In the Shadow of the Dragon King Page 8

  Eric stood transfixed. He yelped as strong hands dragged him into the center of the room. A set of clothes and boots hit him square in the chest.

  “Get dressed!” Trog shouted. “Now!”

  Eric clambered into his trousers and boots. “What’s happening? Why are we being attacked? I thought the kingdom was protected.”

  “So did I. Come!”

  Eric belted his sword to his hip and followed Trog into the hall and up the stairs. Guests stampeded down the steps, the air impregnated with hysteria and smoke.

  Kaboom!

  Eric braced himself against the wall. The foundation of the castle rattled beneath his feet. “What was that?” he asked, catching up to Trog on the eighth floor.

  “Sounds like the beast is having a temper tantrum.”

  They burst into the royal apartment, barging through five rooms until they reached the royal bedchambers at the rear of the castle.

  Trog shoved the royal guards out of the way and shouted at them to leave.

  “Majesties!”

  “We’re already awake, Trog. What is going on out there?”

  “The Dragon King has attacked.”

  “What?” Gildore changed out of his undergarments and pulled a gray tunic over his head. “That’s impossible. There is an accord in place!”

  “You want to discuss that with him?” Trog said. “Hurry. We haven’t much time to escape.” Trog tossed Gildore his belt and sword.

  Glass shattered several rooms away. The chains of the portcullis screeched.

  Eric turned toward the sound, his overwhelming fear drowning in the pungent scent of spoiled eggs and burning flesh and wood.

  “Escape?” Gildore said. “Are you mad? I have no intentions of scrambling like a coward. I won’t abandon my people!”

  Mysterie emerged dressed in trousers, shirt, and boots, with a dagger strapped to her side. “You’ll do as Trog says, dear.”

  “Never!” Gildore retreated behind a tapestry and marched down a short, narrow hallway to the entrance of a tower. He flung open the door and hurried down the steps, barking orders as he went.

  Eric’s eyes widened. Whoa. How many secret passages are in this place?

  “Trog, take Mysterie to the Southern Forest as arranged. Find Farnsworth, Crohn, and Gowran and have them—”

  “That’s not the plan.” Trog snatched the king’s arm and pressed him to the wall. “You both are to come with me. Those were the agreed upon terms.”

  Eric flicked his gaze between the two men. What terms?

  Gildore grasped Trog’s shirt in his fist. “Those terms were made under hypothetical scenarios. Reality dictates a different course of action. You will do as I command.” He peered over Trog’s right shoulder toward Mysterie. “If there is any love still left in your heart, take my wife to safety.”

  A flush of annoyance rushed through Eric, a sort of dogged euphoria. What in dragon’s breath are they talking about? Someday, Trog would have to explain, whether he wanted to or not.

  Gildore circled down the stairs in haste and barged through the door into the courtyard. Thick, acrid smoke slammed into them as they emerged. Overhead, the dragon circled, flames billowing all around.

  Trog coughed. He covered his face with his arm and shouted, “Follow me!”

  They hurried to their right in a tight cluster, hugging the outer walls of Festival Hall. Swarms of terrified civilians ran past, shouting, screaming. Wounded cries for help carried through the asphyxiating haze.

  “These poor people,” Mysterie exclaimed.

  Eric urged her forward, his eyes stinging.

  The winged beast spiraled around. His talons grazed the ramparts above Festival Hall, catapulting stone into the courtyard, burying dozens of the castle’s defenders within the rubble. White dust plumed around them.

  Gildore coughed and shouted, “Trog, get the queen to safety.” He pulled Mysterie to him and kissed her. “Go with Trog and Eric. I’ll meet you in the forest. I swear it.” With sword drawn, the king made for the pile of debris at the far end of the walkway.

  Trog wrestled the king back. “Sheathe your sword now and come with me, or I will take you without your consent!”

  Eric pointed skyward through the sulfurous smoke. An enormous shadow loomed inside the smoke. “Sir, we have to hurry. He’s coming back around!”

  Mysterie ran to her husband’s side. “Darling, please. Trog is right. Your people need you to rebuild the kingdom, not die with its buildings. Let’s go.”

