Dragon Sleeping (The Dragon Circle Trilogy Book 1)

by CRAIG SHAW GARDNER

  “No doubt that sword will give you great skill,” the Oomgosh said. “But all skill has its price.”

  What had the wizard given him? Nick looked over at his friend. “Jason, do you want to sit down? Maybe we should look at that.”

  The younger boy shook his head stubbornly. “It really is only a scratch. It only bled a little.” He looked away from Nick, toward Raven and the Oomgosh. “Mary Lou needs us.”

  The great black bird cawed. “Raven will show you the way!” Nick saw the others turn to hurry after the bird. They had to save Mary Lou. But how? Nick looked ahead to where Jason held his wounded arm. If the sword would do something like that, how could he risk using it again?

  Seventeen

  One of the attackers at the edge of the front line screamed as an arrow hit him in the back. Other arrows fell into the red-furred crowd behind him. Some of the People had gotten to their weapons as well.

  Mary Lou fitted a second arrow to her bow. She wished she had had a chance to test her gift before she had to use it. More of the invaders clustered behind their wounded leader as he renewed his charge for Mary Lou.

  “Die!” he cried again.

  Five of the red-furred things pulled back their spears in unison as they rushed toward her.

  Blue light flashed to her right.

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little hasty?” the prince asked by her side.

  The enemy leader and his spear-carriers shrieked even more fiercely as they shifted their charge to the newcomer. Five spears launched toward the prince. Mary Lou glanced to her side to see the weapons pass through the apparition and clatter harmlessly on the bundled logs of the platform.

  The leader of the reds backed away from the spirit in front of them. His troops massed behind him, but their forward momentum had been startled out of them.

  “Poison sticks,” the prince said calmly. “That is what the People call them.”

  “The spears?” Mary Lou asked.

  The prince nodded. “Their tips are dipped in a poison that is instantly fatal to the People.”

  “And to someone like me?” She kept her bow drawn, ready for the next attack, but she couldn’t resist at least glancing at the prince.

  “Who knows?” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I don’t imagine it would be pleasant.” He smiled at her and pointed back at the enemy. “Maybe it’s time you shot that arrow.”

  The red-furred things had begun to move forward again, more slowly than before, and more as a solid group, as if their numbers might overcome their fear of the apparition.

  Their leader had another spear in his hand. He held it before him now with both hands, pointed straight toward Mary Lou’s midsection.

  Mary Lou pulled back the bowstring as the leader charged. She loosed the arrow.

  This one went straight for the creature’s head, embedding itself deeply in the thing’s eye.

  The creature wailed and dropped its spear, clawing at the shaft that stuck out from its head. Blood poured down the creature’s face: brown against the red of its fur. It staggered toward Mary Lou, its mouth open wide, baring its fangs. No words came from the creature now, only guttural noises from somewhere deep in its lungs, a cry that turned into a bubbling moan. Mary Lou froze, her hand on a third arrow in the quiver.

  “Die,” the thing managed at last, its voice barely a whisper. It fell forward onto the logs, as still as the village elder.

  The next moment seemed to stretch on for a very long time. Mary Lou had never killed anyone, or anything, before. All her arrows had been shot at straw targets, not at things that struggled and screamed.

  The moment ended. The creatures, disoriented by the death of their leader, rushed forward again in a ragged line to engulf everything on the platform.

  But now the People were ready. They rushed at the invaders from either side, forcing them to press even more tightly together. And where the People pressed, their arrows traveled before them, a black rain that fell into the enemy. The red-furred things hurled their spears in turn, but there were too few too late to stop the onslaught of the People protecting their home.

  The People held knives and hatchets as they jumped into battle. They hacked at their enemy with a singleness of purpose, slicing throats, cutting deep into arms and thighs and bellies, pressing the red- furred things back so that they had no way to free themselves or even reach for weapons of their own.

