The Author's Blood (12 page)

Clara closed the door to Connie's room and tiptoed along the dark hallway of their hideout—an aged bed-and-breakfast called the Shadow Inn. The King had rented all the rooms and told her in the letter he had given her that all her meals would be taken care of as well as care for Connie. But the proprietors, an elderly couple, offered burnt toast for breakfast, nothing for lunch, and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches for dinner.

“My friend is sick,” Clara had told them the night before, trying in vain to get more food and some aspirin for Connie. “My father will not like the way you're treating us. He paid you well.”

The man shrugged. “Tell your father to come back and complain.”

The next night the woman sat back and warmed her hands with a coffee mug as Clara approached the kitchen. The place was worse than drafty, the upstairs rooms so cold you could see your breath. Clara wondered why the couple had not been stung by the minions. There were certainly enough holes in the walls and windows.

“I heard screams outside,” Clara said. “What's going on?”

“Nothing new,” the woman said. “Lots of people have been stung and—”

“Not that,” Clara said, opening a curtain. “It sounds like an attack. Noise from the sky . . .” A light flashed. “Did you see that?”

“It's just a storm,” the woman said, cackling. “You kids watch too many horror movies.”

Clara noticed a flickering streetlight at the end of an alley and two figures facing each other. One was clearly the proprietor, built squat with fat arms, a protruding belly, and hair that stuck out of the back of his undershirt. The other wore a hooded cloak and stayed in the shadows.

“Get away from that window!” the old woman ordered. “Lightning can knock you across the room.” Her tone softened. “I once had an aunt who was at the screen door when lightning struck and . . .”

Clara moved but could still see through the opened curtain. The light went out at the end of the alley. Seconds later lightning flashed, and she caught her breath. The old man was returning, but the hooded figure just stared at the window. At Clara.

With the next flash of lightning, the figure disappeared.

Clara whirled on the woman. “Who was your husband meeting?”

“I don't know what you're—”

“You're working with them, aren't you?”

“Them?”
The woman stood and pushed back from the table. Something was wrong with her eyes. Was it Clara's imagination or did they look red?

Clara ran and burst through a door underneath the stairs, tripping and landing on plastic, lumpy and squishy. Human eyes stared back at her from inside the plastic.

The real owners!

The woman behind her chuckled. “Those two just didn't work out.”

The other impostor, the one who looked like the husband, came through the back door, his hands gnarled into claws.

Clara leaped to her feet and raced upstairs, the two watching her and laughing as if there was nothing she could do.

She flew down the dark hallway to Connie's room, only to find a hulking form standing over her sleeping charge.

“Leave her alone!” Clara yelled. “I'm the one you want.”

The being turned, appearing part human with long hair and a pointed nose. She had seen this man outside the restaurant where she worked. He was a street person called Karl. However, Karl had never looked like this. The other part of him was hideous—like some giant insect. Liquid dripped from his mouth, burning a hole in the floor so big she could see to the basement.

“I know who you are,” he growled, eyes glowing. “I've been watching you.”

His voice crawled up and down her skin like a thousand cockroaches. Everything in Clara wanted to run and not look back. But something came to her, something her father had said:
“Do not think that you are lesser than the Son, for you are chosen as well, a daughter of the King. Chosen because your heart is clean and pure. And because you will one day rise above your fear.”

She had been slow to believe she was a princess, but she had never felt at ease with her parents, never felt she really belonged with them or to them.

The King had explained as much as she could handle—what her real mother was like, how much her parents had both missed her and wanted her back. He also assured Clara that there was no fight she could ever enter in which he would not be there to assist her.

“Your brother was born to gain the victory over the evil one,” the King had said. “There is no mirror for him. But there is for you. Remember that when you face the coming evil.”

She had told him she didn't understand. But she did now.

“This is the chosen one,” Karl said. “And I've been sent to bring her back.”

“Get away from her,” Clara said, grabbing a heavy brass candlestick from the mantel.

“She will awaken in the Dragon's realm,” Karl hissed. “As will you, the last trace of the Dragon's enemy.”

