In the Shadow of the Dragon King (20 page)

Farnsworth flashed Mangus an I-told-you-so look. “See? He does as he pleases without a single thought to consequences.”

“I was supposed to go there yesterday to train with him.” Eric pointed to Mangus. “I didn’t think there would be a huge problem.”

“That’s your problem, Eric. You act before you think.”

“What was I supposed to do? I had to do something, especially since the mages have no intentions of helping us. I thought if I could bring the paladin here, he could help us.”

“How do you know about the paladin?” Mangus asked, an eyebrow raised.

Eric’s stomach sank. “Sestian and—”

Farnsworth threw his hands up in the air. “Sestian.” The name rolled from his lips like venom. “You’re going to tell me you acted on something Sestian told you?”

“No! I—”

“Did you make a promise to him to carry out one of his insane plots?”

“No, and he didn’t have insane plots!”

“Eric, sit!” Farnsworth pointed to a chair. “I’ve heard enough. We’ll discuss this later.”

“But—”

Farnsworth shot Eric a glower that could set a hearth ablaze. An exhausted sigh heaved up from Eric’s chest. It was no use. Sestian was right. No matter what Eric did, no matter what he said, Farnsworth and the other knights would never see him as anything more than a stupid boy incapable of doing anything more than sharpening knives and shining armor. He crossed his arms and slouched in his chair.

“Good heaven, how Trog manages I’ll never know.” Farnsworth sat in a chair and rubbed his brow. “Mangus, I don’t suppose you know what the boy speaks of and where this paladin is, do you? We were hoping he would make contact with us by now.”

Mangus shook his head. “I am not privy to that information, and to be honest, I’m not too keen on knowing. I’m more interested in who the traitor is inside Einar’s circle.”

“Do you have any ideas?”

“Only that it will be someone of little consequence. Someone expendable, either on the mages’ or Einar’s terms.”

“I agree though I’m unsure as to what to make of Bainesworth’s involvement.”

Mangus snorted. “I wouldn’t worry too much about him. My guess is he’s in it to see Trog grovel and beg for mercy. He has no connections to Hirth. Therefore, he has nothing Einar wants or needs. My guess is that the Council is using him to stir up some ill feelings, to get all of you to focus on Bainesworth instead of the real threat wandering the halls of Berg.”

“That still doesn’t explain what Seyekrad was doing here,” Eric said. “He’s supposed to be one of the protectors of the realm, but it didn’t look like he was doing much protecting.”

“Seyekrad’s taking care of something for Jared right now. That’s all I can say.”

Eric huffed. “Then Jared needs to re-evaluate his help. That’s all I have to say.”

Mangus laughed and stood. “I’ll be sure to pass that along to him when I see him tomorrow.”

Farnsworth raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Are you returning to Felindil?”

Mangus nodded. “For a short time. We are to set sail on a diplomatic mission to all the realms. Depending on how well we are received, the trip may last several months.”

“I see.” Farnsworth rubbed his chin, worry clouding his eyes.

“Is there something you need from me before I go?” Mangus folded his arms and stared down at Farnsworth.

The knight leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. An immeasurable pause followed before Farnsworth said, “Yes, there is, and I know I should not ask, but I have to.”

Mangus sat in the chair across from Farnsworth, his position a mirror image of the knight’s. “What do you need? You know I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

“We need protection, Mangus.” Farnsworth’s voice cracked, the way a voice does when tears hover on the edge. “We are few. Many have died, many more are injured. We have a squadron of soldiers on their way to Doursmouth. We’ve dispatched as many troops as we can to the borders, but there are not enough to protect the kingdom. If Einar attacks again, we will lose.”

Mangus clasped Farnsworth’s hands in his. “I will see what I can do. I’m sure I can whip up a buffer charm and a repellant spell that Jared won’t be able to trace back to me.

Unfortunately, I cannot do much more, as my supreme lord and master would view my help as interfering, which would not bode well for anyone concerned. I will tell you, though, he has placed a rather strong and complex verdaí around Berg which should hold the beast away from Hirth, but it never hurts to have an extra layer of protection.”

The two men stood and embraced.

“Thank you,” Farnsworth said. “Anything you do will be much appreciated.”