  It was no longer a battle. To Mary Lou, it looked more like a slaughter. And the People were the executioners, slashing the life out of each and every red-furred thing; the last survivors of the attacking party slipping on their fellows’ blood as it ran along the furrows of the logs and fell to the forest below with the patter of a summer shower.

  Mary Lou was startled by the People’s brutality. She had thought of these little men (and women, maybe; she had no way to tell if there were two sexes) as “cute” simply because they were small. But she watched now as the People methodically chopped through the necks of their fallen foes. Once each head was free of its body, it was passed to the crowd, and tossed from hand to hand like a beach ball as the People whooped with delight.

  She remembered now how much the Captain had disliked these creatures; enough to use that gun to shoot one and bring on the wrath of the dragon.

  She turned to the prince, who seemed not to dislike this at all. Instead, he was watching the slaughter with a great deal of amusement. “Do the People use the same sort of things on their enemies?” she asked, trying not to sound too upset. “You know, like poison sticks?”

  The prince shook his head with the same good humor. “They would never use poison. It would be a waste of perfectly good meat.”

  She realized they were carrying the headless corpses over to the fire stones. No doubt that was where they also kept the cook pots.

  Mary Lou leaned back against one of the great tree boles that supported the platform. She felt quite suddenly and completely exhausted.

  She had to calm down. Why was all this so terrible? She had seen films in science class where different species of predators attacked each other: a shark eating a barracuda, lions ripping the meat from a wild dog.

  She looked at the bow still in her hand. The entire killing had begun after she had shot the leader, as though that arrow in the eye was a signal to wash the village in blood.

  “Why are you distraught?” the prince asked her. She looked over to him and saw that he was no longer smiling. “Those red-furred things would cheerfully have devoured you given the chance.”

  Mary Lou shook her head. For all of the prince’s concern, she couldn’t find her voice. She didn’t think she could ever eat anything that talked, no matter what it said.

  “It was strange that those things should be here,” the prince continued conversationally. “At least in such force. Their stronghold is on another of the islands.” He paused for a moment, watching the People sing as they began to skin the carcasses. “The People are concerned. It’s not a good sign.”

  Mary Lou remembered the leader’s parroting voice. “These others— work for Nunn?”

  “Almost everything does,” the prince affirmed. “We would expect him to have a plan. It startles me that we defeated this plan so easily.”

  Thick smoke rose from the stone ovens of the People’s cookfires. Mary Lou thought she could smell cooking meat. The People jumped up and down, waving their enemy’s heads above their own.

  “Merrilu!” they called. “Merrilu! Merrilu!”

  The prince waved cheerfully back at them. “You’re the reason for their victory. They honor you. They never want to let you go.” Mary Lou couldn’t smile back. She was still thinking about what the prince had said.

  “So we caught Nunn by surprise?” she asked.

  “Perhaps,” the prince replied. “It takes a great deal to surprise a wizard, and he is the most powerful wizard alive.”

  Mary Lou found herself even more upset than before. How could she have escaped someone
like Nunn if he was all-powerful?

  Maybe she hadn’t escaped at all. Could the wizard have let her go for some other reason? Perhaps this was some sort of test. Nunn talked about those who were chosen. How did he know who was chosen and who wasn’t?

  On impulse, she asked the prince, “Do you know anything else about Nunn?”

  He hesitated before he spoke. “I feel—we’ve met.” His handsome frown deepened. “I don’t really have any memories. Although there is something up here.” He touched his broad, uncreased forehead with a long-fingered hand. “It’s hard to explain. It feels more like the echo of memories.” He sighed, and waved again at the revelers around the cooking fires. “All my real information comes from the People. Somehow I imagine that I’m happier that way than I was before.”

  Nunn had a plan, Mary Lou thought. Maybe they had foiled it, or maybe they had helped it along.

  Maybe, through her escape, Mary Lou was condemning not only herself but the prince and the People as well.

  Eighteen

  “Let me out!”

