Invasion and Dragons

by Jekka Jones

  “Sri’Lanca . . . Myra . . . I’m sorry,” he whispered, willing his remorse to transcend the wizard’s power and reach his dragon.

  Sri’Lanca faltered in the air and his head swiveled to Landon. Their eyes locked, and the dragon’s eyes widened. Terror sliced through the power.

  “Landon, no!” Sri’Lanca screamed. Landon tore his eyes away. “Don’t do it! Oh, Balaam, stop him! Stop!”

  Landon closed his eyes, clasped the Seal in both hands, and focused on the wizard’s power. The Seers were very close to him, but that didn’t matter.

  “Now or never,” he whispered.

  He willed all the power roiling inside him, all the thirst for destruction, death, and chaos, and threw it at the amulet in his hands.

  Chapter 30

  He expected a reaction like the burning shack in Hondel—for the power to resist his will, and he would have to force it to cooperate. It was nothing like that. The power flared like a burst of light and obscured Landon’s entire vision—and there was pain, worse than anything he had ever experienced. His entire body burned and froze from the inside, colder than when he used the Seal to heal, and hotter than a dragon’s fire.

  It was like two armies were warring against each other, and his body was the battlefield. The forces raged through Landon’s veins, sinews, organs, bones, and skin. His muscles froze and melted all at once, his organs boiling and congealing into a mass of nothing. An animal-like howl of agony tore from Landon’s throat. He screamed and screamed, wailing for mercy and relief. He couldn’t see or hear anything, and all he smelled was fire and ice.

  Jeshua . . . Balaam . . . mercy!

  Then the dragons came. Thousands upon thousands appeared before him, and he knew them all. He knew their ages, their goals, and their fears; he knew their entire life story. He saw handsome drakes with hard scales and stiff spines, dragonesses with delicate wings and teasing eyes. He saw dragonets flexing their wings and spitting sparks, or trying to fly after just crawling from their eggs. He saw Vin’Hassen with his iridescent wings, Cor’Lidden with her tail shaped like a battle axe. He saw San’Beren trying to breathe fire two days after he hatched, Ali’Jorslo whose tail was so long he could wrap it twice around a house, and Lan’Vesuni with a small horn protruding from the tip of her nose.

  Every single dragon that had died by the wizards’ hands surrounded him. Wonder filled him, yet that vanished when they spoke. Their voices were not kind, but furious. The rage and sorrow of thousands and thousands of dragons clawed mercilessly at his mind.

  I broke free of my shell and you killed me!

  “I didn’t do it!” Landon cried. “It wasn’t me!”

  I never learned to fly!

  “I bonded to a dragon! We are kin!”

  Balaam damn you to the frozen wastelands!

  “Sri’Lanca! His name’s Sri’Lanca!”

  You murdered my dragonets, and then you murdered me!

  “Oh angels, forgive me! I didn’t kill you! I didn’t kill you!”

  Landon sobbed for forgiveness. He screamed he had tamed a dragon, but it was useless. The dragons didn’t care. It was his fault they were dead. He had stolen their lives, destroyed their dreams, and murdered their families. There was no forgiveness, only damnation. The pain in his body and spirit was so great that his sanity broke.

  Landon had no track of time. There was no beginning and no end to this hell. He had always been here and would forever be here. He begged for death—pleaded to be killed as the dragons were killed, but that wasn’t possible. This was his punishment, and they would see it carried out to its entirety.

  The coldness in his body grew, threatening to snuff out the heat, but the heat fought back tenfold. It swelled like a fire latching onto a field of dry grass, driving the cold back. As the cold retreated, the dead dragons lost their strength. Their faces became indistinct, their colors dull, their words garbled sounds rather than coherent language, and their names didn’t come to Landon as quickly as before.

  The cold faded until it evaporated completely, taking Lin’Tella—who wanted to fly to the moon—with it. No more dragons appeared. A wave of warmth swept over Landon, drowning him in its heat. But this heat wasn’t painful. It soothed his tortured mind like a cool cloth on a fevered brow. He sighed with relief. The dragons were gone. He was free.

  “Landon.”

