In the Shadow of the Dragon King

by J. Keller Ford

  David got on all fours and stood. “Yeah,” he groaned. “You failed to mention that.”

  “Well, now you know, so stop wallowing and stand up straight. Look at me.”

  David winced, his hand pressed to his side. “Wallowing? You just nailed me. That hurt!”

  “Were you expecting otherwise? That was barely a tap, nothing compared to what a true opponent would unleash upon you. Let’s go again. This time, lift your hands, tuck your elbows.”

  “I can’t,” David said. “I think you may have fractured something.”

  Trog’s eyes narrowed. “Your opponent will not care if you are in agony. In fact, it is his desire to inflict as much pain upon you as he can. You must not let him, and if he has, you must not let on he has done so.”

  “But you’re not my opponent.”

  “I am at this moment, and you’d better listen, for you will never find another who will teach you how to retaliate so well. Lift your fists and fight the pain.”

  “Come on, David. You can do it,” Charlotte said.

  David raised his fists to his face.

  “That’s better,” Trog said. “Remember, when an attacker comes for you, your first action is to guard your face, the next, guard your ribs. Draw your elbows into your side, like this.”

  David copied Trog’s stance.

  “Good. You want to keep your body low and in line. Move around him, but whatever you do, don’t bounce around like a convulsive jackrabbit. That was an embarrassment. The whole idea is to let your opponent wear himself out, not vice versa. Pick your line of sight, never take your eyes off your opponent’s, focus on his movements, and stay tight to your form.”

  “I don’t see why it matters, Trog. Odds are, I’m still going to get hit.”

  Trog shrugged and lowered his arms. “Perhaps, but if you’re lucky, your opponent will only strike your shoulders, arms, or hips. Your job is to avoid blows to your face and gut.” He put a hand on David’s shoulder. “Remember, you are not trying to impress your enemy, but disable him. Your goal is not to kill, unless dire circumstances require it, but to inflict as much pain as possible, so he feels far worse than you do when the bout is over. You want to leave a sore reminder he doesn’t want to tangle with you again. Understand?”

  David nodded.

  “Good. We’re done. It’s time to get moving.”

  David inhaled a deep breath and returned to his things. Trog may have thought his hits were taps, but the pain in David’s ribs disagreed. Still, he’d learned valuable lessons, and for that he was grateful. He flung his bag and bow on his back. As much as he wanted to learn, he cringed at the idea of another training session.

  Charlotte stood in the center of the glade, her face drained of all color, her eyes wide. Her lips trembled as she pointed to something across the glade. “W-what is that?” The terror in her voice was palpable.

  David and Trog followed her gaze.

  Standing in the sunlight at the edge of the forest was a small, wingless creature with piercing ruby eyes. It stood slightly taller than David; its body compact and muscular. Sunlight glistened off its autumn-iridescent scales. Strange gold and red feathers pressed softly against its neck. Two small, goat-like horns jutted from its square forehead; its sinuous, armored pointed tail swished over the cool grass. It looked like something out of one of his fantasy role-playing games. The dragon scraped at the ground with its sharp claws and snorted like a bull about to engage in battle. It lowered its head.

  David froze.

  Trog drew his sword.

  Charlotte gasped.

  The animal’s cold stare fixed on David as the creature broke into a gallop.

  Charlotte bolted toward David, who stood planted firmly to the ground, too stunned to move. The creature slid to a stop within feet of him, popping up a trail of divots behind him. The beast cocked its head from side to side, assessing the strangers.

  David’s heart pounded, his chest rising and falling.

  Charlotte shoved him back. “Trog, what is that thing?”

  “A dragon,” Trog said.

  The animal and Trog regarded one another.

  David gulped. “W-where did he come from? What does he want?”

  “I don’t know,” Trog said.

  “You think he’s here to help us?” David reached his hand out toward the dragon.

  It rumbled.

  Trog yanked back David’s arm. “Don’t. Let him come to you, if that is his choice.”

