In the Shadow of the Dragon King (35 page)

David grimaced at all the noise. “What are you looking for?”

“I’ll let you know when I find it.” Finn tapped his finger to his lips. “Hmm, where did I put it? Ah, yes. Come, come.”

David followed Finn down a skinny hallway to a dark, musty room cluttered with misshapen tables and slanted bookcases. A miniature animal with the body of a giraffe, the stripes of a zebra, and the tail and coloring of an antelope, emerged from behind a stack of papers and walked across a ruler bridging two desks together.

David blinked and rubbed his eyes.
What the hell?

Finn poked through the scattered papers and books, and then said, “Ah, here.” He summoned David to his side. “Do you know what this is?”

David looked at what appeared to be a glorified Etch-A-Sketch without the knobs. He shook his head and said, “No.”

Finn cleared a space on the table and laid the object on it. “Look into it. If you concentrate, pictures will form in the medium. That is how I found you.”

David glanced at Finn, confused. “You were looking for me?”

Finn nodded.

“Why?”

“Why not?” Finn jabbed his finger on the desk. “Look. Go on.”

David stared down at the tool. The ink moved fluidly until he could just make out a girl lying on the ground, tree limbs broken all around her. “Charlotte!” He looked at Finn, wide-eyed. “Where is she? Can you take me there?”

“I could, but it would do you no good. Once in the Elastine Forest, one can never leave.”

David’s throat dried up. His thoughts twisted in his head. “I don’t believe that. There’s always a way. I have to try.”

“Oh, but you cannot. You have a quest to complete.”

David tried to hide his shock. “How do you know about the quest?”

“I’m a sestra, an emissary of the mages.”

David shrugged. “And?”

Finn rolled his big eyes. “Think, boy.”

“Slavandria?”

Finn clasped his hands as if in prayer. “Ah, his brain functions.”

“She sent you to me?”

“In a way, she asked me to watch over you. I saw you in the contraption. What I want to know is why you came to Berg Castle instead of going to Gyllen?”

David narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean? I didn’t go to Berg. That would be suicide.”

Finn’s left eyebrow arched. “Really? Then what do you call that?” He pointed outside the window.

David pressed his nose to the glass and looked up at the soaring dark gray walls of a castle. His heart flipped and flopped. Then flipped and flopped again.
No. It couldn’t be.
He turned to Finn, his mouth open. “I don’t understand. We’re right under his nose. How is that possible?”

“Anything is possible with a bit of magic and a little strategic planning. Now that you are in the shadow of the Dragon King, you need to understand that creature never acts on impulse. Every move is thought out with careful precision. Knowing that, you must study his moves, his strategies, before attacking. Today you stay here. You train with me. Tomorrow, you go to into the belly of Berg.”

Eric sat alongside Farnsworth, Crohn, and Gowran upon the dais in the Hall of War. The dozens of knights and officers from the kingdoms of Trent, Doursmouth, and Fauscher sat at three low tables arranged around the perimeter of the room, giving the guest an unobstructed view of their hosts.

Farnsworth stood. “Thank you all for coming in our time of need. I will not waste your time by insulting you with mundane talk. It is evident why you have been summoned. As you saw, much of Gyllen is in ruins, our resources and men are few after Einar’s attack five days ago. We need your help if we are to defeat him. Never in the past—”

“Excuse me, Sir Farnsworth,” said a fair-haired man, “but I thought this was a closed meeting meant only for those with military authority, not mere squires training to shine boots and fetch his master’s piss pot.”

Laughter erupted.

Eric’s skin burned hot.

Farnsworth leaned forward, his fingertips pressed to the table. “Sir Bainesworth, this is our meeting, not yours. If we wanted to invite the scullery maid, it is our prerogative to do so. If you have an issue with this, you are free to leave. Do you have an issue?”

Bainesworth raised his chalice, his stare locked on Eric. “No,” he said with a malicious smirk. “No issue. Please. Forgive my interruption.”

Eric’s blood bubbled like a hot spring beneath his skin. Such arrogance! If he thought he could get away with it, he’d rip the man’s eyes out.

Farnsworth continued. “Never in the past has Gyllen sustained such an attack. Einar planned this well and knew when we would be most vulnerable. Many of our people died that night. Many more will, because of him. And the damage does not stop here at Gyllen or in Hammershire. All villages north of Avaleen are little more than graveyards. Our defenses are weak, vulnerable to another attack, and there
will be
another attack. Once Einar destroys us, there will be no stopping him from coming after you.”

