The Author's Blood (19 page)

All the while Owen was being tortured, he set his mind on a passage from
The Book of the King
:
When you are called on to suffer, no matter how deep the pain, know that your love and faith are being tested. Persevere and do not give up. The ill treatment you endure will help make you complete.

Owen awoke in agony, and though it was so dark he could not see his hand before his face, the temperature and sound told him he was in a new place. He felt for the chains and found none. By crawling through straw from one side to the other, he judged the size of this cell to be about 10 by 15 feet. He felt a solid wooden door and found a tiny opening at the bottom, apparently for food. It was also the only place he got a whiff of fresh air, and the hideously smelly place needed it.

He carefully lay on his stomach because every time he moved, his wounds opened. He could hear only the clink of armor when the vaxors changed shifts.
It must be morning
, he thought. Soon the arena would begin filling.

Thoughts are like worms, and once one strays, it can lead a person down any hole in any direction. Though Owen had gained confidence through his journeys, the path his thoughts chose was not of certainty of purpose. He was wavering. It wasn't that he didn't trust the King and his plans. Rather, Owen wondered whether he had made some mistake in judgment or had misinterpreted something his father had written in the book.

Could it really be the King's plan, his purpose, that his Son wind up in a dank cell, separated from what he needed most—the book—and most of his friends buried on a hillside? How could he even hope to fulfill the purposes of the King now?

Some will tell you that everything you need in life is deep inside and that all you have to do is mine the treasure that is you. Do not believe it. The truth is that everything you need lies outside you and is given to you. It is your job to receive it, welcome it, rejoice in it, and live it.

It is the joy of fathers, at the height of a child's frustration over some loss, to dangle something even better in front of the child.

It happened this way for Owen. While he lamented his fate and questioned his choices and let the pain of his rich wounds sink deep into his soul, the hard earth behind him began to move in a slow whirlpool. At first he feared an earthquake, but soon he heard the
munch, munch, crunch
of teeth and saw a familiar glow seeping through the surface.

His heart leaped.
Mucker!

Owen had never been on this side of the worm's digging, having seen it only from behind. Mucker finally broke through, and his old friend crawled into the cell. To Owen's surprise, following Mucker was Starbuck, intently reading a passage from the book, as Owen had taught him. The youngster didn't seem surprised that they had reached Owen.

“It's good to see you,” Starbuck said, but his face turned grave in Mucker's glow. “You're bleeding.”

“I'll be all right, especially now that you're here and I have the book again.”

“A vaxor named Velvel came and tried to take it, but this seemed a much better plan,” Starbuck said, sitting beside him.

Owen leafed through the pages in Mucker's light. He turned to the blank ones at the back, then reached for a handful of straw. “This will do.”

“For what?”

“While I was being tortured, my thoughts turned to the blank pages and their purpose came to me. I knew that if I ever saw the book again,
I
was the one who was supposed to write here. My old friend and protector Nicodemus once reminded me that the author's blood flows through my veins.”

Starbuck looked bewildered.

Owen continued, “The King has given me the authority not only to read and understand the words he has written but also to write them myself.”

“Where will you find pen and ink?”

Owen set the book on the floor and picked at the edge of a piece of straw. “I'll dip this in my wounds.”

“Your blood,” Starbuck said. “The author's blood.”

For the record, let it be known that the day began with cloudless skies and a mythic dawn unparalleled in the history of the Lowlands—azure blue overhead with soft pinks and purples announcing the sun on the horizon. As it rose, the pinks deepened to crimson, warning, some would later say, of an approaching storm.

Two horns sounded the reveille, adding to the excited anticipation of the crowd as they tittered and talked among themselves about the previous day.

“The Wormling said his father was a great warrior and that he would chop the Dragon's head off.”

“Impossible. The Dragon wouldn't have taken such insolence.”

“He seemed scared of the little Wormling.”

“Watch your tongue! You'll have every guard of the Dragon on you if you keep up with that.”

“I just want to see a good fight today. There was not enough blood yesterday. I want to see this Wormling torn apart and his arms and legs thrown into the crowd.”

“Think of it. An arm of the Wormling. It would fetch a hefty price in the market among collectors.”

