In the Shadow of the Dragon King Page 2

  “What’s wrong?”

  Eric gritted his teeth. “Do you not see who is standing in front of us?”

  Sestian turned his gaze to their masters leaning against the balustrade, their arms folded against their chests, waiting. “Great. Let me handle this.”

  Trog stood upright and adjusted the sword on his hip, flexing the intersecting scars on his arms—reminders of dozens of battles fought. He took a step forward, and a gust of wind blew his dark hair back from his weathered, sun-darkened face, exposing a high forehead, square jaw, and intense peridot eyes. Eric gulped as a childhood tale about a sly mouse captured by a blind owl scampered through his brain.

  “You’re late,” Trog said, tossing Eric a suede satchel weighed down with sheathed knives. “Where have you been?” He spoke softly, but his voice reverberated through the crisp morning air.

  “Listening to Magister Timan’s lecture on ceremonial magic,” Sestian replied. “Did you know there are magical portals that allow us to travel between realms?”

  “Did you know I have a magical foot that can disappear up your backside if you don’t get down to the stables right now?” Farnsworth asked. His brow furrowed beneath a curtain of wavy straw-colored hair. He walked toward Sestian, the seams of his green tunic strained over his wide shoulders, his eyes as brown and penetrating as a wolf’s.

  “So I’ve heard. Several times.” Sestian grinned and tapped Eric on the arm. “We’ll get together later and go over what we learned today, eh?”

  Eric nodded and shuffled his feet under the weight of Trog’s stare. He waited for Sestian and Farnsworth to get far enough away before lifting his head and meeting Trog’s gaze. The knight lifted a brow.

  “Are you going to tell me where you really were, or are you going to hold to your story that you were listening to a lecture that ended this time yesterday?”

  “Which one will get me in the least amount of trouble?”

  Trog placed his hand on Eric’s back and edged him down the stone steps to the lower courtyard. “The truth, Eric. Always the truth.”

  “What if I promised not to tell?”

  “Secrets are grave burdens to bear.”

  “I can’t betray his confidence, sir. I promised.”

  Trog nodded. “Then you’ll sleep in the stables tonight as punishment.”

  “What? How is that fair?”

  “You know the rules as my squire, and you still choose to withhold the truth. Therefore, you shall be punished accordingly.”

  “But the rules of knighthood require I not reveal confidences or secrets under any circumstance to anyone at any time, even under pain of death.”

  “Nice try, lad, but the last time I looked, you have not been captured nor are you under pain of death.” Trog placed a heavy hand on Eric’s shoulder. “I’m going to give you one more chance. What will it be?”

  Eric clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides. “With all due respect, sir, I cannot and will not betray my friend.”

  Trog removed his hand. “I commend you on your loyalty, son, but you have made your choice. Therefore, you will suffer the consequences of it. Now go on and get busy with your chores. I want each of those blades in your hand sharpened and polished by morning—”

  “But, sir—”

  “And for protesting when you should not, you will also sharpen and polish Sir Farnsworth’s blades. I’ll see to it they are dropped off.” Eric opened his mouth to speak but changed his mind when Trog dipped his brow in warning. “Would you like me to add Sir Gowran’s and Sir Crohn’s weapons to your load?”

  Eric bit back the irritation boiling below the surface. “No, sir.”

  “Very well. Bring the blades to the farrier’s stall in the morning around eight. It will be a dual-fold meeting as you can visit your father at the same time.”

  Trog paused for a moment, his expression thoughtful, and then turned and strolled across the courtyard. He hoisted a young page from a game of marbles and lectured him on the pitfalls of wasting time. Eric snorted at the boy’s bewildered expression and the speed at which he ran once set down upon his feet. Been there, boy. He cursed beneath his breath. What am I talking about? I’m still there.

