The Author's Blood (22 page)

Over the plains of Raba in the shadow of Mount Ufel, Owen flew on Machree's back. Dragon City rose in the distance, and through dark clouds he saw the horde of vaxors streaming from the city.

“This will be a bloody battle, you know,” Machree said.

“It doesn't have to be,” Owen said. “Any who desire to can choose to follow the King.”

“I guess I know that as well as anyone,” Machree said.

The army of the Son appeared on the horizon, a mass of white-robed warriors carrying weapons made from sticks and branches. Owen and Machree landed and found their friends. Tusin, the singed Batwing, Rogers, Talea, and the rest stood openmouthed as the vaxor force approached. Rotag slithered alongside Connie, who was just as aged as before but seemed to have more energy. Owen saw a light in her eyes that hadn't been there before.

“Where's Clara?” Owen said.

No one had seen her. Batwing offered to search for her, but Machree insisted he would so the little creature could recuperate.

Rotag approached Owen. “Your Majesty, it is an honor to serve you.”

“The honor is mine. Thank you for taking care of Connie and for allowing yourself to be caged.”

“Who are all these people?” Connie said.

“Freed captives,” Starbuck said, handing Owen
The Book of the King
. “There's probably something in there about freeing the captives, right?”

Owen smiled. “Yes, there is much about it, in fact.”

“How are you?” Starbuck said. “And what happened with the Dragon? I'm dying to hear everything!”

“I'm well,” Owen said. “And I will tell you all in due time. There will be seasons for stories, but now is not one of them.”

Connie took Owen's arm. “I fear for your sister. She was so kind to me. I could not have survived without her.”

“Machree will find her.”

“How did you know he would be loyal to the King?” Tusin said. “We always considered him a traitor.”

“The King's love covers many indiscretions,” Owen said. “Machree just needed encouragement.”

“What is that
smell
?” Talea said. “It reminds me of the oil used to start fires at Drucilla's palace.”

Owen nodded. “You will see shortly.”

* * *

Velvel led the army of the Dragon, but his heart was torn. His time with the Son had changed him. He had turned back to the Dragon but remained unable to still his anxious heart about the decision. Something about the words the Son spoke . . . something about the way he invited him into his kingdom . . .

Velvel knew the Dragon well enough to realize that the whole idea of ruling the Highlands, the Lowlands, and the heavenly realm had been born from the Dragon's jealousy. The true King had once reigned with a power never achieved by the Dragon. All the Dragon could do was kill and destroy and force his subjects to do his will.

But this King and his Son drew subjects with their compassion and care. They did not force obedience. They did not cajole or bribe. They simply compelled followers by their wisdom and love.

Velvel thought about this as he led the vaxor army toward the plains of Raba and some sort of massive white fighting force approaching in the distance. It was no match for the vaxors, of course, but still a multitude to contend with. Velvel figured it might cost him a thousand men to wipe out the opposition.

He shook his head, trying to rid the thoughts from his mind, but they kept coming, kept assaulting him—the words of the Son, his silence as he was beaten, his caring words, his desire to bring Velvel into the King's army. . . .

He held up an arm and the soldiers stopped at a knoll. Cremul, another commander, rode up sneering, frothing at the mouth, ready for battle. He was bloodthirsty and enjoyed killing and watching his enemies struggle and die. The vaxors wore blood as a badge, and they believed the more they spilled, the more they were worth in the Dragon's sight.

This is all our life consists of
, Velvel thought.
We kill and destroy in the name of the Dragon and enjoy the spoils, but for what? To wake up another day to another battle? And once we have killed every foe in the Lowlands and we move to the Highlands and do the same, what will keep us from turning on our own?

“We are ready to attack,” Cremul said.

Velvel dismounted and knelt, scooping dirt and sniffing it. What was that smell? Why did the dirt appear wet when it hadn't rained here?

“Sir, we are ready—”

“I heard you,” Velvel said. “Wait here for the Dragon. He will lead us.”

“We could have this battle won before he even arrives. Imagine how he would reward us.”

Velvel glanced at the vaxor, whose face was twisted in anger. He looked as if he wanted to kill anyone—even Velvel. 
Is that how I look?
“We wait for the Dragon.”

Pointing the way, the King led Clara and Mr. Reeder to the Son. Then he sat on the bank of a newly formed lake, looking out over the rippling surface. It had been created when the King, by his own plan and action, had fallen through the pockets of flammable liquid the Dragon had been trying to mine. The stench was strong.

The King sat there, content in knowing that he had planted a desire in men and women to be whole, to long for true completeness. When drawn away by the evil one or even their own petty wishes, they had become fragmented and were like sheep without anyone to guide them.

All this had to happen—all this wandering, searching for peace and happiness, settling for tidbits the world or the Dragon offered but somehow knowing there had to be more.

To truly drink of a pure stream and enjoy, a man must first be thirsty,
the King had written long ago.

One prophecy remained unfulfilled, and that would signal not the end but a new beginning. The years the people had spent suffering under the ravages of the Dragon would be like the burning of a plant bed. The fire kills and destroys until new life can take over and grow.