  He started and looked around. Standing in front of him was Sri’Lanca. The dragon grinned, his head cocked to one side, and his arrow-tipped tail twitched. Landon saw him in perfect detail, from his yellow eyes to each wrinkle in his folded wings. The dragon was licking his lips as if he had just finished a wheel of cheese.

  “Bonded for life, remember?” said Sri’Lanca.

  And Landon saw it. The bond was a glowing length of rope as thick as his arm. It stretched from the center of his chest to Sri’Lanca’s, pulsing with the same comforting heat that had defeated the dead dragons’ ice.

  Bonded for life.

  Joy swept through Landon’s body. He sprang towards Sri’Lanca with a cry that was half-sob, half-laugh. He reached for his dragon. Sri’Lanca spread his wings and flew towards Landon, grinning from ear to ear. They sped towards each other, but Landon wasn’t worried about the resulting crash. Sri’Lanca was his dragon. He could never hurt him.

  Sri’Lanca was now close enough for Landon to feel his hot breath and smell the sulfurous stench of his poison. Sri’Lanca’s nose touched his chest at the same time Landon’s hand alighted on the dragon’s lower jaw.

  There was a flash of blinding light, and Sri’Lanca disappeared. Landon found himself standing in a pine forest, facing two men and a red horse.

  Castiel and Eli gaped at him. “Landon?” said his uncle, surprised. Castiel’s hand was frozen on Oni’s neck.

  “Pup, what are you doing here?” Eli cried, eyes wide. Even Oni seemed shocked to see him.

  “Dad, I—” Landon began, but black mist sprang out of nowhere, and he plummeted into darkness. His stomach leapt into his throat, and his shouts were silenced. His back hit something soft yet firm, and he jolted awake. He bolted upright, twisting around to see where he was. His heart hammered in his chest and his lungs heaved with terror.

  It took him a moment to calm down, and when he did, he felt stupid. There was nothing to be afraid of. He was in a tent, lying on a cot. It was hot and bright, about midday. There were three other cots in the tent, one on Landon’s left and two on the opposite side of him. Each bed looked like it had been slept in, with the sheets thrown aside. A table stood in the middle with four chairs around it. A tin pitcher along with three plates and a bowl sat on the table. The plates were laden with food, and the bowl was filled to the brim with soup.

  The scent of roast pork, gravy, bread, and cooked vegetables suffused Landon’s nostrils, and his stomach seized. He doubled over, gasping from the pain.

  “I’m hungry . . .” He said and took comfort in hearing his voice.

  He raised his head to stare at the food. Was it real? Gritting his teeth and clutching his stomach, Landon stood and hobbled to the nearest chair. It was painful. His muscles burned as if they hadn’t been used in a while, and the tent spun. He sank into the chair and pulled one of the plates towards him.

  The roast had a couple bite-size parts missing. He poked at the meat. It was lukewarm, as if it had been sitting out for a while, but it was real.

  His stomach twisted with longing. Saliva filled Landon’s mouth and threatened to overflow. Nervous, he looked at the empty, abandoned cots and chairs. “Sorry,” he whispered and seized the utensils. He sawed off a bit of pork slathered in gravy and stuck it in his mouth.

  Meaty flavor exploded on his tongue. Landon moaned, screwing his eyes closed with joy, and dug into the meal. It was so good. Strength seeped into his body with each bite, invigorating his muscles. He peered into the pitcher, noting the liquid was dark red and smelled like fruit. He poured himself a cup and drained it, relishing the sweet but tangy flavor.

&n
bsp; Too soon, Landon was scraping the last of the vegetables into his mouth. He licked his plate clean, yet his stomach ached for more. He pulled the rest of the plates towards him, along with the bowl. The other plates looked like they had been picked at, but Landon didn’t care. His body called for nourishment, and he was happy to provide.

  After several minutes, the dishes were clean, the pitcher empty, and Landon’s stomach was fit to burst. He lounged on the chair, smiling at the ceiling.

  “That was good,” he said, but he still felt weak. It wasn’t hunger weak, but weakness brought on by days of hard labor. Landon looked at his hands and noticed a thick white scar around his left thumb. He traced it with one finger and pushed up his sleeve.