  The dragon eyed Trog and moved closer. It exuded a deep, rhythmic purr then snapped open its feathers and scales in a brilliant display.

  “Whoa!” David stumbled backward, catching Charlotte before she tripped and fell.

  Trog brought his sword to the front.

  The dragon arched his tail over his back.

  David’s eyes widened as the tip of its tail sparked with electricity. “No!”

  ZAP!

  A small bolt of lightning shot from the tip of the dragon’s tail, hitting Trog square in the chest. The knight collapsed to the ground, his body still as dirt. Charlotte and David dove to his side.

  “Trog!” Charlotte touched her fingers to the hole in the shirt, the wound still smoking from the blast. She put her head to his chest. “Oh no. No. No! David, he’s not breathing!”

  The dragon roared and stomped forward. David and Charlotte scurried away.

  It nudged Trog with its snout. Several times, the dragon pushed and prodded the knight before. After several times, Trog groaned, his face twisted with all kinds of hurt.

  The dragon pawed at the ground and stepped back.

  David and Charlotte crawled to Trog’s side.

  “Oh my gosh, are you all right?” Charlotte uncorked a flask from her bag and offered it to him.

  Trog coughed and hacked and pushed himself up to a hunched over sitting position, his knees drawn to his chest, his head tucked between them. “No, girl, I am not all right! My brain is on fire, and my head is pounding!”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to help you with that. How to treat a dragon attack doesn’t seem to be in my mental list of remedies.” Charlotte said.

  David clambered to his feet and stomped toward the beast that sat on his haunches like a dog, its head tilted to one side.

  “Look what you did! You could have killed him! How dare you! Who do you think you are?”

  “David, get back!” Trog said, his demand muffled by his knees.

  David pointed a finger at the stout animal. “Don’t you ever do that again or I will have to—”

  Oh, be quiet, will you? There is no need to shout. If he had not drawn his sword, I would not have attacked. Besides, I did him no harm.

  “Did him no harm? Look at him! You barreled toward him like you were going to —” David froze for a moment. “Wait. Did you just talk to me?”

  The dragon tilted his head straight and said, Yes, except David didn’t hear the low, modulating voice with his ears. He heard it in his mind.

  He pressed his hand to his chest hoping his racing heart wouldn’t gallop away. “Whoa! I can hear you in my head.” He glanced at Charlotte, a finger pointed at the beast. “I can hear him!”

  The dragon snorted. Goodness, settle down. You’re hurting my ears with your caterwauling. There is no need to be so loud. I can hear your thoughts as well as you can hear mine. Makes for much better communications, don’t you think? It keeps others from hearing. His red eyes flitted to the north, toward the castle. A vision of a huge, flying dragon appeared.

  David gulped. “Oh, yeah. Right. Him.” David formed the words in his mind. What is your name? Why are you here?

  First things first. Help your friend rise and offer him my apology. Then, bring him and the female to me. There is much to tell you in a short amount of time. Shadows move within the Sankara Mountains and the Northern Forest. Berg no longer sleeps.

  David turned to Trog and delivered the message
. After a few moments, Trog rose, swayed for a bit, and then approached the dragon. “You tried to kill me. Now you wish for me to accept your apology?”

  The animal bowed.

  The dragon lifted his head, his eyes on David, and mind-spoke once more.

  Please tell Sir Trogsdill I meant him no harm. My name is Mirith, son of Sabara and Maldorth. Slavandria told me of your coming, Paladin of Fallhollow. Groote sent for me, but you left Palindar before I arrived. I’ve been searching for you since this morning. Please tell Sir Trogsdill who I am. I think he will find it of great interest.

  David relayed the information.

  Trog’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the son of Maldorth?” He walked around the creature, his gaze never leaving it. “That’s not possible. He looks nothing like his father. He has no wings, and he’s too small. He has feathers. No resemblance whatsoever.”

  “Who’s Maldorth?” Charlotte asked.

