee. “I trust you slept well.”

  “Not if nightmares fall into that category.” David leaned against the mast, his arms folded across his chest. Slavandria touched her fingertips to the table. A porcelain teapot and cups, along with a plate of sliced apples, cheese, and toast appeared.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday and especially last night.” She sat down across from Charlotte. “The world is turning on end, and I had to protect you.”

  “Really?” David said, sitting beside Charlotte. “You want to tell me what exactly did happen last night? “Who were you talking to while in my head?”

  Slavandria set the teacup on the upended leather trunk beside her. “David, your life is very complicated. I know you’re aware of certain changes, many of which I’m sure have you baffled and confused.”

  “What gave it away?” David sat back. He inhaled a deep breath and rubbed his palms over his face. “Look. I’m not trying to be difficult, but we’ve been here for a day, and I have no idea what is going on now anymore than I did when we got here, so I’d appreciate a bit of honesty, okay. I’d like to start with the elven dudes in our room. Who were they?”

  “Duwans, a conclave of fae from the mountainous regions of Felindil. I brought them here to protect you.”

  “Protect me from who? The man in my dreams?”

  Slavandria nodded. “Yes, and any other beings who wish to see you dead.”

  “Why would anyone want to see me dead? What did I do?”

  Slavandria placed her teacup on a table. “It is not a matter of what you’ve done but what you are capable of doing. You see—”

  BANG!

  The round door leading from the path of the moon fairies bashed open against the cave wall. David froze as a centaur with eyes the color of blue sea glass galloped down the steps and onto the ship. He carried an unconscious man, water-drenched and blood-soaked, upon his back. Flanking each side were two of the most bizarre creatures David had ever seen: luminous, almost translucent, human-like gargoyles, with round, amethyst eyes, square noses, and shimmering, green scales. Webbed, lime-green wings protruded from between their shoulder blades and crested above their heads before cascading to the floor, culminating in a rim of vibrant feathers. Crossbows hung at their sides. They dropped to one knee and bowed as Slavandria approached.

  Charlotte was right. This place kept getting curiouser and curiouser.

  “Balendar,” Slavandria said.

  “Your Grace.” The centaur bowed. “I apologize for the intrusion, but your assistance is required in an urgent matter.” The winged creatures lifted the unconscious man and laid him on the floor. “I hope I am not too late.”

  Slavandria gasped and dropped to her knees. “Sir Trogsdill!”

  She closed her eyes and swept her hands over the still body. “He’s been wounded by a shadowmorth’s blade.” Slavandria’s gaze met with Balendar’s. “Where did you find him?”

  “These two shime came upon him while they were on patrol.”

  Slavandria stood and approached the creature nearest to David. “What is your name? Where did you find this man?”

  “Taccar, Your Grace. Second Lieutenant, Fox Glen Brigade. My comrade and I found the victim along the banks of the Cloverleaf River along with this.” He withdrew a long sword from a sheath at Balendar’s side and placed the weapon at Slavandria’s feet.

  Slavandria’s brow furrowed with worry. “Did you see others like him in the forest? Sense their presence?”

  Taccar shook his head. “No, Your Grace, however, news has reached the forest that Their Majesties are missing.”

  Slavandria closed her eyes for a moment and then turned to Twiller, who stood quietly in the corner. “I need you to escort David and Charlotte to Tulipakar immediately. Make room for them in the Elthorian Manor. I will meet you there tomorrow.” She turned to the centaur. “You and the shime are to scour the forest. Elicit whatever help you can from Hirth. King Gildore and Queen Mysterie must be found. Also keep your eyes open for a young man, not much older than this one, (she inclined her head toward David), with dark hair and emerald-green eyes. He goes by the name of Eric. He is this knight’s squire. It is imperative no harm comes to him. These two shime will remain with me.”

  Balendar bowed. “As you wish, Your Grace. I will send a message by palindrake as soon as the king and queen are secure.”

  The centaur retreated from the room.

  Slavandria turned to David and Charlotte. “You are to go with Twiller. Do as he says. Do not stray from the path. There are too many dangerous things that wait for you out there.”

  “Like what?” Charlotte said.

  “I don’t have time to tell you. I’ll explain everything tomorrow. Twiller, get them out of here. Hurry. Do not stop for anything. Use whatever methods you must reach the safety of Tulipakar before nightfall. Go, and send in the moon faeries on your way out.”

  Slavandria knelt beside the injured man and ripped open his shirt, exposing a raw, festering wound that stretched from beneath his left armpit to his navel.

  David glared over his shoulder as Twiller urged them to leave.