  The King of the Wolves was happy. It was the most pleasant of days, not too cold, not too warm, the afternoon sun shaded by the greenery above. And one of their traps was full, angry shouts bursting up from the pit. Human shouts. They would have fresh man for dinner tonight.

  “I’ll get you for this!”

  The man was very angry. This man was also very lucky. He had survived the stakes: long, sharpened pieces of wood that the wolves had planted at the bottom of the pit. Some humans did survive, every once in a while, the younger ones mostly—they were more agile, and tender to the taste. It amused the King to hear their cries, always angry at first, but more and more pleading as the time passed, as the only answer those cries, received was the howls of the wolves.

  “I can hear you out there!”

  Still so angry. This new man was stronger than most. They would leave him in the pit for a while, until he lost a bit of his spirit. Fresh man. It was their screams for mercy that gave the meat its flavor. The King of the Wolves drooled in anticipation.

  “You haven’t heard the end of this!”

  He did go on and on. The man in the pit was beginning to grow a bit tiresome. The King of the Wolves would enjoy ripping this one apart.

  “Who’s there?” another human voice called from somewhere upwind.

  The seven other wolves in the pack looked to their leader. He willed them to silence with his gaze. Perhaps they could eat two fresh men rather than one.

  “Let me out of here!” the one in the pit called even more loudly than before. “You have no right to keep me!”

  “Where are you?” The second voice was getting closer. “Maybe we can get you out.”

  The King heard movement, rough man feet crunching dead leaves. There were at least two. The King of the Wolves smiled. The pack could easily handle two.

  “Wait a moment, Thomas,” a new voice said softly. “Wilbert?” the first voice asked.

  “Wolves,” the second voice replied.

  The pack grew nervous around the King. They had lost surprise. These new humans knew how to find a scent, or how to see where someone had passed before them. Things were becoming far too equal. The King pricked his ears forward. There were more than two coming, but the others knew how to walk to keep from making noise. That, too, was rare in humans. There might be half a dozen of them approaching, almost as many men as wolves. The pack would not like those odds.

  “I know my rights!” the man in the pit screamed. His angry cries would last forever. He would lead the others straight to his prison.

  The King of the Wolves would not have it. The fresh meat was theirs by right of capture. They would not give it up no matter how many humans confronted them. The King growled deep in his throat. Three members of the pack replied in kind.

  “Wolves,” the second voice said again as he stepped into view. He carried a bow with an arrow notched and ready to fly. Others crowded behind him: two more full-grown males, a female, and two males that were younger. The two that had not reached maturity looked uncertain, afraid. The King wished he could get them away from their grizzled elders, catch their tender flesh in one of his traps. He ran his great red tongue along his fangs.

  “You’ll regret this!”

  The voice from the pit drew the other humans closer. All four of the elders now held bows in their hands.

  The youngsters would have to wait. The wolf pack already had fresh meat. The King of the Wolves wouldn’t let the one in the pit get away.

  The King moved between the newcomers and the traps. The pack followed. They were brave now. They growled and barked defiance at the gang of men. Would they stay that brave when the arrows began to fly?

  The King lifted himself onto his hind legs, to walk in that way that men walked. It hurt his throat to talk like men, but he could do it if he had to.

  “Staaay awaaay,” he announced, his voice closer to growl than bark. “Cripes!” one of the youngsters yelled. The King’s voice seemed to have startled the two of them. The others didn’t look impressed at all. “Not if you’ve got somebody in there,” replied a gaunt man with dark hair. He was so thin, the King mused, he’d barely be worth killing. He’d have hardly any meat. What there was would surely be stringy.

  “I know it!” the voice cried triumphantly from the pit. “I know you want to ruin my lawn!”

  The bearded man with the bow screwed up the top half of his face into a mass of wrinkles.

  “Fella doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Yes, he does,” the short, pudgy youngster said excitedly. “It sounds like Old Man Sayre.”