“Imagine the value of his sword! Still, I don't think the Wormling will be an easy kill.”

“Which makes it all the more interesting.”

By late morning the place was filled. Fights broke out under the relentless sun, and the people cheered for those even more than for the docile clowns who frolicked in the ring to the delight of the younger ones.

One wielded a wooden sword and walked around on his knees. The other wore a covering that made him appear to be the Dragon. The two ran around the arena, tripping each other and poking each other in the eyes, feigning injuries and hopping about. The crowd alternately booed or cheered, depending on which held the upper hand. Finally, the Dragon kicked the Wormling to the ground, stepped on his neck, and plunged the sword into his armpit. Such a cheer arose that those at the concessions stands feared they had missed the entrance of the actual Dragon.

But first was the procession of vaxor gladiators, the parading of the snarling tigren, and the poking of the great croc brought from a watery cage beneath the floor to cavort in a muddy pit under a walkway not far from the Dragon's box.

Banners with the Dragon's likeness were unfurled, and dancers waving brown and red streamers pranced and bowed before his image. Then came the ceremonial flyover of visible and invisible flyers.

All stood at the roar of their leader, and they looked everywhere for him. A vaxor brought a live jargid, tied squirming and struggling to the top of a pole, which he drove into the ground. The crowd stared quizzically, and then their heads shot up as one when the Dragon soared over the highest parapet and blew a huge blast of fire that came within a foot of the jargid. It writhed and twisted but could not elude the flames that inched up the pole until they engulfed the animal. The straps burned through, and the jargid plopped to the ground.

A vaxor ran from his post, stuck his spear into the animal, and hoisted it for the cheering crowd. Then he deftly ripped off some hide with his knife, sliced a chunk of meat, and gave a thumbs-up as he tasted it.

The Dragon took his place in his box and addressed the throng as if they had a choice whether to be here. “Thank you for joining me on this festive occasion. We have a perfect day to celebrate the end of the threat against our new kingdom.”

Cheers and screams turned to boos when the scarred, bleeding Wormling was wheeled before them, standing strapped to a pole in a wood cart pulled by a mule. The lad's chest was bare and the marks on his back still fresh. Suddenly there appeared in the stands a cadre of vaxors passing out rocks and rotten fruit and vegetables. Immediately these rained down on the cart from all sides.

Finally the vaxors cut the Wormling down, dropping him in a heap in the middle of the arena.

The Dragon called for silence again. “This putrid excuse for a human is said to be the Son of a King!”

“He's not even a peasant!” someone yelled.

“You are the only king, O Dragon!”

The Dragon smiled and bowed. “One way to ensure the kingdom of this so-called Son does not continue is to destroy his bride-to-be.”

From behind him a curtain opened and an old, wrinkled woman was pushed forward. She wore a crown of sticks and straw held together with mud. Her face was ashen, and a royal robe was draped around her shoulders. The Dragon beckoned her onto the small walkway that extended over the watery pit cut into the arena floor, but she wouldn't budge until vaxors prodded her with the butts of their spears.

* * *

Owen struggled to his feet. The look on his face would have given spectators reason to believe the fight was not over, but every eye was on the ancient woman.

“Release the great croc!” the Dragon yelled, and the crowd came alive again.

The creak of metal upon metal grew from the floor, and no sooner had the door slammed open than the huge beast emerged and headed straight for the muddy pit. The old woman nearly lost her balance as the croc eyed her, snorting and growling and opening his cavernous jaws.

Owen moved toward the croc, catching the old woman's eye as if trying to communicate to her.

She looked down, trying to keep her footing with the prowling beast beneath her.

“Connie!” he called.

“Did you hear that?” the Dragon said, chuckling. “He speaks to his intended.” He glared at Owen. “I hate poetic speech.”

“Look at me,” Owen said.

She looked up. “Owen? Is it you?”

“Oh, Owen,” a spectator mimicked. “Come rescue me!”

* * *

Connie stared at her true love, trying to ignore the snarls of the croc and the stench of the vaxors. Owen was speaking, though she could not hear over the noise.

“Jump,”
he mouthed.