  Eric’s boots clicked on the cobblestones as he plodded toward Crafter’s Row. He passed beneath the archway connecting the cathedral to the knights’ quarters and turned left down the tree-shaded lane toward the royal stables. After informing the stable master of his upcoming sleeping arrangements, Eric returned the way he came. At the crossroad, he turned and made his way toward the smithy. Horses clomped and wagons rattled over the pavers while thick clouds gathered overhead, suffocating the sun. A light drizzle set in as he entered a stone building marked by a metal plate engraved with a hammer and anvil. The blacksmith wiped the sweat from his brow and motioned Eric to a table set with vials of oils, and various whetstones.

  Eric sighed. Lovely.

  He settled into the monotonous task of sharpening and polishing, taking on Farnsworth’s load a few hours later. He finished his arduous task just after dusk. Cursing his sore muscles, he packed up the satchels and shuffled to the stables where a plate of bread, cheese, and a pint of goat’s milk waited for him.

  Great. Is he trying to starve me too?

  He ate his rations and settled into the hayloft, his stomach a knot of protests. He sighed. Who was this paladin, and from who or what was he destined to save the realm? There was only one way to find out. Tomorrow he and Sestian would devise a plan, and it would be worthy of a knight’s tale. When all was said and done, Trog would have no other choice than to see him as a worthy knight instead of an incompetent fool. An image of Trog groveling for forgiveness appeared in his mind. Eric snuggled into a bed of hay and fell into a blissful dream, a wide grin on his face.

  Chapter 2

  Your time is nigh. Be brave.

  David stood with eyes closed; his palms pressed flat to the shower walls. In time, the haunting words that hijacked his dreams dissolved and washed down the drain. He banged his fist against the knob, turned off the water, and stepped into the steamy bathroom. An offhand glance toward the mirror set his mind on edge.

  A whispered expletive escaped his lips as he wiped a thin layer of moisture from the glass. He stared at his reflection, confusion and sleepiness riddling his comprehension. Running his fingers across his chest, he probed a dark tattoo of a bull standing on its hind legs, an eagle perched on its head, wings spread. A Celtic braid entwined with ivy circled the animals like a shield. His stomach clenched. The tattoo hadn’t been there when he’d gone to sleep. “What the hell?” David soaped up a washcloth and scrubbed the blotch, but it refused to budge.

  His pulse raced.

  Inside his dressing room, he rummaged through the cedar drawers and color-coded hangers, clothes flying everywhere. “Crap! Where are they?” David spun around and honed in on the laundry basket sitting on the half-moon leather seat. He dumped it over like a wild dog scouring for scraps. Moments later, he scrambled into his room clad in a pair of jeans, sneakers, and a white sweatshirt with the words Air Force emblazoned in blue letters across the front.

  Phone, phone. Where did I leave my phone?

  He scanned the room in which he’d grown up. The Tinkertoys, Nerf basketballs, and glow-in-the-dark stars of his youth had been replaced over the years with posters of F-22 Raptors, archery and track trophies, and an entertainment zone that would make the most serious gamer, music lover, and movie freak, drool with envy.

  Where did I put it? Think!

  He swept back the dark strands falling into his eyes. His memory jogged. He’d sent a midnight text. He leaped on the carved antique bed and uncovered his lifeline to the world buried in the folds of his burgundy comforter. He fell back and pushed the number one.

  A sleepy voice answered after four rings. “Hel-lo?”

  “Charlotte?”

  “David? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

&n
bsp; “Yeah, it’s seven thirty-three. I need you to come over. Something’s happened. I’ll open the door for you, but be quiet. Lily’s still asleep.”

  “Wha—? No. Go back to sleep. I’ll call you later.”

  “No, Char!” David bolted upright. “Please, don’t hang up! It’s important. I swear it. Please.”

  A long pause followed. “Oh, all right,” she said. “I’ll be there in a minute, but this better be good.”

  He ran his palm across his chest. “You have no idea. See you in a few. You remember the code to the gate, right?”

  “Duuuh.” Her sigh swelled in his ear. “You owe me, David Heiland.”

  “I kn—”

  Click.