The two men walked toward the door. Mangus laid his hand on Farnsworth’s shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll also speak with the shime’s chieftain and secure their help. They’ve already been informed of the situation and are on high alert.” He turned to Eric and pointed his finger at him. “And you, young man, do me a favor. You impressed me today, but let’s not do that again, okay? I know you want to prove yourself, but let Slavandria deal with the paladin. Today could have ended up a lot worse than it did, and the next time, you may not be so lucky. Understand?”

Eric nodded, admiration puffing up like a pastry in his soul. Mangus Grythorn was nothing like what he’d imagined. Unlike Trog and the other knights, this man understood him. Sympathized with him. Defended him. Of course, he’d do whatever the mage asked of him. He’d be a fool not to.

Mangus patted Farnsworth on the back and said, “Remember, go easy on him. If you have any problems out of him, send him my way when I return.”

Eric gulped as the man left the room.

Farnsworth turned with a grin on his face and motioned to Eric to get up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here and get something to eat. I’ll figure out what to do with you tomorrow.”

David woke with a start and sputter, his dreams washing away with the splash of cold water dripping from his hair and face. Twiller set a pitcher on the nightstand, his mouth curled in a triumphant smile.

“What are you doing?” David dabbed his face with the sheet. “Ever hear of waking someone with a simple ‘Good Morning?’”

“I’ve been trying to get you up for the last fifteen minutes. I had no other choice. Slavandria is here and awaits you and Lady Charlotte on the terrace. You have twenty minutes to bathe and dress. When done, meet me in the hallway. Your clothes are on the foot of the bed.” The door clicked shut as he left the room.

David leaned forward, picked up the dark brown leather pants and shirt, and groaned.
Whatever happened to a pair of jeans, a shirt, and sneakers?
He scratched the two-day old stubble on his chin and headed to the bathroom, hoping the toiletry gods were kind and had left him a razor. He wasn’t so lucky.

David emerged from the room a few minutes later at Twiller’s annoying insistence. His breath hitched as Charlotte stepped onto the landing dressed from top to bottom in a molded two-piece leather outfit in midnight blue. Her milk-chocolate hair was swept up in a ponytail and her blue eyes were deadly serious. His brain stumbled for the perfect word to describe the way she moved, graceful like a gazelle. Elegant. Poised. Determined. Her gaze met his and her lips parted as if daring him to make even the slightest off-handed comment. He’d seen that look before. He breathed deep, taking in as much air as her presence allowed.
Don’t give your feelings away. Smile. Pretend you don’t see.

He blinked and walked toward her, his insides a trembling mess. “That’s a new look for you. I take it there was a wardrobe glitch on your side of the cosmos, too.”

His embodiment of perfection stood before him, a scowl on her face. “Shut up. At least you look presentable. Me, I look like a sausage wrapped in a latex balloon, not to mention my legs are sprouting, and I’m pretty sure there’s a family of fuzzy caterpillars living in my pits.” She scraped her thumb over David’s stubbled cheek and snorted. “I take it there wasn’t a razor in your bathroom either.”

“Oh, blight me.” Twiller rolled his eyes. “Now is not the time to discuss your hygiene. Slavandria is waiting.” He waddled down the wide corridor toward the rear of the manor, his footsteps silent upon the thick red carpet.

“What’s stuck up his pants?” David said, tugging his leather jerkin.

Charlotte smiled. “Shh. Be nice.”

“He’s annoying.”

“And you’re not?” She nudged him as they walked down the hall.

“I’m sixteen. I’m supposed to be annoying.”

Morning, hidden in a veil of gray mist, beckoned to them through the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows at the end of the wide corridor. Eyes in oiled portraits seemed to follow their progress as they hurried to catch up to Twiller.

At the end, they turned left down another expansive corridor then walked through a glass door and down flagstone steps to a terrace below. Straggling vines and roses wove in and out of rotted trellises that barely clung to stone walls. A white gate leading to lower terraces hung lopsided on its weathered casing. In the center of the terrace, Slavandria stood beside a fountain of a trident-wielding merman surrounded by a sea of rambling weeds and honeysuckle. And in the corner, sitting upon the low stone wall, was the guy the centaur had dumped off in Chalisdawn. David gulped as the stare from the man’s lime-green eyes darted toward him, pinning him where he stood.

Upon closer inspection, the guy had to be in his forties, thick, with nut-brown hair, a square jaw, and serious eyes.