  Gildore pursed his lips tight. His eyes shifted from the chaos to those around him. His nose flared. “Remind me to flog you when all of this is over, Trog!”

  “With pleasure, sire.” Trog pivoted on his heels and approached the wall. He pushed on two stones.

  They failed to budge.

  Eric squirmed. Ahh, come on! Open.

  Trog pushed them again.

  Nothing.

  Everything was on fire.

  Fear seared hot in Eric’s blood, his bones, his skin. Please don’t let me die. I don’t want to die.

  Another portion of the Hall tumbled around them. Mysterie glanced upward, her eyes widened as she flattened against the stone wall. “Holy spirit of the heavens.”

  Eric followed her gaze. All at once, his lungs forgot how to work. He’d seen sketches of the beast, witnessed its destructive powers, but nothing prepared him for its sheer size and magnificence as it landed amidst rubble and screams.

  Dark purple and black scales covered its muscular body from snout to tail. Two horns protruded from its skull. Leathery wings twitched against its side. The beast measured half the length of the courtyard and stood half as tall. A stench of rotten eggs riddled the air. The dragon shifted. Shattered rocks tumbled in metallic clinks to the ground. The beast’s amber eyes set wide in his head, blinked, snake-like. If Eric didn’t know better, he’d swear the beast smirked at them.

  Trog growled and turned back to the secret door. Once more, he shoved the stone with all his might.

  The top one moved.

  Einar stretched his thick neck, spread his wings, and bellowed an ear-splitting guttural shriek.

  Eric and Mysterie pressed their palms to their ears. Trog and Gildore cringed beneath the sound and together pushed the second stone.

  Nothing.

  Dragon’s breath!

  Eric glanced at the dragon, his eyes burning as dark shapes floated out of the creature’s wings. He tapped Trog on the shoulder and pointed. “What are those?”

  Four ghostly shapes, black as obsidian, soared toward them. With his heart thumping like a rat running from a snake, Eric pulled his sword, the metal hissing as it left the scabbard.

  “Shadowmorths!” Trog drew his sword. “Go! Run! Eric, get the king and queen out of here!”

  A shadowmorth swept toward Eric, a black fog on a swift breeze. Trog dashed forward, double-gripped his sword and sliced at its form. “Eric, your majesties, get out of here! Go! Meet in the Southern Forest. Falcon’s Hollow!”

  The creature turned, its onyx eyes fixed on the knight. Two wispy appendages extended forward; firelight glistened off their dual sawtooth edges.

  Eric’s body locked. His breaths came in strained inhalations. Beside him, the king and queen stood frozen. Paralyzed.

  “Confound it, boy. Go!”

  Two shadowmorths descended on Trog.

  Eric’s brain twisted. He yelled at Mysterie and Gildore. “Come with me!”

  He fled across the courtyard, the king, and queen running behind.

  He ran toward the stables, not looking back. A throng of women and children crusted in blood and grime, clawed at him, crying. Begging.

  “Help us. Where do we go?”

  A woman sobbed. A gray, lifeless child lay cradled in her arms.

  Eric shook his head, his words stuck in his throat. A horse whinnied at the entrance to Crafters’ Row.

  “Please, sir.
Please help us,” another said, pawing at his shirt.

  Eric unlatched her grip and backed away. Spires of the church came into view. He managed to find his voice. “Go—go to the cathedral. Hurry.” He glanced behind him. “Your Majesties, come … ”

  But the king and queen were gone. Nowhere to be found. A glob settled in Eric’s throat. “No. No, this can’t be.”

  Heart racing, he pushed his way back through the crying, screaming masses, sweat pouring from his brow. He climbed a pile of stone and peered in every direction, but they were gone.

  “No,” he said, his hands pressed to the sides of his head. “How could I lose them? They were right behind me.” Einar’s sudden guttural screech forced Eric to his knees, his hands over his ears. The dragon stretched his wings and pushed off from his pile of rubble, the downdraft from his wings fanning the smoke, and fueling the fires. Eric jumped from his perch and ran to where he’d seen the horse, thankful it was still there. Scenarios of escapes ran through Eric’s head. Maybe the king and queen turned around and managed to escape through the tunnels. Maybe they had found another way out and were on their way to Falcon’s Hollow. He had to find out. Eric wiped the stinging tears from his eyes and approached the fretful horse. Moments later he was straddled atop the animal and was racing southward toward Hammershire and the Southern Forest.