  “You can’t keep us locked up forever, you know. We’ll find our way out of here, with or without your help.”

  “Hold fast to that determination, David,” she said, pressing her hands to the bloody lesion. “You’re going to need it.”

  Chapter 13

  Dark clouds snuffed out the midday sun as Eric came in sight of Avaleen. He ventured off the dirt road and brought his ho
rse into a thicket of trees to survey the city. Unlike the charred farmlands and towns he’d passed through on his journey, the sprawling white marble citadel with its bright-colored bulbous turrets rose strongly from the rolling hillside and surrounding lush forest. Eric held tight to the reins and clicked his tongue, urging his horse into the open. A cool breeze whisked in from the east. Thunder rumbled in its wake. His horse snorted, and a sinking feeling settled within Eric. No birds flew overhead. No chanting or singing emanated from within the city walls. Only immeasurable silence greeted him.

  A cold chill rippled down his spine.

  He rode through the city’s arched gateway of ivy-covered marble, his horse’s hooves clomping on the cobblestones. A bead of sweat crawled from his temple to his jaw. He swept it away with his arm. His senses heightened. His heartbeat drummed. Time crawled by as he maneuvered his way through the barren city streets toward the Hall of Reflection.

  It was there he and Trog were to have met his lethal instructor, Mangus Grythorn. Of course, that was before Einar happened. Now all Eric had was a soul full of hope that the mercenary remained within the protective confines of the city. If not, finding the paladin might prove to be more difficult than anticipated.

  Eric arrived at the Hall of Reflection and winced as he dismounted, the wound from Einar still barking out in pain.

  A few large raindrops plopped on his face and skin. Foreboding poured through his limbs.

  Leave. Get on your horse and go.

  He bit his lip and pushed against the desire to flee. Only cowards flee. Trog wouldn’t run.

  He entered the Citadel.

  The oblong reception room was as he expected—grand, its marble walls dotted with oiled paintings of famous wizards, mages, and kings, both past and present. On the frescoed ceiling, gods and mages battled the forces of evil alongside unicorns, dragons, griffins, and faeries. Three corridors fingered off the main room, each leading to places seldom seen by humans. It was the narrow corridor straight ahead, the one lined with dark woods and mirrors, that caught his attention, for beyond it came a voice he recognized as clear as his own. Eric crept closer and ducked into a cloakroom, leaving the door cracked.

  “You know it will be difficult to convince the Hirthinian people there is corruption in the ranks surrounding the king.” Eric didn’t recognize that voice. “It will be even more impossible for the King to believe his most valued knight and General of the Army would do anything against the crown or his country.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” The voice Eric recognized as Master Camden’s, chuckled. “It has already been addressed and taken care of.”

  “How so?”

  “Let’s just say it’s fascinating what these humans will do when threatened with the lives of those they love. Even the strongest crumble beneath the hint of such, how should I put it—emotional terrorism.”

  The unknown man let out a mirthful chuckle. “Yes, I do agree. Who, might I ask, is the malefactor?”

  “Why, the Dragon King, of course.” Another round of laughter. “There are benefits to situating a quisling high within the ranks of Einar’s entourage. Someone the beast trusts.”

  “And the evidence planted?”

  “Could be refuted, but then again, it’s them against us, and what would we have to gain by lying, especially since we’ve captured one of their spies!”

  The closet door flew open. Eric’s heart leaped as hands grasped him by the breast of his tunic and threw him into the center of the room. An army of feet and legs surrounded him, kicking him. Pain spiraled up his spine, out his ribs. Air rushed from his lungs. He struggled to his hands and knees. A sharp blow slammed into his back. Stars popped before his eyes. His body crumpled. His face smacked the cold floor. The metallic taste of blood coated his tongue and trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  He couldn’t breathe, and for a moment, he saw more stars.

  Master Camden’s full-bodied voice, deep and resonant, spoke from above him. “Pull the runt from the floor and bring him to the chambers right away. You,” the mage snapped his fingers, “gather the rest of the Council. Inform them we have a spy in our midst.” Master Camden knelt and clasped his hand around Eric’s throat. “You will be sorry you ever stepped foot into Avaleen, young squire. But I’ll save your worst punishment for when Sir Trogsdill arrives to save you, and believe me, he will come for you.”

  “You’re wrong.” Eric winced at the pain rippling through his body. “He’ll never fall for your ruse, and I’ll make sure he knows everything.”

  “Not if you’re dead.”

  Fiery threads of magic flew from the mage’s fingers and plummeted deep within Eric, burning and winding their way through his torso and limbs. His body lifted from the ground, and air sucked from his lungs as he was hurled across the room.