She shook her head and nodded at the croc, smacking his mouth, huge teeth jutting, waiting for her.

Owen's battered face shone with sincerity.
“Trust me.”

He was calling her to act, to do the unthinkable simply because she believed in him.

“My dear,” the Dragon purred, “I will spare your life if you simply denounce this brigand and announce your devotion to me.”

Connie faced him. “You swore my blood would anoint your throne.”

The Dragon shrugged. “And it shall. A mere prick of the finger satisfies my pledge. Anointing does not take a bucket.”

She glanced down to see that Owen had moved closer to the crocodile's pit. Both Owen and the croc looked up at her, seeming to beckon. Was this a trick of the Dragon, an impostor, or truly the love of her life?

With the precision of a ballet dancer, Connie slipped to the end of the plank and turned to the Dragon. “I promise you I will never pledge you my allegiance, for your kingdom will fall. You are not the true King. You are a liar. And I would rather die a horrible death than live in submission to you.”

The Dragon belched fire at her, but she merely managed an old lady's wrinkled smile and dropped backward off the walkway.

Owen watched Connie seem to float like a feather in the wind, and the croc, perfectly positioned, caught her in his massive jaws. He then hurtled toward his den and disappeared underground, the metal grate closing behind him.

The crowd fell silent at the sound of watery thrashing and a scream. Then they rose and cheered.

“His beautiful bride is no more!” the Dragon bellowed. “We will cut the croc open and bring out her body after we deal with this one. Our fun has only just begun.”

An iron door in the wall opened, and a phalanx of vaxors marched through, dragging Rogers, Tusin, the king and queen of the west, Talea, and several others.

Owen's heart fell. He had sent Starbuck back with Mucker, urging them to get as far away from Dragon City as they could.

Rogers's eyes were downcast. “Starbuck told us to flee, and most did. But we were delayed, arguing about whether we should go or stay. It's my fault.”

“Didn't I tell you long ago that you would be by my side when the final battle began?”

“But you said Watcher would be here as well.”

“She's here in spirit.”

The Dragon announced, “Our search for the followers of this so-called Son has produced this ragged band. The others will be captured soon, but for now, let's enjoy the demise of these wretched creatures.”

The tigren were released and they came running, jaws dripping, hungry eyed. But as if their chains had become too short, they stopped short of the group.

“Where is our daughter?” the queen of the west said to Owen.

Owen pointed to the metal grate a few yards away, where water splashed onto the sand.

“What!” the queen shouted. “You were supposed to protect our daughter!”

“Quiet,” her husband said. “Listen to him.”

The tigren were sent back into their underground cages as huge, heavily armored vaxors—some on horseback, some running—bearing swords, spears, chains, and nets charged into the arena.

The crowd went wild as if their lives depended on the outcome of this lopsided battle. The enemy rushed from at least 10 entrances, carrying their heavy weapons like toys.

“Stay together,” Owen said. “We are stronger united.”

“They'll kill us all,” a man said. When the vaxors drew close, he ran, only to be downed by a horseman.

“Listen to him!” Talea said. “He saved my life! He can help us!”

Rogers clasped her hand and they all drew close, each holding a hand on either side.

The crowd grew deafening as the vaxors advanced, unsheathing their knives and swords.

There comes a point in every battle when a seemingly insignificant event determines the outcome. Owen had invaded the territory of the enemy and had been on the defensive. Now, with the help of
The Book of the King
and guidance he knew was straight from the heart of his father, Owen positioned himself strategically.

The Dragon believed he had his enemy trapped like a bug under glass, but it was then that a gentle breeze, hardly noticed, blew over the coliseum. No one heard the soft footfalls of the oncoming masses. And no one, save Talea, saw the fluttering, seemingly directionless flight of a small, brown-winged creature that struggled to make its way over the very top of the coliseum. Something clanged against the stone structure, and sunlight glinted off metal.

Just the night before, Owen had written,
Some may trust in their strength, in their weaponry, in their number of soldiers, but I will trust in the love of my father, who delights in crushing the mighty by using the weak. He will defeat the enemy with the good-hearted friends he has given.

And so, as the vaxors attacked, Owen turned and whispered to his friends.