  I take after my mother, a Fendox from Braemar, the dragon continued. Maldorth murdered her because she failed to produce a proper heir. He’d hoped for a nestling of his stature, one who possessed both his elemental power of fire and my mother’s elemental power of ice. But my appearance angered him. He saw me as an abomination and tried to kill me. That’s when fate intervened and sent this knight to my rescue. Sir Trogsdill Domnall killed my father and spared my life, for which I am forever grateful.

  “Whoa! What?” David said, facing Trog. His skin prickled with excitement. He wasn’t sure what tickled him more—the fact he could talk to a dragon, or that the knight standing before him had slain one. “You killed a dragon?”

  “One.” Trog’s eyes narrowed and he stared at the dragon as if trying to make sense of a long forgotten memory. “You?” he said, approaching the beast. “You were the one hiding in the brush. You were the one who healed me when I thought Maldorth had succeeded in killing me?”

  Mirith swished his tail. A purr escaped his body.

  David nodded. “He said yes.”

  The dragon turned and displayed an empty patch on his left flank where a scale had once been.

  “He said his scales hold medicinal properties strong enough to counter the most toxic dragon bane.”

  Trog knelt and touched his fingers to the scar. “I can only imagine the pain you suffered to save my life. Thank you.”

  Mirith bowed his head.

  “I am confused about something, though.” Trog stood and scratched his throat. “If you knew who I am, why did you attack me?”

  “He said you were going to attack him,” David said. “He couldn’t allow it since he had to speak to me.”

  The dragon nudged the knight’s hand with his snout.

  “He said he’s sorry.”

  “Sorry, smorry,” Charlotte said, her gaze ping-ponging between David, Trog and the dragon. “Will someone please tell me who the heck is Maldorth?”

  “Einar’s son, for the lack of a better word.” Trog’s gaze skimmed hers and he walked past.

  “Wait,” David said. “You killed Einar’s son?”

  “Oh dear God,” Charlotte said. “When were you going to tell us this? Did you not think this was important?” She paced, her hands in her hair. And then she laughed, but the sound didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, man, he must be so pissed at you.”

  “I’m sure that is an understatement,” Trog said. He picked up his things from the ground.

  “Still,” Charlotte continued, “that doesn’t explain why Mirith doesn’t talk to you instead of David.”

  David stared at the ground, Mirith’s words loud and clear in his mind. The world pressed in all around him, squeezing him, suffocating him as if he were trapped in an hourglass turned upside down and time was running out. “I know why.” He lifted his head and stared into her desperate blue eyes. “Slavandria sent him to me through Groote because I’m the paladin and I need Mirith because he possesses the power to do what only one other living soul can do.”

  “And what’s that?” Charlotte asked.

  He hesitated for a second, and then said …

  “He can kill Einar.”

  Chapter 25

  The door to Eric’s room opened. A young man entered carrying a tray of breakfast. Farnsworth strolled in behind him and waited for the manservant to leave before closing the door. He lifted the silver dome lid of the tray, nodded as if he approved of the contents, and set the lid aside.

  “Come. You need to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Eric turned on his left side, his back to the unwanted visitor.

  There was a long, perceptible silence in the room before Farnsworth said, “Suit yourself.” He crossed the room and opened the door. “Soldiers from Trent and Doursmouth are arriving,” he said, “along with others from Banning and Fauscher. A briefing will take place this evening. You are expected to be in attendance. Make sure you are dressed appropriately.”

  The door latched behind him. The lock tumbled.

  He snorted. They only want me there to keep an eye on me, not because they recognize my worth.

  Eric stood and walked over to the table, his gut gnawing at the intoxicating smell of cured pork and eggs. Outside, sunshine poured over the courtyards. Horses clomped over the battered cobblestones.

  Men spoke.

  Children laughed.

  Dogs barked.

  His heart crumbled a bit more. He was a prisoner, forced into servitude. No one considered his feelings. No one acknowledged his ideas. He was nothing to the knights, especially Farnsworth. Just a rabid dog that needed to be controlled.

  He picked up the tray of food, walked to the balcony, and dumped it over the rail.

