Invasion and Dragons

by Jekka Jones

  A soldier placed a second chair in front of him and stood back. The others pulled chairs and benches into a circle around him and the chair. They sat, leering greedily at him but not saying a word.

  “I must thank Sayre for scarring you so deeply,” Tan’Loraen said, taking the seat. He placed the sword on the ground at his side. “I trust you will be more cooperative towards me than you were to the samurai.” He crossed his legs, laced his fingers, and stared at Landon with amusement.

  Landon tried to stay calm, but the silent, watchful eyes were too much. He felt them tracing his scars from a distance, making pictures in the lines that marred his skin. “What do you want?” he demanded.

  A few soldiers chuckled, and a languid smile curled on Tan’Loraen’s lips. “I want what is owed to a conquering nation—information.”

  Landon’s eyes flicked to the sword, but Tan’Loraen shook his head. “I am not referring to the Seal. That is secondary to my more pressing problem: the Nircanians.” The Dagnorian uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “The other nations do not know this, and we are going to keep it that way, but these people are causing trouble.”

  “They are?” Landon said, hoping to sound confused. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded.

  Tan’Loraen’s eyes bored into his. “Yes. My men and dragons expected them to resist by force, but instead they disappear. At first, my men thought they were going mad. They would bring in a group of ten people and chain them to a tent, only to find them and ten others gone the next day. Our dragons were just as baffled. They swear on Balaam’s wings that they have kept vigilant watch, and yet our prisoners slipped past them. Like any man, our dragons do not like being made the fool. They are quite upset over the matter.”

  Tan’Loraen let his words hang in the air, searching his prisoner’s face for a reaction. Landon kept his expression blank even though his heart lifted. It was as he, and Juan, had predicted. Give the Nircanians a few days, and they would do what they do best: rebel. In this case, it was to disappear, not take up arms. They knew they were outnumbered, and fighting was a sure way to get everyone killed. As big as the dragons were, they were no match against a people who had the very land on their side.

  “You are not surprised,” Dagnor’s vizier noted. “Did you suspect this would happen when my niece announced our victory?”

  Landon wasn’t going to respond but decided it couldn’t do any harm. “I did.” He confessed. “You, like everyone else, don’t understand my people. We love our freedom, and a bunch of overgrown lizards with wings can’t take that away. You took us by surprise, yes, but you have not conquered us.” Landon bared his teeth. “We are just getting started.”

  Every face except for Tan’Loraen’s hardened. One soldier stepped forward, raising his gauntlet to strike Landon, but Tan’Loraen raised a hand. “What makes you say that?” he asked quietly.

  “Because if we don’t want to be found, then there’s no way in Paradise or Hell that you will find us.” Landon’s body burned with pride. The groups Tan’Loraen said his men captured every day were rescue parties. It was a tactic from the Finoran Revolution to liberate the families of known rebels. They would free them and flee to the Rillis Mountains far to the south. The Rillis Mountains were riddled with caves and tunnels that connected passes, valleys, and canyons together. A person could travel from one end to the other without setting foot outside. Now, a hundred years later, history was repeating itself.

  “Your escaped prisoners are long gone,” Landon said, relishing the growing anger on the soldiers’ faces. It wasn’t wise to enrage them, but he didn’t care. “You’ll never see them again, so good luck in your conquest of Nircana. You’re gonna need it.”

  Tan’Loraen studied his prisoner. It was a calculating stare, bearing neither cruelty nor kindness. Landon once again felt like he was a horse being considered for purchase. Unease trickled into his soul, but he ignored it.

  “So your people are disappearing,” Tan’Loraen reiterated. “And I can assume that you know how that is happening and where they are going.” He rose and began to circle Landon. “You were—as you are so eager to remind us—raised by them. Which means your guardians would have taught you everything in the hopes that you, the last son of Hondel, would have an escape route. No doubt for when Sayre and her minions came.” He stopped and gazed down at Landon. “You know where they are.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “I do not have patience for an uncooperative prisoner, Dayn.” He walked around until he was directly in front of Landon. “We tried asking your judges, but even under torture they would not yield that information. Even threatening the woman judge did nothing.” He pulled a face, as though disgusted at the thought of a woman holding a position of leadership. “And that is why I am asking you now. You know where they are. I suggest you begin talking—or else I will make you.”