A loud murmur ran among the men. Gowran barked for silence. Farnsworth continued. “In the past, we fought side by side, defending prosperity and freedom. I ask you now to stand with Hirth and unite in a common cause. If we do not, all we know will cease to exist and fall to this tyrant. Our women and children will become slaves, and we all know what fate awaits us. Join us, not for the freedom of one kingdom, but for the freedom of Fallhollow!”

A thunderous rumble of voices filled the Hall.

“Sir Farnsworth?” a man shouted from the rear table. “Why is King Gildore not at this council meeting?”

Farnsworth shifted his stance. “Our king and queen are missing. Our intelligence suggests Einar may be holding them prisoner, but this has not been confirmed.”

“Indeed. And what of Sir Trogsdill? Where is he?”

“What is your point, Sir—”

“Geoff,” the knight replied, standing. “News is that Sir Trogsdill has disappeared and is believed to be involved in a conspiracy against your monarchy, working with Einar to dethrone Gildore.”

“That is a lie!” Gowran scrambled to his feet, his chair toppling over behind him. “You dare to grace the halls of this castle as an ally but then spout your poisonous diatribe! It will not be tolerated!”

Geoff took a step forward, his fingers toying with the hilt of his own sword. “Then tell us where Sir Trogsdill is.”

Farnsworth stretched his arm across Gowran’s chest. “Sir Geoff, while it is common knowledge that many within your own kingdom of Fauscher would use whatever is at their disposal to advance themselves toward the throne, it is not the case in Hirth. It is likely Sir Trogsdill was taken while protecting his king. If you believe the wild rumors, you are no ally of Hirth.”

The horn atop the watchtower suspended Sir Geoff’s words. Three deep blows announced a visitor. The Hall doors opened, and a young page skidded to a halt beside Farnsworth.

“A traveler, sir,” he said. “He arrives on foot and appears to be wounded. I was told to tell you that all of you would want to come to the lower courtyard right away.”

“Thank you.” Farnsworth gestured for Captain Morant to approach the dais and he issued instructions. He then turned to his audience and said, “Please excuse us for a moment, and kindly remain in this room until our return.”

Eric departed with the three knights amidst speculative murmuring. They reached the upper courtyard when a man yelled from below. “It is Sir Trogsdill, my lords! He has returned! He’s going to need a surgeon right away!”

Eric bounded down the steps, his heart racing. “What are you waiting for? Get the surgeon!” he shouted at the man who’d announced Trog’s arrival. “Hurry!” He rushed to Trog’s side, the three knights not far behind.

Fresh blood stained his mentor’s shirt.

“You look beaten, my friend,” Crohn said, helping Trog to sit on the fountain’s edge.

Farnsworth knelt. “It is good to see you. We had begun to fear the worst.”

Trog winced.

“Lay him down,” Crohn said.

Trog moaned at being moved.

“Hold on, my friend. Help is coming,” Farnsworth said.

Trog moved his head from side to side. “David—gone—Einar—took—”

“What’s he talking about?” Gowran asked. “Can you hear what he’s saying?”

The surgeon arrived in his sleeping gown and set his bag of instruments and medicines on the ledge. “Move out of the way. All of ya!” He cut away Trog’s shirt.

“Dragon’s breath,” Farnsworth gasped. “That’s a wound from a shadowmorth’s blade.”

“Yes, and if I don’t stitch it now, he might bleed to death. Eric, find a container and get me some water.”

Eric ran to the kitchens and returned a few minutes later, water sloshing over the edge of a copper stew pot.

“For the life of me I don’t know how you aren’t dead,” the surgeon said, cleaning the site. “You must have friends in the heavens.”

The healer pulled implements from his bag and laid them along the fountain’s edge. From another bag came crystal vials full of tinctures and strange-colored liquids. He lifted Trog’s head. “Drink this. It tastes like piss, but it’ll cut the pain.”

Trog grimaced as he swallowed the yellow-green liquid.

“Eric, keep his head still, insert this strap into his mouth. I would rather him bite this in half than take off his tongue. Gowran, Farnsworth, hold his arms, Crohn, his feet. Keep him as still as possible.” He leaned over Trog. “Are you ready, my friend?”

Trog nodded. “Do it.”

The scalpel penetrated Trog’s skin. His eyes flew wide. His body tensed. A moan escaped.

The doctor hummed. The knife flashed in his agile hands.