  There. Let the dogs scrounge.

  At least they were free to make their own choices.

  As it was, he was just a pawn, a piece for those with power to move about at will to suit their needs.

  Not anymore.

  Time was ticking until Eric broke the chains.

  And he couldn’t wait to see their faces when he did.

  Chapter 26

  David mind-spoke with Mirith as they trudged to a secluded path northward toward Hirth. He learned of different kinds of dragons, where they lived, and how many there were all over the world of Estaria, not just the realm of Fallhollow. He learned of all the kingdoms of Fallhollow, starting with Braemar, the land to the west that Einar had burned to the ground. A kingdom once thriving with agriculture, gone, destroyed, doomed to a fiery grave from which it never recovered.

  The kingdom of Berg had been ruled by a very brave and compassionate king. Its wealth of rivers and access to the Brindle Sea ensured trade to all kingdoms of Fallhollow. What the king collected in taxes he returned to the farms and river towns, providing equipment and vessels to spur commerce and trade. But Einar took the land and murdered all who opposed him, turning their souls into shadowmorths. Trade ceased except for that which he permitted, and farms fell into weed-encrusted memories. The dragon assumed the throne, taking up residence in Berg Castle as if it were built for him.

  In the middle of Braemar and Berg was Hirth, a grand kingdom formed from Braemar and Berg at the end of the last Dragon War. It was the seat of power of all Fallhollow and was ruled by a kind and fair king and queen, beloved by all. People came and went as they pleased. Hirthinians were free to set goals and make their own decisions, to live a life of excellence and prosperity. No other land existed anywhere in the world that came even remotely close to its Utopian existence. It was the envy of all the five realms of Estaria, and the focus of Einar’s attention, for of all the lands he set out to conquer, Hirth was the only one that denied him his glory. Coupled with the fact the guy who had killed his son lived there, Einar was apparently in a perpetually bad mood over this.

  David considered what all this meant, and his stomach churned. Not only was he responsible for finding a magical stone that had just happened to vanish around the neck of some goon, he needed to keep a sorcerer
and an enchantress out of his head while avoiding a dragon the size of Texas.

  Yeah. This was going to work out just fine.

  A soft, almost silent melodic tune floated into David’s ears. He stopped walking, his face lifted to the clouds.

  “What’s that sound?” Charlotte whispered, linking her fingers in his. He gave them a reassuring squeeze.

  “The Elastine Forest,” Trog said. “One of Einar’s prisons. The bells lure you in. Once inside, there is no escape. You’re stuck there until the monster decides what he wants to do with you.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Charlotte’s words came out rough. She cleared her throat, uncorked a canteen, and tipped it back.

  Trog grunted. “Do I have a smile on my face?” He kept walking.

  Charlotte wiped her mouth and looked at David. “He’s not joking.”

  David snorted. “Surprise, surprise.”

  The path grew narrower and the forest thicker and darker, forcing them into a single file with Trog in the lead and Mirith taking up the rear. By late afternoon the path opened into a round glade covered in green grass and bathed in bright sunlight. Pungent cedar lingered in the air. A waterfall roared in the distance. A stream gurgled off to their left. Across the clearing, the path picked up again amidst fallen trees and underbrush.

  Trog unhinged his bags. “We’ll rest here for a few minutes. I suggest you take care of your personal business while I get more water. We don’t have much farther to go before we reach Hirth.

  “That’s not much of a path,” David said, handing Trog his empty canteen.

  “Any path farther east will take us too close to Berg and the shadowmorths. We’re safer here.” Trog wandered off into the tree line.

  Charlotte set her bags down beside a boulder and combed her fingers through her hair. “God, I wish that waterfall was closer. I’d jump into the pool beneath it and never get out until this stench washed off me. I’ve never felt so gross in my entire life.”

  David paced back and forth, fists clenched, agitated by the increasing pulses and electrical currents zinging between his ring and tattoo. He bit back the icy-hot sensation of blood speeding through his veins.