  Landon felt pimples rise on his bare skin at those words, at the cold expression in Tan’Loraen’s eyes, but he wasn’t going to give in so easily. He had one more card to play.

  Landon flexed his hands on the armrest and got his nerves under control. “I’m not telling you anything, and you can’t make me,” he said boldly. “The treaty specifically says anyone who tortures, abuses, or so much as scratches me will be brought before the kings and punished. You can’t even lock me in a cell!”

  Tan’Loraen raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you think?” he asked, his green eyes boring into Landon.

  “I know it,” said Landon. “I read it. Yell at me all you want, but I won’t tell you a thing about my home.” He felt more confident with each word, and for the first time was grateful for the treaty. “Technically, you’ve already broken it, what with your men whacking my legs, and tying me up,” he nodded at the ropes around his limbs and chest. “I suggest we head to Tsuregi and figure this out.”

  Silence. He kept his eyes on Tan’Loraen but sensed the soldiers glance at one another, and snicker. The vizier smiled a slow and crafty smile. He had the same cruel gleam in his eyes as Angen, or any of the Borikans, and Landon’s heart raced. Why were they smiling like that?

  “You know it’s true,” Landon repeated. “It says so right in the treaty. You wrote it!”

  Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, Tan’Loraen pulled the envelope from his suit pocket. He unfolded the treaty and began to read aloud. He read the document like he was presenting it before an entire nation, pausing often and clearly enunciating the words. Landon bristled when the Dagnorian emphasized his name, surname, or both. The more he read, the more the soldiers chuckled and whispered to each other.

  “He thinks that will save him. The fool.”

  Landon kept his gaze riveted on Tan’Loraen, but his thoughts wheeled in confusion. What was he missing? He listened to the treaty’s words, desperate for a clue.

  Tan’Loraen finished reading and frowned at the treaty. He strode to one of the soldiers and showed him the pages. “Rueben, does this treaty seem odd to you?”

  The man scanned over the document and answered, his voice trembling from an effort to hold back laughter, “It appears, Air Marshal, that this is the old treaty.”

  No one had punched him, but Landon was winded. He could barely draw breath. They wrote a new one?

  “What?” Tan’Loraen examined the parchment again. “The old treaty?” He tsked as he folded up the paper. “Thank you, Rueben, for spotting that very important detail.” He slipped the parchment into the envelope and tucked it into his pocket. “Reuben, please dispatch a runner to Tsuregi and inform the emperor and kings that Landon Dayn is in under our wing.”

  The guard bowed and left. Tan’Loraen sauntered to his prisoner. Landon looked up into the cold, green eyes and steeled himself for the worse.

  “You carry a stolen treaty across two countries and expect it to hold power?” Tan’Loraen asked softly. “You are more naïve than I thought, Dayn. Of course, you were just desperate.”

  “What did they change?” Lando
n asked, his voice tight with fear.

  Tan’Loraen’s lips curled into a predatory grin. “Nothing too significant, except that the kings granted the emperor and me permission to retain you by any means necessary. That section about imprisonment, incapacitation, and abuse has been waved due to your little escapade. I can do whatever I want to you without fear of repercussions. The Drakshus were particularly excited about that decision. . . . You experienced the Menrians’ techniques firsthand. Who knows how our methods differ?”

  Landon felt his face drain of color. Terror gripped his throat and tongue, yet he managed to say, “You’re going to torture me.” Terrifying memories of being blind and crippled began to overwhelm him.

  The Dagnorian smiled. “Yes. Fear not, Landon Dayn. I will not touch a hair on your head. I worked hard on that treaty, and I am not going to risk it over a beating.”

  Landon trembled. He wanted to speak, to plead for mercy, but words wouldn’t come. He yelped when Tan’Loraen slammed his hands over his wrists. The Dagnorian leaned forward until his nose was inches from Landon’s.