The sleeves of his cream-colored tunic were rolled up past his elbows, the loose fabric doing little to conceal his massive chest and arms. A wide, brown, leather belt was cinched around his waist, and brown, leather boots covered his calves to his knees. The hilt of a sword glinted from a sheath on one hip.

“Well, he looks better than he did yesterday,” Charlotte whispered, clutching David’s arm a little tighter.

“Yeah, but yesterday he didn’t look like he wanted to kill me.”

Charlotte linked her arm around his. “Don’t let him frighten you. He’s only as scary as you let him be.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the chunk of meat being eyed by the hungry wolf.”

Slavandria greeted them as they arrived. “David, Charlotte, I’m glad you’re here.” She gestured toward the man in the corner. “I’d like to introduce you to the Grand Master Knight and General of the Hirthinian Army, Sir Trogsdill Domnall. Sir Trogsdill, this is Master David Heiland and Lady Charlotte Stine of Havendale.”

David gulped, his insides fluttering as the man stood. He was way tall, like redwood-tree-tall, and just as thick. He nodded his head once in their direction. “Please, call me Trog.”

His deep voice rumbled like an earthquake.

Charlotte clutched David’s arm, the slight tremble in her body transferring to his. He squeezed her hand.
So much for not being afraid, Char
.

“Come, come,” Slavandria said. “There is much to discuss, and we are on limited time.”

“We’re always on limited time,” David whispered as they ventured across the terrace to a marble table laden with roasted quail, breads, figs, apples, and cheese.

From the surrounding verge a towering stranger appeared. His black robe shifted as he approached, his face hidden within the deep hood. Voluminous sleeves met at his waist, concealing both hands.

Charlotte oozed into her seat. David stood behind her, his sixth sense firing off all kinds of bad vibes.

“Good morning, Daughter,” the man said.

The voice rippled through David. He recognized it, but from where?

“Good morning, Father,” Slavandria replied.

David’s heart jolted.
Of course! The man from his room who was talking to Slavandria while David slept.
He struggled to remember the name.
James. Jason.

Jared!

A crippling sense of dread buried into his soul as the man approached and shed his robe as if it was a nuisance. Wavy hair as purple as winter plums framed his rugged face and fell to below his shoulders. Eyes like turquoise glass shone brightly against his sun-bronzed skin. Over his well-defined muscles, he wore a black leather vest, and heavy black trousers tucked into knee-high boots. Silver rings, weighted with jewels, adorned every finger. A sword rested on his hip, and mystic symbols stained his chest and arms.

David shuddered as the man walked around him.
What does he want? Why is he looking at me?

Jared continued to circle, his eyes swirling like a hurricane at sea. He moved his arms through the air in a series of long pushes and slow pulls. A whispered chant in a strange language slipped from his lips. His fingers furled and unfurled and with a powerful thrust, he clasped the back of David’s neck.

Cold terror crawled along David’s spine. Every muscle tensed, his upper body heaved in an effort to breathe as his blood bubbled and oozed like lava through his veins. He reached behind his head, clawing at the man’s hand, his body filling with fire.

From somewhere beyond his agony, Charlotte screeched, “Let him go! Stop it! You’re hurting him!”

Ice-cold slush flecked with shards of glass plunged into his veins. Cutting.

A primeval cry like that of a wounded animal wailed from his throat. His mind retreated to a place of survival, where no anguish existed. An abyss where no one could reach him. A place where death would roll over him in calm, easy waves.

His eyesight faded as a new sensation like threads of electrical currents zinged through him. Power surged in his chest, building, spinning into a tight ball. Air siphoned from his lungs. Stars exploded in an enveloping darkness. His world spiraled. He wanted to run, to go, but his feet failed to move. He was trapped in a swirling hurricane of lightning. Up and up the current swarmed, electrified bees buzzing, stinging his limbs from within.

David dropped to his knees, his arms flailing at his sides. Burning tears spilled down his cheeks. The surge spun into a tighter, brighter ball, growing.

Spinning.

Whirling.

He gasped for breath. His eyes popped open as a shockwave swelled then burst through his chest, upending flowerpots, the table. Charlotte flew back, hanging in the air before slamming into the terrace wall. She lay crumpled on the ground, gasping for breath.