With all her might, Clara swung the candlestick and plunged it into the mass of cartilage in his head. Tissue gave way like a crab's legs being snapped, and Karl glared at her as he slumped to the floor.

Connie's ancient, wrinkled skin felt cold and clammy, but Clara could see the slow rise and fall of her chest.

“Connie, we need to leave,” Clara said. When Connie did not respond, Clara lifted her from the bed and headed downstairs.

The Dragon's aide noticed that the Dragon had become preoccupied. With what, RHM did not know, but it was clear something was afoot. When the Dragon disappeared for yet another long stretch, RHM assumed his leader was perhaps raiding towns, assisting the vaxors in wiping out every village between Dragon City and the Amoyn Valley. But lead vaxor Velvel had recently announced that all the villages had been dealt with and that only a few citizens had escaped into the caves and hillsides.

“Everyone else is either lying in their own blood or in His Majesty's prisons,” Velvel said. “When the stragglers have returned, we will make one more sweep and wipe them out.”

“Excellent,” RHM had said, pondering the flight of the Dragon. Where was he? What secrets did His Majesty keep from RHM? And why? Didn't he trust him? Was he hiding something at this new palace?

When RHM had dared inquire of the Dragon about these clandestine trips, the beast had snarled and muttered something under his sulfurous breath about “insubordinate workers” and that RHM needed to “keep your dirty tentacles to yourself.”

RHM had long desired the authority of his leader, to take over and be the most powerful being in the Lowlands. But that would come in good time when the Dragon grew old and feeble and had no one else to whom to pass his mantle.

RHM contemplated sending a spy to shadow the Dragon, but he had no one he could trust. If his scheme was found out, both the spy and RHM would be incinerated. He had already outlived any other aide the Dragon had ever employed.

A sentry reported spotting wings in the distance. RHM climbed to the top of the castle to watch the Dragon's descent. For some reason, this time the Dragon looked glorious, swaying in the air as if actually enjoying his flight.

As he neared the castle, the Dragon belched fire on the flag of the former resident and consumed it. He plopped down on the parapet next to RHM and gave another blast as sentries and workers gathered in the courtyard and cheered. This was hardly their choice, of course, but rather something the Dragon had had RHM command them to do each time he returned.

“Welcome back, sire,” RHM said, probing the Dragon's face for any clue to where he might have been. “Did you have a nice trip?”

“Quite. What news do you hear from Dragon City? Is everything ready?”

“The prisons are full, Your Highness. The vaxors plan one final thrust through the land, and the animals you requested for the coliseum have been procured from the farthest reaches of the kingdom.”

“The tigren?”

“Yes. Several.”

“And the crocs?”

“They were able to capture only one, but it is magnificent, monstrous, with long, sharp teeth.”

The Dragon slammed his tail on the edge of the parapet, knocking stones loose and nearly sending RHM to his death. “I told you I wanted many of those slimy beasts for the center pit in the arena! They are to tear my opposition to pieces!”

“We could have gone with several smaller ones,” RHM whined, bowing, “but you'll like this beast. Three sentries died just trying to subdue it.”

“Well, why didn't you say so?” the Dragon said. “Perhaps one ferocious croc will be better than a whole pool full of them, eh? Give the victims the idea they might have a chance.”

“Exactly, sire, and then the teeth clamp down and—”

“Stop! You're making me want to push up the opening ceremonies.”

“Well,” RHM said with great pomp, “all the creatures have been delivered to the coliseum, and every human not cowering in the rocks somewhere is in the prison.”

The Dragon clicked his talons together. “I want to make sure everyone in the arena will be able to see each falling body—a tribute to my power and authority.”

“We have taken care of everything, sire. We are ready to begin the ceremony on any day of your choosing.”

The Dragon smiled. “One week from today. And I want a trophy to show the audience.”

“Trophy, Highness?”

“The chosen damsel from the Highlands,” the Dragon purred. “I promised the king and queen of the west that her blood would anoint my throne.”