  David stuffed the phone into his pocket and stretched his Aviator Rolex over his wrist.

  Outside, several crows squawked in agitation, the noise incessant and loud.

  “What is their problem?”

  He rolled off the bed and crossed the room, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. Cold January air blasted over him as he flung open the double doors to the balcony. Perched above him on a thick snow-covered branch were no less than a dozen crows, their wings flared, their beady eyes focused on something behind the house. David craned his neck to see what had their feathers ruffled, but saw nothing more than bare tree limbs and a snow-dusted roof.

  “Stupid birds. Get out of here.” He threw a couple of snowballs in their direction. The birds scattered, protesting as they flew beneath the canopy of naked oaks branching over the driveway. Beyond the iron gates, a row of five houses lined up along the east side of Chestnut Circle—minuscule sentries and rooks facing off against the encroaching Cherokee National Forest. Charlotte’s house was the third one in, and she was nowhere in sight.

  Come on, Char.

  David slipped downstairs, and unlocked the front doors, then returned to the bottom step of the staircase, and waited. Ten tortuous minutes passed before the door opened and Charlotte stepped inside. She removed her white, puffy coat and crocheted cap, spilling coffee-brown hair over her light blue sweater to her hips. David’s heart fluttered as she flicked him a smile.

  “Hey, Firefox.” His heart leaped at the special nickname she’d given him in third grade.

  No one else was allowed to use it. “What’s got your boxers in a bunch?”

  Other than the smell of your hair and the way your smile turns me into jelly?

  The stray thought stunned him into momentary silence. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll tell you in a minute. Come on.”

  Charlotte followed him up the staircase that curved to the second floor, her eyes fixed on the gigantic Christmas tree brushing the banister. “I thought you said you were going to get rid of this thing before school starts on Monday?”

  “Yeah, I might have said that.”

  “Need help?”

  “Only if you have the hotline number to dial-a-servant.”

  “I don’t believe you just said that.”

  “Whatever.” At the top of the stairs, David glanced over his right shoulder at his godmother’s closed door. With a finger to his lips, they tiptoed across the landing to David’s room and closed the door.

  “You know, sometimes you can be such a snob.” Charlotte tossed her coat and hat on the beanbag and sat on the edge of his bed.

  David picked up Charlotte’s belongings and placed them on a chair. “Yeah, so you keep telling me. Can we focus here? I have a serious problem.”

  “So said the frantic voice on the phone. What gives?”

  David took a deep breath. There was no way to explain other than to show her. He pulled the sweatshirt over his head. “This,” he said, pointing to the new addition on his chest.

  He stood half-naked in front of her. Had it been any other time, any other circumstance like in one of his dreams, he would have appreciated, even welcomed the holy-crap-oh-my-God, Cheshire cat grin on her face. As it was, he wished she’d quit staring and say something, anything to make him feel less exposed.

  She rose from the bed and chuckled. “Oh my gosh. I don’t believe it. You got a tat.” She traced the mark with her fingertips.

  Her touch surged like warm currents through his body. David swallowed and pulled the sweatshirt back over his head in hopes she didn’t notice the goosebumps spreading across his flesh.

  “What happened to being afraid of needles and catching the plague?” Charlotte asked.

  “Still there,” David said.

  She sat back down. “So why did you do it?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Your chest disagrees.”

  David pulled the sweatshirt over his head. “I woke up like this.”

  Charlotte laughed. “Right, and I suppose the tattoo fairies came in your room in the middle of the night and inked it there.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “Come on. Wipe away the scowl and tell me what happened. Did you do it on a dare?”

  “No,” David said. “Didn’t you hear me? I. Didn’t. Do. This.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s me, David. Tattoos don’t appear out of thin air.”

  “This one did, and it’s not the only thing that showed up without explanation.” He pulled an open sketchpad from beneath a stack of books on his desk and handed it to her. “Check this out. I drew it yesterday.”