  An enormous winged shadow engulfed him.

  Eric spurred the horse; his fingers wound tight in the steed’s mane.

  Faster. Faster.

  Eric glanced over his shoulder as the beast swooped low, his talons outstretched like an eagle ready to pluck a fish from the water.

  “Go! Go!”

  The wind whipped his face. His hair flew back behind him as he sped down the hillside.

  A black claw folded around his shoulder. A sharp, fiery pain plunged into his back. Eric howled as his body lifted from the horse.

  He held tight to the reins.

  Breathe! Breathe!

  Eric grasped the hilt of his weapon. The horse ran harder, its muscular body gliding out from beneath Eric as the dragon tugged him upward. An inhuman sound wailed from his throat, his body hooked and dangling feet above the ground. He closed his eyes to the burning tears and lashed out with his sword, blind.

  Must. Get. Free!

  Swing.

  Swoosh.

  Contact!

  The dragon screeched.

  Forgetting his pain, Eric swung again and again, finding his mark each time. The scent of fresh blood filled his nose. His breath hitched as the dragon took to the sky, climbing straight up toward the clouds. Eric stabbed the sword into the ankle and held on. His skin tingled, his stomach lurched as the beast looped and dove to the ground, its wings stretched wide.

  Dragon’s breath! I’m going to die.

  The hillside zoomed closer. Eric closed his eyes to the rush of wind. Tranquility found him beside a stream in a forest, rays of sunlight streaming through the canopy.

  Please. Let it be quick.

  Eric hit the ground and tumbled, the talon dislodged from his flesh.

  Overhead, the dragon screeched and circled twice before retreating into the sunrise.

  Eric lay still, unable to move, his eyes closed. Cold chills washed over him in waves.

  Footsteps pounded toward him. Shouts bombarded his ears.

  “Eric!” A large, calloused hand gripped his face.

  Eric recognized the mild, granular voice as Sir Gowran’s. With great effort, he pried his eyes open to find Trog’s conclave of friends, Crohn, and Farnsworth, looming over him, their faces drawn with worry. But someone was missing. His heart jolted.

  “Where’s Sestian?”

  “Don’t worry about Sestian,” Farnsworth said. “He’s fine. You, on the other hand, need the care of a surgeon.”

  Gowran snapped his fingers and yelled at a boy behind him. “Bring me that horse!” He turned his attention back to Eric. The knight wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. Strands of russet hair clung to his face caked with blood and filth. His clothes hung in shreds. “What were you thinking, lad, running from a dragon, especially in an open field?”

  A shiver ran out of Eric. “Trog told me to meet him in the forest. I have to go.” He struggled to sit up, but Gowran pushed gently on his chest.

  “You’re not going anywhere, lad, except back to the castle and into the care of the surgeon.”

  A young boy limped toward him, a horse clomping behind him. “Your steed, my lord.”

  Eric shook his head. “No. I have to go to the forest. Trog is waiting for me.”

  “The matter is not open for discussion.”

  The man swept his hair from his eyes and glanced around. “Of all that is good in heaven, how could this happen?”

  “Blast the heavens, Gowran,” Crohn said. His black eyes bulged from behind the curtain of straggly black hair. “God’s eyes were turned from Gyllen this night. Where were our sentries? Why didn’t they sound the alarm? So help the wretched soul that fell asleep on watch for if I find him alive, he will wish Einar had killed him first!”

  “Settle down, Crohn,” Farnsworth said. The eldest knight’s blood-and-sweat-soaked tunic adhered to his torso like a second skin. “Look around you.” He worked the strands of his ashen hair into a frizzed plait. “This slaughter is not their fault. That beast caught us with our trousers off. He knew what he was doing.” He adjusted the sword on his back and knelt beside Eric. “Son, I need you to tell me the last place you saw Their Majesties.”