Deep in the bowels of the palace, Rogers rubbed his swollen feet. Over the past few days he had attempted to lure one of the guards into the cell so he could subdue him and escape, but the closest any came was when they pushed the daily ration of soggy bread through a small hole under the door. Others had beaten him to it the first few times, but Rogers had finally managed to get a few morsels.

The bigger problem, of course, was water. It was everywhere but not fit to drink. He caught a few handfuls from what dripped from the ceiling, but he needed more.

Rogers could tell the others were perturbed with him because he wouldn't tell them any more about the Wormling. He had said too much already, for what if someone told the Dragoness and she told the Dragon?

Rogers had felt he was doing the right thing when he tried to help Talea find her family. But he realized that was not his mission, and now here he sat, having failed the Wormling.

Heavy footsteps descended the stairs.

One of the people sloshed close to the door. “Two guards,” he whispered. “It's not feeding time. What could they want?”

“Shh! Listen.”

“They're talking among themselves. Something about the Dragoness wanting a snack.”

“No!” a girl hissed. “I'm the smallest. They'll pick me.”

“No, give them him!” someone said. “The new guy.”

Rogers tried to back away, but three people were already on him. “Stop it!” he said. “What are you doing? I'm here to help you!”

As the door opened, they threw Rogers at the feet of the guards.

“We need something smaller,” a guard said. “Isn't there a young girl still in there?”

“Take him!” the people shouted.

“He's been making trouble!”

“He stinks!”

The guard sniffed at him. “I've smelled worse.”

“He'll do,” the other said.

As they carried Rogers to the main level, he squinted into the warmth of the sun, working its way through a low-hanging fog.

The guard ordered Rogers to walk upstairs. If he tried to run, they would surely kill him. He would have to wait for a better opportunity.

On the second level a blast of fire caught his attention as a door opened and a hideous creature emerged. Rogers had never been this close to a dragon. He felt he was looking into the face of pure evil. The eyes alone made him scamper back into the arms of the smelly guards.

“Toss him inside,” the Dragoness cooed. “I know I'm not supposed to play with my food, but . . .”

As soon as he was inside, Rogers ran for the window, only to be stopped by a line of fire that would have incinerated him had he continued.

The Dragoness skulked in and closed the door, then stretched her tail to also close the window. She batted her eyes at him, sniffing. “You don't look like the rest of the rabble in the dungeon. How did you survive the flood?”

“I kept my head above water. Many are still alive, ma'am. They need your help.”

“Ma'am?”
the Dragoness said. “It's Your Majesty to you, knave.”

Rogers ducked his head. “I'm sorry.”

“Say it. Use the words.”

Rogers was looking for any edge, any way to save his life, but she was not majesty to him, and he could not bring himself to say it.

She drew closer and cocked her head, examining him from head to foot. “You know I'm going to kill you for refusing to honor me.”

Rogers closed his eyes and inhaled. “I do not respect those who treat the weak as you do.”

“What did you say?”

Rogers merely straightened and opened his eyes, but he seemed to grow several inches taller. He locked eyes with the Dragoness, finding within himself the conviction that he served the true King and didn't have to fear this being. “You heard me. I do not revere you because you abuse your power.”

A rattle formed in her throat. “I could end your life with a mere cough.”

“You have no authority over me nor the power to burn away the truth.”

“And what truth would that be?”

“That you fight a losing battle. That the Dragon is but a pawn in the hands of the true King.”

The Dragoness chuckled and stretched herself out on the floor. She seemed to study him, moving her head this way and that. “You think the Dragon is a pawn? I assure you, he is powerful and deserves your worship as well as your fear.”

“I will never worship or fear a being that can harm only my body but cannot even threaten the truth. The truth can no more be burned from us than the sky or the mountains.”

The Dragoness laughed and traced a claw on the floor. “It's a pity my stomach is empty. I have to keep my strength up. It won't be long before I'll have several little ones to chase after.”

A wing flap outside caught Rogers's attention, and noise from down the hall distracted the Dragoness.

“Do you really think the Dragon will allow you to live once the eggs have hatched?” he asked.

“What kind of question is that? I'm their mother.”