  His wrist was covered in white lines. Confused, Landon pushed the sleeve to his elbow and stared at the scars crisscrossing his skin. He pulled up his shirt and saw more white and rosy pink slashes across his belly. He looked at his chest, his waist, his legs, and feet to find the same sight. Every inch of him was mottled with scars. He was thin too, his wrist bones and ribs stood out like mountains. One of his wrists bore a bracelet made out of coarse red hair. It saddened Landon when he looked at it, but he couldn’t remember why.

  He rubbed his chest, feeling his breastbone and ribs dig into his fingers. Whenever he passed over his heart, he felt a hot spot, almost like a fever. Landon peeled away his shirt for a better look but, except for the scars, nothing looked out of the ordinary. He focused on the spot, and sensed an invisible thread spooling out of his chest and to the left, as if a string had been tied around his heart.

  “The bond. . . . Sri’Lanca.” Landon said, and hope filled him. It wasn’t thick, but he knew it connected him to his dragon. He rubbed the spot again, thinking of the dead dragons, and said aloud, “I will never hurt my dragon, or any dragon, so long as I live. I swear on my life.”

  He didn’t know who he was making the oath to, but he did it anyways. It eased his nerves.

  Landon looked around the tent, noting the lack of decoration. He thought about his scarred and weak body and suspected he was a prisoner. But if he was a prisoner, shouldn’t he be chained? He hadn’t been shackled, just left on the cot, alone and unguarded. And where were the other occupants of the cots? He looked at his wrists, hoping to find answers, but the scars were months too old and his hunger felt recent.

  What happened? He strained his memory but all he remembered was the thousands of dragons wreaking vengeance upon his soul. Did they do this to him? He thought and thought, gritting his teeth until his jaw hurt. A few names and dim faces came to remembrance: A couple who smiled at him. An elderly woman with gray hair, arm in arm with another elderly man.

  “Alyssa and Eli. . . .” Landon whispered. He saw another image of a man and woman, the man looking very much like him but older. “Diego and Sierra. . . . My parents?” The two couples stood in his thoughts, smiling, but the image of Eli faded and sorrow took its place. Something had happened to that man, but what?

  Landon searched his memory for the answer and saw different images. Morgan and Juan—Will, Daisy, Cassie, Heather, and their families—and a red-haired woman named Liliana. She had a close friend named Ti’Luthin. He remembered several names: Darrin, Sayre, Niklas, and Kennin. Their faces made him nervous, but he couldn’t remember why.

  Then there was Myra. Dark hair, bright blue eyes, and a laughing face. An aching desire to hold her in his arms overcame Landon. He needed her almost as much as his dragon. He didn’t know why this Myra was so important, but Sri’Lanca would know. His priority was to find Sri’Lanca. He would know what had happened to Landon.

  He gazed at the tent’s door. It was tied shut in three places so only a bit of sunlight peaked through. Landon chewed his lip, thinking over his options. He got to his feet. His legs trembled and burned, but his head didn’t spin. He took a careful step and let out an explosive breath of relief when he was able to maintain his balance.

  Landon moved towards the door, taking his time so he wouldn’t fall. He was almost there when the door began to jolt. He heard voices, but they were hard to make out. He froze, unsure if he should return to the bed and pretend to sleep or not. Before he could decide, the ties fell away and the doorway parted. Three people, a man and two women, stepped inside. They froze.

  Icy fear clenched Landon’s stomach. The three people had no faces. Where the ears, nose, eyes, eyebrows, and mouth should’ve been was instead a flat flesh-colored surface. The man’s gray-streaked brown hair hung about his head, his unkempt beard outlining the place where his mouth would be. One of the women wore her dark, almost black hair in a braid, whereas the other had a ragged handkerchief holding back her gray locks. The women’s dresses were threadbare and fraying at the hem. The man’s shirt and trousers looked just as worn. Neither bore weapons that Landon could see, but their faceless heads were terrifying enough. They weren’t human.

  All three faced him, unmoving and silent. Although Landon couldn’t see their eyes, he felt them on him. He could tell by their body language they were surprised to see him. He glanced at the empty plates and scattered utensils, realizing that he had eaten their meal. The scars on his body tingled and stung, anticipating pain.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, backing away. Fear made his voice waver. “I was hungry. I’ll . . . I’ll make it up to you.” He grabbed a chair and pulled it out. A pathetic defense, but it was better than nothing.