Eric swallowed his dinner for the second time as the doctor sliced down one side of the wound and up the other. Trog’s flesh hissed as the contents of the vials met with his skin and cauterized the deepest parts of the lesion. He bit down on the strap, his eyes riddled with pain.

Eighty stitches later, the surgeon applied a poultice and dressed the site. He handed additional tinctures to Eric along with instructions.

“He needs bed rest. If he keeps moving around, he’s going to continue opening the wound.” The doctor laid a hand on Trog’s arm. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been attacked by a dragon.” Trog looked up at the surgeon. “How long do I have to stay in bed?”

The surgeon packed up his things and washed his hands in the copper pot. “Anyone else, I’d say at least a week. You, get at least one night’s sleep before you’re allowed to save the universe, insomuch as it can be saved.” He patted Trog’s arm. “Good night, sirs. Eric, you know where to find me if you need me.”

The three knights helped Trog sit up.

“You heard the man,” Gowran said. “Let’s get you in bed.”

“Pardon me, sirs.” A young officer approached. “I apologize for the interruption, but Sir Bainesworth reminds you he and the others await your presence in the Hall.”

“Bainesworth!” Trog shouted. “What is that miserable excuse for a knight doing in Hirth?”

Farnsworth turned to Trog. “We called a meeting to ask for assistance. Bainesworth is Fauscher’s grand knight. He is here, along with General Vallen, as our allies.”

Trog’s eyes widened. “You allowed those two on Gyllen’s soil?”

“Our defenses are weak. We need assistance.”

“So you invited Bainesworth? He has no allegiance to anyone but himself! Tell me, who else have you called?”

Crohn answered. “The best from Doursmouth, Trent, and Fauscher sit in the Hall.”

“Trog, it is imperative you keep your animosity between you and Bainesworth separate,” Gowran said. “Fauscher is one of Hirth’s staunchest allies. They want nothing more than to see Einar defeated as well.”

“Fauscher is ruled by a man absent of senses,” Trog stated. “He is almost as crazy as the Dalvarian king.”

“Regardless, the prospective combined forces of the four kingdoms amounts to ten thousand – more than enough to engage battle with one dragon.”

“Ten thousand is nowhere near enough,” Trog growled.

“Then perhaps we should do what Slavandria suggests and bring forth the heir to the throne,” Gowran said.

Trog glowered at Gowran. “Eric, get me a shirt. Now! I have a council meeting to attend.”

Eric met with Trog and the others on the first floor outside the Hall of War. Trog tore the shirt from Eric’s hand, slipped it over his head and stormed through the doors. The room fell silent except for the click of boots across the tiles.

“Well, well, well. Sir Trogsdill.” Bainesworth’s voice echoed in the hall. “How nice of you to join us. Are you well? You seem ill.”

Trog snarled. “You have no idea.”

Eric suppressed a grin.
Get him, Trog. Gut him and feed him to the dogs.

“I must say, in spite of your grand entrance, I’m short of feeling honored by your disheveled presence,” Bainesworth quipped. “You know how I hate to wait—especially on the likes of you.”

“As if I give a damn about what you hate,” Trog said, his expression contemptuous.

“You should. You top my list.”

“I’m honored, considering I don’t give you a second thought.”

Bainesworth’s lip twitched at the corner. “Watch your arrogance, Sir Trogsdill. You never know where I’ll be lurking.”

“Go ahead. Lurk. Your fate waits for you on the tip of my sword. Of this I swear.”

Bainesworth chuckled. “I look forward to it.”

Eric sneered at the evil dripping from the man’s tongue. If only he could somehow find a way to shove it back down his throat.

Farnsworth placed a reassuring hand on Trog’s shoulder. “Enough of this bantering. We have enough fighting going on outside these walls. We do not need any within.”

Bainesworth and Trog settled back into their chairs.

“I offer my apologies to the rest of you,” Farnsworth said. “As I said before, Hirth needs your help. I now open the floor for discussion as it pertains to our common goal and nothing else.”

A knight from Doursmouth spoke. “Sir Farnsworth, I am concerned about two things. First, while King Gildore is respected to all corners of Fallhollow, he is not our king. Should we ride with you, what does Hirth offer us for our servitude? Second, my understanding, though only by rumor, is that Hirth wishes for us to enter Berg and attack Einar on his own ground. Einar is not your typical enemy, if there is such a thing. There are dark creatures in Berg that we are ill equipped to fight.”