  “I will ask you one last time, Dayn,” Tan’Loraen growled, his breath hot on Landon’s face. “Where are your people hiding?”

  Landon was terrified, but he had made his decision. If the judges could resist torture, then so could he. He had survived a Twin’s Revenge. That had to count for something right?

  “I won’t tell you a thing,” he responded, his voice shaking as hard as his body.

  Tan’Loraen moistened his lips with his tongue and straightened. “Very well.” He waved, and Landon heard boots tramp around the empty area behind him.

  Three soldiers appeared, each carrying long wooden boxes. They sat them on the ground, knelt, and opened the lids. One began passing around green masks that looked to be woven from plants, while the other two rummaged through their boxes. Landon spotted bottles, smaller boxes, and dried herbs. His heart pounded in his ears as one soldier withdrew a wooden platter, tinder, flint, and steel. He covered his face with a mask before lighting the tinder.

  “What’re those?” Landon asked. This time, he didn’t hide his terror.

  “Native plants from Dagnor,” Tan’Loraen replied. “Sayre Drakshu is not the only one who enjoys mixing herbs. Thank you, Simeon.” He took a mask and put it over his mouth. When he spoke, his voice was muffled. “Sayre likes to poison her victims through tonics and drinks. She even gave me a recipe for a potion she said was useful on prisoners. I, on the other hand, find vapors can be just as effective. And this way, none of us will touch a hair on your head.”

  Landon thought he would die of fright. Of course, Sayre would give Tan’Loraen access to her cruelest potion, Nakasen. She had done the same for Angen. Nakasen’s purpose was to keep a prisoner alive without wasting food on them. It caused his body to turn against itself for nourishment, paralyzing and torturing his insides until he was given more. It had taken Landon months to recover from that potion alone. Did the Dagnorians have something similar?

  Almighty, please don’t make me live through that again. . . .

  The soldier with the burning platter picked it up and put it on Landon’s lap. The wood was warm and already the tinder let off a sweet, intoxicating smell. Landon coughed and craned his head away.

  Tan’Loraen moved his chair right next to Landon. “Let’s start with dragon’s clove and a bit of ash, Kaleb. That will loosen his mind for the moonshade. Nehemiah, please start on the moonshade.”

  “Yes sir,” said the soldiers, and they began mixing the herbs and ash.

  Chapter 8

  It was nearly nightfall. The sun had sunk out of sight, leaving the first evening stars glimmering in the twilight. The lamps were lit in the courtroom, casting eerie shadows on the solitary figure slumped in his chair.

  Landon was alone. Tan’Loraen and the soldiers had left minutes before to eat, but they left the herbs and bottles lying about the room. The platter on Landon’s lap continued to smolder. He sat in silence, numb with fear and fatigue. His ragged panting echoed through the empty room.

  He stared at the smoking herbs, mesmerized. His bare torso glistened with sweat, and droplets of something fell from his nose. Was it blood? Sweat? He wasn’t sure. Every time a drop fell, it was a different color—sometimes blood-red, sometimes baby-blue, other times a vibrant purple, and so many colors. They burst into tiny butterflies when they hit the plate and fluttered in every direction. A few hit Landon in the face, causing him to flinch. He hoped the droplets or butterflies would smother the herbs, but they weren’t wet enough. The herbs continued to burn, and Landon’s mind continued to divulge hallucinations.

  Personally, he was relieved that the droplets were turning into butterflies. It was better than everything else he had seen since the Dagnorians began their interrogation. Landon had expected to pass out within the first hour, but the herbs kept him awake. Every time he felt himself slip away, a new smell pulled him back to consciousness, and he was met with a new hallucination. Some of the apparitions were harmless, like the drops turning into butterflies; others were terrifying.

  Landon shuddered, remembering when spiders the size of a dinner plates crawled from the smoking herbs. He wasn’t normally scared of spiders, but these tiptoed over his bare skin, singing lullabies in Alyssa’s voice as they bit. Their venom, which felt so real, sent his muscles into painful spasms. There were other hallucinations equally painful, or more horrifying. As he screamed for it to stop, Tan’Loraen’s voice echoed in the background, asking him relentlessly where the Nircanians were hiding.