“Have you noticed there are no other dragons in the Lowlands? He eliminates his own kind as well as us. Why would he spare you to challenge his throne?”

Rogers saw a flash of doubt in her eyes for the first time. When someone screamed downstairs and steel sounded against steel, she rose and moved to the door.

“You must make your decision,” Rogers said. “You may never have another chance.”

She cast a burning gaze toward him. “You offer
me
a choice? I offer you life or death, not the other way around.”

“You know what I'm saying is true,” Rogers said. “The Dragon will never allow another to challenge his throne, and you are more than a match for him. Revenge would make you even more fierce.”

“Revenge?”

“Am I wrong? Did he spare your family? Has anyone seen them? He kept you alive only so you could bear his offspring.”

More noise from downstairs. A door opening down the hall.
Crunch, crunch, crunch
.

The Dragoness's face contorted in terror—a look so horrible that Rogers knew the sound had enraged her. She flapped her wings and flew from the room.

Rogers followed, passing the still bodies of guards on the stairs and rushing toward the nursery.

There, standing beside five smashed eggs, Talea protected behind him, was the Wormling.

“You've killed my babies!” The Dragoness's voice cut the air with pain and anger.

“Your evil will not live on after you,” the Wormling said.

“My children,” the Dragoness whimpered. “My beautiful babies. Where have you gone? Oh, forgive me for not taking care of you.” She bent to examine the nest, suddenly turning on the Wormling. “You didn't do your job. There is still one left.” She pointed to Talea. “You'll pay for this. You and your friends will die like your family. And know this: I will have more children.”

“My family?” Talea wailed.

The Wormling raised his sword at the Dragoness. “Greater is the creator than the created. Prepare to die.”

She shot fire at the two that lit the room like a blowtorch.

Rogers retreated and grabbed a spike from a fallen guard. But as he dived toward the Dragoness, the guard caught his ankle, sending him sprawling.

The Dragoness continued her blast, turning the room into a furnace and making Rogers wonder if the Wormling or Talea could survive. He kicked free of the guard and leaped onto the Dragoness's back, plunging in the spike.

She yelped and turned, throwing Rogers off, then whirled on him and fired away again. But the flame went straight up and fizzled, and Rogers saw why. The Wormling had driven his white-hot sword deep into her heart, only the hilt showing from her chest as she thrashed and crashed to the floor atop all but one of her broken eggs.

“Is she dead?” Talea said, clearly paralyzed from fear.

The Wormling pulled the sword from the Dragoness, and her body fell limp. “She won't harm you. We would never be able to do that to the Dragon—his scales are much thicker at the chest.”

“My family,” Talea said. “Are they really gone?”

Rogers tried to speak, but the look on his face was evidently all she needed. “There was a flood,” he said.

Talea's eyes filled and she gritted her teeth, lunging toward the last egg.

The Wormling grabbed her before she brought her weight down on it.

“You save the Dragon's offspring? I want every one of these gone!”

“I have need of it,” the Wormling said.

He assured Rogers that the guards had been taken care of and that he could release the remaining captives. They staggered into the light, wet, hungry, and thirsty, their clothes in tatters and their skin peeling. Many apologized to Rogers and thanked him.

The Wormling brought food and water for all, and then they burned the palace and everything in it.

As the people slowly set out for their homes, the Wormling beckoned them to follow him. Only a few did, and one family agreed to look after Talea along the journey.

Finally, Rogers was alone with the Wormling once more.

“I wish we could have spared the Dragoness and enlisted her against the Dragon.”

The Wormling shook his head. “We are at war. We cannot convince evil to change. Evil consumes everything in its path. Do not feel bad that we rid ourselves of some of it.”

The Wormling helped Rogers prepare the people for their trip, then explained some of his plan as he led Rogers to Grandpa for their flight.

“Why are you keeping one of the eggs?” Rogers said.

“You will find out,” the Wormling said.

Rogers was surprised to see Machree.

“No one must know of his involvement with us,” the Wormling said.

Rogers nodded, but he worried whose side the bird was on.