  Pain splintered along his back, exploding in his head as he slammed into the wall. His vision blurred. Voices grew distant, muffled. Gruff hands took hold of his arms and dragged him across the floor into an immense room swathed in rose-veined marble. Statues of ancient gods stood poised in the golden light of the globes fastened to the walls. His captors dropped him to the floor like a sack of grain. His chin hit the floor.

  He cursed at the man who dropped him and worked his way to his feet. His ribs pulsed in agony. Ahead of him, doors to the Council chambers opened and a blind, elderly man dressed in a flowing maroon robe approached. In his left hand, he carried a birch staff. “The High Council will see you now.”

  The guards jabbed Eric in the sides.

  He wailed and collapsed to all fours.

  “Get up! Let’s see how fast you can move after you’ve been properly beaten.”

  Eric struggled to his feet and walked inside the circular chamber. They descended three flights of steps, passing rows of empty chairs. Torches, bolted by iron fittings to the walls, provided the only source of light in the cavernous room. The domed ceiling was lost in the dark and smoky haze. It was in this room that the High Council and Senate debated issues and handed down verdicts regarding their magical kind, both manufactured and ordained. Sestian’s enthusiastic grin flashed in Eric’s mind. He’d lived for moments like this, for the defiance, for the thrill. Now would be a good time to help me out, Ses. Give me the strength to steel my nerves.

  They stopped before a raised dais where Master Camden sat among four men and three women, all dressed in flowing robes as blue as a midnight sky. Master Camden stood and glared down at Eric, his amber eyes gleaming with amusement. “Where is your master, Sir Trogsdill?”

  Eric met the mage’s stare. “Why don’t you tell me? You’re the magician.”

  The backhanded blow struck with the force of a sledgehammer. Eric stumbled, his face throbbing. Lights flashed before his eyes. He righted himself and swallowed the blood trickling down his throat.

  Master Camden sneered. “That was my gentle touch, so if you know what’s best for you, you’ll answer my question. Where is Sir Trogsdill?”

  Eric straightened up and positioned himself squarely before his abuser. Never in a million years would he give the cretin information, even if he had it. Even if it meant death.

  Camden growled and raised both hands over his head, the tips of his fingers dancing with red sparks.

  Eric steadied himself, knowing full well whatever came his way was going to hurt.

  But the mage’s hands froze in mid-air. The sparks fizzled. Camden’s face twisted with anger and confusion, his eyes wild. He whipped around, his gaze boring into the council member walking his way.

  “Elizon, please,” the intervening mage said. “Do not lose your head over this imp.” He made a small circle with his hand, and Camden’s arms fell limp at his side, pendulums without a swing.

  “What are you doing, Aldrich?” Camden said in a menacing growl. “Release my arms!”

  The council member stepped closer. “Why? So you can carry on with your temper tantrum? The rest of us have a
better idea to bring our knight out of the shadows.”

  “Such as?”

  “Send word throughout the Southern Forest that Sir Trogsdill’s pup has been apprehended while spying, and is awaiting prosecution. He will come to us if he believes his prized squire is to be executed.”

  Master Camden’s lips twitched, his shoulders relaxed. A mirthful chuckle escaped the corners of his mouth.

  “Of course,” he said. “That is a brilliant idea.” He called out to a guard standing near a side door to send a messenger.

  A moment passed before a girl with chestnut skin, pearl-white eyes, and a barbed collar inked into her neck entered the chamber. She curtsied before the mage as if he were king.

  “What is your name, girl?”

  “Ceylione, my master.”

  A smile emerged on Camden’s face as he curled his right arm and flexed his fingers.

  A hollow feeling settled in Eric’s stomach. The mage had his powers back, and it wouldn’t be long before they were trained on him again.

  Camden ordered the girl to her feet and cupped her chin in his palm. A small whimper escaped her lips as the collar darkened and protruded from her skin. No longer an image, the real metal spikes hovered above her delicate skin, poised to plunge in if the girl disobeyed. Her fingers twitched, and her eyes flicked in their sockets.

  Eric willed his mouth shut and steeled his nerves. The desire to strangle the bald pig of a mage surged through his entire being, but now wasn’t the time. Tactical training told him he was outnumbered, and the weapons they wielded were far superior to anything he had, which at the moment was nothing. There would be a better time, a better place, to avenge her and others like her, and he would make sure he was there to carry out the justice.

  “Go into the Southern Forest,” Camden said, “and locate an elder palindrake. You are to relay that Sir Trogsdill’s squire is in the custody of the High Council on charges of espionage and is awaiting trial. If no one speaks for him within two hours, he shall be executed.”