  His voice snapped the figures out of their stupor. The brown-haired woman stepped forward, extending her hands towards him. “Starlings fisho keepachin,” said a woman’s voice from the faceless creature. “Courg zaegla larry wippasnek.” Her voice sounded like his mother’s, Sierra—but it wasn’t possible. That thing couldn’t be her.

  “Yallaren jiggilo tiki vascini.” This voice emanated from the gray-haired woman, and memories of Alyssa clambered to Landon’s mind. “Mal fissi cretin opopo snake twinnels?”

  “Crowun saccari revver,” came Diego’s voice from the man. It sounded concerned. “Williwalla nomini grambles.” The faceless man stayed where he was, while the other two moved to the far side of the table.

  Landon stumbled back another few steps. His legs trembled, and a bitter taste entered his mouth. The monsters were possessing his parents’ voices, using them to speak gibberish. He swallowed. His throat was dry with terror. “Do you speak Tarsli?” He remembered that was the name of his language, the common tongue of his home.

  The man’s blank face bored into him. “Houndi.”

  “What does that mean?” Landon squeaked.

  All three turned their heads towards each other, as if exchanging questioning looks, and then back at Landon. They spoke in succession, their feminine and masculine tones clashing together like strange music. Their speech made no sense to Landon. It was all gibberish, like a baby playing around with words but not understanding them.

  “Please,” he begged, backing away even more, “Stay back. What do you want from me? Go away!”

  The man and women continued forward, gibbering at him. The Diego-monster walked forward and pushed the chair in. His movements were slow and careful, as if he didn’t want to frighten Landon. The Sierra and Alyssa-monsters continued their slow pace around the table. They held their hands out, palms up in peace.

  Landon’s terror grew. His heart pounded, and his body trembled. He wanted to escape, but the faceless people stood between him and the door. His back hit the tent. The tent closed around him, shutting him in like a prison. His eyes went to the knives on the table. He lunged and snatched two of them up, brandishing one in each hand. “Stay away from me, monsters!” he yelled.

  The monsters stopped short, speaking in soothing, jabbering tones. They sounded so much like his parents that he yearned for them. Sharp pangs of homesickness swept over him, stronger and fiercer than he had ever experienced. Had they been captured? Did these monsters devour them and steal their voices to lure him into a false sense of security?

  That had to be it. T
hey were the predators, and he was the prey. They were using the sounds to capture Landon and take his voice. They would take his voice, take his body, and use him to find Sri’Lanca. They would kill Sri’Lanca, and he would join the thousands of dragons in eternal torture. Landon could not let that happen.

  Mustering his courage, Landon swiped forward with the knives. The Diego-monster stepped back, and the two women froze. Their garbled speech became more insistent, more scared. That bolstered Landon’s confidence. He could drive them off, escape this tent, and search for Sri’Lanca. Maybe, just maybe the two of them could destroy these monsters and bring back his parents, and anyone else who had been taken.

  “Stay where you are!” Landon yelled, waving the steak knife in his left hand at the Alyssa-monster. “I will hurt you if you take one step closer to me!”

  “Gurasi mast cakestacks?” bellowed a fourth voice. The tent door jerked again and a second man entered. This one wore a thick leather jerkin with a sword at his hip. His dark hair was pulled up into a knot on the top of his head, and he too had a beard. His body emanated annoyance and power. His flat, faceless head made small movements before stopping on Landon.

  Landon’s courage quailed. More monsters?

  The Diego-monster turned to the newcomer, his voice urgent and pleading. The women stayed where they were, their heads turning from the two men to Landon and back again.

  The newcomer snapped a harsh response, and that person’s voice clicked in his mind. Darrin. All Landon remembered was that he used to respect the man but not anymore. Still, the monsters had taken Darrin’s voice as well. Landon thought he would drop dead from terror. How many others were now monsters?

  “Where am I?” he whispered. “What world is this?”

  “Donnadoc,” shouted the Darrin-monster, and six more men burst into the tent. All had no faces, and all of them were armed. The monsters shouted gibberish at each other until it became a ruckus of screeching and bellowing. The monsters that possessed his parents’ voices and bodies were pushed closer to Landon. They were within reach of his knives, but horror kept him from lashing out.