  A black dragon with small horns and merciless cat-like eyes clung to a castle’s battlement. A boy bearing a striking resemblance to David was clutched in one talon. Crouched in the shadows were a man and a woman, terror etched on their faces.

  Charlotte stammered. “David, this-this is amazing. Creepy, but amazing. The detail is incredible. Who are these two people?”

  “My parents. Look.” David plucked two framed pictures from the nightstand. “You can see the resemblance.”

  “Holy cow. This is whacked.” She glanced sideways at him, her eyebrows pinched. “When did you do this?”

  “Yesterday, after Lily and I got back from visiting my parents’ graves.” David put the photographs back and sat beside her, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. “The bad thing is, I don’t even remember drawing it.”

  “What?”

  “All I remember is sitting down to draw and then signing my name to the bottom. Everything in between is a blank, like last night. I don’t remember leaving the house. I don’t know if I walked or drove or if I let someone in.” There was a strained silence. David took a deep breath and exhaled. “I’m scared, Char. What’s wrong with me?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, rubbing his back, “but we’ll figure it out.”

  David stared at the floor, his nerves stretched tight like a rubber band waiting to snap. Charlotte’s presence was the only thing keeping him from breaking. With her, he was complete, like he’d found a missing piece to a puzzle. If only he could tell her how he felt. If only—

  Crack!

  A branch splintered and crashed onto the balcony with a heavy thud. A diminutive but forceful, “Ouch!” followed.

  Charlotte jumped. “Who said that?”

  David stood, his gaze fixed on the balcony doors. Your time is nigh. Be brave. He shook the words from his head and took a deep breath.

  “There’s someone out there,” Charlotte whispered. “I can see the shadow through the curtains.”

  “I know.” David moved around the edge of the bed to the loveseat, opened a black case, and removed a longbow. He wrapped his fingers around the leather grip and pulled an arrow from the quiver.

  “Really?” Charlotte quipped.

  “Someone just dropped onto my balcony from a tree,” he said. “You think I’m going out there unarmed?”

  “Don’t you have a bat?”

  “I’m an archer, Charlotte, not a baseball player.”

  “And whatever that is is not a paper target.”

  David snorted. “Thanks for your overwhelming confidence in me.”

  “Hey, I’m
just saying, but please. Go on, Sir Robin Hood. Go for it. Do your thing. Lady Marian awaits your victory.”

  David ignored the quip and crept forward. With a deep breath, he flung open the doors.

  A patch of rust-brown corduroy sailed over the railing. Footsteps pounded the porch below.

  “Whoa! Did you see that? He just jumped!” David ran back inside, scrambled over his bed and out his bedroom door.

  “Who did?” Charlotte asked, following behind.

  “I don’t know. Some short little dude.”

  David barreled down the stairs and out the front door, Charlotte on his heels.

  “There!” she said. “Darting between the trees!”

  David took off down the long drive, the cold air stinging his cheeks and burning his throat. The stout figure, no more than three feet tall, ran faster, his shape blurring with the surroundings.

  “He’s getting away,” Charlotte said a few feet behind David.

  David willed his legs to go faster. Up ahead, the trespasser turned sideways and slipped through the narrow bars of the gate without slowing down.

  “What the—” David skidded to a stop and typed in the security code on the control box. The motor engaged. The giant scrolling black rails churned open.

  He blew into his freezing hands. “Come on, damn it. A sloth moves faster than this.”

  Ten. Eleven. Twelve seconds passed before David slipped through the opening and onto the cul-de-sac. His breath hung in plumes above his head. Two houses down, old lady Fenton, a spidery old woman with crooked fingers and waist-length strands of silver hair as fine as mist, shuffled back to her house with a newspaper tucked under her arm. There was no sign of the mysterious stranger.

  Charlotte jogged up behind him breathing hard. “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know.” David bent over, his hands on his knees. “I’ve never seen anything move that fast in my life. And how did he—I mean—did you see him pass through the rails? It’s like he morphed or something.”