  Eric swallowed. “They were with Trog at the entrance to the passageway leading to Hammershire.”

  “Did they go through?”

  Eric shook his head. “I don’t know. Everything got crazy. We were separated.”

  Farnsworth pressed his palm to Eric’s forehead, the expression in his eyes tender. Fatherly. “It’s all right.” He glanced up at Gowran. “Help me get him on the horse.”

  Pain spiraled up Eric’s spine as they lifted him on the animal. Gowran climbed behind him, his arms on either side to keep Eric upright.

  “Take him to the surgeon and stay with him,” Farnsworth said. “We’ll meet at sunset in the upper courtyard.”

  Gowran guided the horse toward the castle. Sorrowful moans and sobs drew Eric’s tired eyes to the bodies strewn about the hillside like broken dolls. The lifeless faces of the jobmaster, Flint, and the cordwainer held his gaze. A tear fell. “I know them,” he said.

  “There will be many you know who no longer breathe,” Gowran said. “Might I suggest you put on blinders? Take everything you see, hear, and smell and store it somewhere in the recesses of your mind. There will be a time to revisit them later and mourn for what is no more. For now, you need to stay awake until I find the surgeon and get that wound stitched.”

  Eric shook his head. “No. You’re going the wrong way. I have to find Trog. Must go to the forest.” His head lolled to the side.

  The horse picked up its pace. Eric groaned, his body angry at the increased bouncing. “Stop. I have to get down. I have to find Trog.” His skin crawled with sweat. His bones burned.

  The horse’s hooves clomped over cobblestones. “Home,” Eric muttered, half asleep.

  “Yes. Home,” Gowran said.

  Eric’s nose wrinkled. “What’s that smell?”

  Gowran paused, and then said, “War.”

  The horse slowed to a stop.

  A girl yelled out beyond Eric’s gaze. “Edgar, I need help over here. Now!”

  Large hands reached for Eric as Gowran slid to the ground.

  “Where is the surgeon?” Gowran asked.

  “Inside,” the girl said.

  The men lifted Eric onto a litter and carried him into a room that smelled of tinctures and antiseptics. They rolled him belly down from the carrier onto a table covered with white cloth. Men spoke to him while hands tugged and pulled at his shirt.

  “What happened?” the surgeon
asked.

  “Dragon caught him.”

  Eric groaned as the doctor’s fingers probed the wound. “It’s deep but fixable. Emelia, fetch me some ground redweed, comfrey tea, horseradish and fox’s clote.” Soft footsteps scurried away “Edgar. Gowran. As much as I love looking at your handsome faces, get out of my sight.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll take a seat along the wall,” Gowran said.

  “No, you won’t,” the doctor said. “I don’t need your germs infecting the place.”

  “But—”

  “He’s not going anywhere. Now, get. You’re wasting my time.”

  Metal instruments clanged together. Soft footsteps, along with clinking glass, approached.

  “I have everything,” Emelia said, setting the multiple glass containers at Eric’s head.

  “Good. Add four drops of red weed to the tea and give him two syringes full. That should do the trick.”

  Eric opened his eyes, his gaze wandering over Emelia’s features, her hands.

  One day, the very soul you loathe may be the one to save your hide someday.

  He reached out and swept aside tangled strands of red hair from her eyes. She smiled at him and drew the liquid into the syringe.

  “I need you to drink this, Eric. It will help with the pain and make you sleep.”

  She cupped his neck in her hand and drizzled the liquid into his mouth. After the second dose, she laid his head on the table and combed her fingers through his hair.

  “You’re going to be all right, Eric. I promise.”

  Eric nodded, the herbs taking effect. He reached for her hand. “Thank you.”

  She kissed his temple.

  And the lights faded to gray.

  ***

  Eric woke. His head pounded. His body throbbed. Various smells: sweat, smoke, medicine and food, all mingled together in a nauseating blend. To his left the surgeon worked on another patient. To his right, others lay on cots or in beds. Most looked to be recovering, but there was one, a male with gray, chalky pallor, who already seemed to have one foot in the grave.