  “Screw it!” the other youngster—taller, with more muscle than fat— said with a shake of his head. “It can’t be! He’s dead!”

  “Dead?” the gaunt man asked sharply. “You’re sure of that?”

  “Who can be sure about anything?” the muscular youth exploded.

  “We saw him die!” the pudgy one insisted. “The Captain stuck him with a sword. And then he shot him!”

  “Sounds pretty dead to me, hey?” said a bald man standing behind the others.

  “Wolves can make traps, and dead people can walk around,” the bearded man explained. “Just some of the extra benefits of a place like this.”

  “What’s his name?” the gaunt man demanded. “Sayre?”

  “Don’t try to be nice to me!” the pit-man’s voice demanded. “I know you were on my lawn!”

  “How could he still be yelling about his lawn?” the taller youth said, his voice cracking mid-question.

  “Not doing it of his own accord,” the gaunt man answered. “Nunn’s helping.”

  The King of the Wolves stared up at the gathering of men. Dead? They said the wolves’ catch was dead? Was this some sort of man trick?

  “I know who you are!” the man in the pit raved. “I’ll kill every one of you!”

  The King of the Wolves backed up to the pit as the other members of the pack gathered before him, teeth bared against the intruders. The King pushed the curtain of branches out of the way with his snout to stare down at his captive.

  “What?” the thing in the pit screamed up at him. “How dare you?”

  The King of the Wolves stared down into the pit, openmouthed. The thing in the pit had once been a man, but it was man no longer. Its skin was a pasty white, as if no blood ran through the body to give it color or warmth. Its head sat upon its shoulders at an odd angle, like its neck was broken. It had a hole in its belly, too, where a bit of something from inside hung out, torn at the end as if it had been gnawed at by some animal.

  And it hadn’t avoided the stakes. One of the long, jagged poles had impaled the creature through the back and stuck out of the thing’s chest. There was no sign of blood here, either. The impaling seemed only to have made the thing angrier. The King almost choked on the smell: rancid, like three-day-old meat.

  “How dare you!” The thing’s mouth worked furiously. “Everyone kno
ws I don’t allow dogs on my lawn!”

  The King glimpsed movement within the creature’s mouth, too. Either there was something wrong with the thing’s tongue or the worms were already at work.

  “Let’s back out of here,” the gaunt man said.

  The one with a beard waved his bow at the wolves. “This Sayre is all yours. May he rot in good health.”

  The real men disappeared behind the trees as quickly as they had come.

  The King of the Wolves howled. There was no fresh meat here. This thing was an abomination. He would have to destroy the trap; none of the pack would eat from someplace where a dead thing—or maybe not-dead thing—had waited.

  “I’ve had enough of this!” the thing in the pit called.

  The King looked down to see that somehow the thing the others called Sayre was pulling himself up off the stake.

  “I’ll show you what happens when you cross me!” The Sayre-thing’s bony fingers reached for the top of the pit.

  The King called to the others as he backed away. It was time for the pack to leave this part of the forest altogether.

  Nunn fled from the mind of the leader of his furry army. The creature was in too much pain. They had failed in their assault. It was worth nothing to Nunn to save them now.

  Other parts of Nunn’s consciousness still coaxed those creatures that would have a part in this later. Some were easy to motivate, like the dead man who was driven by his own fury, or those things beneath the sea that waited so impatiently for action and their promised rewards. Others needed a closer watch, especially those of the various races that he had recruited, through greed or fear, to act as spies. And then there was Zachs, his brightly illuminated assistant, who showed all the restraint of a blazing fire.

  There were too many images in his mind, and all of them led to exhaustion. Nunn felt a great weariness, as if all the vigor in his form had been blown away by the island wind. Perhaps he had attempted too much too early in the campaign.

  But he had so much to gain. If he could only determine why these newcomers were here, before the great dark one was ready to use them. The room was filled with glaring white. Nunn turned his head, willing his tired eyes to remain open and alert.