  “We will continue after our meal, Dayn,” Tan’Loraen had whispered in his ear before leaving. “We can do this all night if we must, boy. If you want it to stop, all you need to do is answer my question.”

  Landon could hear them now, dining in the other courtroom. They laughed raucously, recreating Landon’s cries as cruel entertainment. Landon tuned them out and stared past the platter to the floorboards. Butterflies continued to strike his face at random times, their wings kissing his skin as if to comfort him.

  Did he say anything incriminating? Landon strained his hazy thoughts to recall, but he was too confused to remember. Some of the hallucinations had asked him questions, demanding to know who raised him, whether he truly loved Myra, and where the Seal was hidden. They asked him in Tan’Loraen’s voice, his parents’ voices, Myra’s, Niklas’, and any voice that belonged to a person he knew. Landon had focused all his strength into shouting “No!” when the pressure became too much, but he wasn’t sure if he had succeeded.

  Landon tried to sink into unconsciousness, but the poisons coursing through his veins kept him awake. A headache built in his temples, throbbing and pounding on his skull. It caused the room to warp, to twist the brick walls into rugged stones of ice. A moan escaped from him, and he wished he were someone else, someone not worth tying to a chair and drugging for information. He wished he had stayed in Tsuregi and gone to Dagnor like a good boy.

  “Stop it,” he chided himself. His throat hurt from screaming and breathing in so many fumes. “Don’t . . . Treaty bad. . . .” But he wasn’t convinced. He could have persuaded Dre’Goran to bring Myra too. They would have married, and she would be safe from the Twin’s Revenge. Between the marriage and treaty, the Seers couldn’t touch her. Yet Nircana would have fought back, so he’d be in this mess anyways. He couldn’t win.

  The pain in his head and body increased, and Landon closed his eyes to alleviate it. His head wouldn’t hurt so much if whoever was tapping on the glass would stop.

  Tapping?

  Slowly, Landon turned his head toward the dark windows on his left. He squinted, but the lamps made it impossible to see anything beyond the glass. The tapping stopped as soon as he was gazing at the window.

  The hallucinations continued. Hands pressed against the bottom-right pane and disappeared. They appeared again on the left pane and were replaced with a saw that cut through the piece of wood dividing the two portions. Landon wat
ched as the wood contorted, screamed, and sprayed thick, golden liquid in all directions. As the saw worked, a cold breeze wafted into the room. Landon shivered.

  “Not real,” Landon mumbled. He wanted to look away, but as with every hallucination, he was riveted until it changed or he fainted. He watched the window, resigning himself to an apprehensive curiosity as to what his tired mind was creating.

  Hands appeared on the windowsill, then a head, a torso, and one leg. A person eased himself to the floor, his soft-soled boots alighting silently on a puddle of golden liquid. The person spoke, but his voice was lost to the boisterous sounds coming from the Dagnorians. Landon blinked, pitying himself for his desperation to be free of the Dagnorians. The man he saw materializing from the window couldn’t be his surrogate brother, Will. On top of that, three more men slithered from the window. They looked familiar. If his head didn’t hurt so much then he could remember their names.

  He eyed them suspiciously, wondering what the apparitions would do next. Will and one other person went straight to Landon, whereas the other two darted towards the door. The other man, who looked like Myra’s father, took the platter from Landon’s lap, made a show of examining its contents and pulled a face.

  “So this is causing that horrid smell,” said the apparition that was or wasn’t Myra’s father. He smothered the plants by turning the platter upside down on Tan’Loraen’s chair.

  The two apparitions knelt beside Landon and began cutting away the ropes with small knives. They spoke to him in low, urgent words that were hard to follow.

  “We’ll get you out of here, Lan, just hold still,” Will was saying. Landon focused on the apparition.

  “Are you real?” he asked.

  Will exchanged a concerned look with the other apparition, who Landon was now sure was Myra’s father. “Of course I am. What else would I be?”