The King rested his hands on his knees and watched the approaching storm. Dark clouds roiled, signaling evil approaching. But then, his Son was up to the task. And so were his Son's friends.

The Dragon soared to the front lines and commanded the vaxors to advance. He applauded Velvel for not leaving without him. “Your faith in me never wavers.”

The white-clad individuals on the plains looked like some society for the prevention of color, and the Dragon knew his clowns would have a field day with this back at the coliseum. With hope deep in his heart that he could still find the egg, the Dragon imagined the fun he would have reliving this battle with his little one. How they would laugh about the army in white that fell like clipped grass.

The vaxors stopped at a ledge overlooking the valley.

Strange,
the Dragon thought.
I don't remember a lake here.

As he was about to call for the sounding of the battle horn, a figure in a white robe took a stand in the middle of the field. He looked regal, as if he owned this place.

Curious, the Dragon let his hand fall and told RHM to calm the troops. “I want to see the face of this rebel.”

The Dragon lumbered into the air and made a wide circle, surveying the white army. He came to rest near the regal figure and folded his wings behind him. A few scales fell from his chest, and he scraped them away with a talon.

“Take that silly robe off, boy, and talk to me like a man,” the Dragon said. “I don't know where you got these troops, but you have no chance against my army.”

The white-robed figure did not move.

“All right, I have a proposition for you,” the Dragon said. “Surrender to me, and I will allow the others to leave in peace until a mutually agreeable time when I will demand their allegiance. Your sacrifice will allow them to live, and you'll be a heroic martyr. That's part of the teaching of your little book, is it not? Giving oneself for his fellow man?”

The figure remained still.

The Dragon exploded, “Look at me when I talk to you, boy!”

“Looking for me?” the Son said, stepping out from the soldiers arrayed on the hill. “If so, I decline your offer.”

The Dragon lowered his head, trying to see inside the hood of the robed figure. But the Son raised his voice and addressed the vaxors marshaled across from his army. “My father has made a way for you to join his kingdom, to leave the dead end that is the Dragon. Simply bow to him, confess that he is the true King and that you will love and serve him from this day forward, and you will live. If you choose to fight, you will die.”

The vaxors responded with uproarious laughter. They clanged their swords against their shields, and the clatter echoed through the valley.

The Dragon reached to lift the hood from the face before him.

“Your reign is over,” the Queen said, her skin perfectly smooth, with not even a hint of the disease she had contracted from the banished untouchables.

Those behind her removed their hoods as well, showing themselves equally healthy.

The Dragon recoiled. “From Perolys Gulch? They are unclean!”

“No longer,” the Son said. “They have been cleansed. They fight for the true King now.”

“How dare you release my prisoners!” the Dragon spat.

“How dare you imprison us!” the Queen said.

The Dragon stepped back, suddenly timid. “I did allow you to live, my lady.”

“Dragon!” a voice, like the sound of many waters, shouted from below.

The vaxors' horses fell to their knees, pitching their mounts to the ground. Everyone in white fell to their knees, even the Son and the Queen.

“You,” the Dragon muttered, taking flight to the side of the lake. “I took care of you long ago.”

“So you thought,” the King said. “But merely believing something does not make it true.”

“I saw you burn on that hill in the Highlands!”

“You saw my Son do the same, yet he stands before you. Along with those you banished to sickness and death.”

“You are not as powerful as you think,” the Dragon said, voice grating, teeth clenched.

“I am as powerful as a child's faith,” the King said. “My strength is manifest in the weakness of those who follow me. And they shall be rewarded.”

The Dragon rose and flew behind the King so everyone could witness his end. “You will no longer hound me like some vermin, no longer hold dominion over any part of my kingdom.”

“You are right,” the King whispered, “as my kingdom is yours no longer.”

Those with a pure heart are strongest in the King's world, and it was to one of these that Owen handed over his sword.

Starbuck looked shocked but took the weapon.

“I told your father that he would sing after the final battle,” Owen said. “Do you believe this?”

“I want to believe.”

Owen handed him his sword. “Take it.”

“I am not worthy,” Starbuck said.

“Just be ready to hand it to me at the appointed time. All the while I've carried it, even in training with Mordecai, I thought it was meant for battle. As it turns out, it can be used for many things—fighting, deflecting, healing. But its main purpose stands there.” Owen pointed.

Starbuck scrunched his face. “The Dragon? But how can it penetrate all those scales?”

“I will aim it straight and true, and you'll see.”

Starbuck moved a few feet away and held the sword out, admiring its shining silver. “If we kill the Dragon, we still have to defeat the army amassed against us.”

“The battle is the King's,” Owen said. “And he will see it through.”

* * *

The King stepped forward as the Dragon rattled a supply of fire in his throat. “I warn you, Dragon. Do not attempt to incinerate me.”

“You have no place to hide,” the Dragon said, sneering. “No secret chamber to escape to.”

“Bow your knee to the true King or you will surely die.”

“Never!” the Dragon roared, and as he reared back to blast the King, the Sword of the Wormling flew right at him. Just as the Dragon leaned to release his molten fire, the sword struck his chest and penetrated layer upon layer of brittle scales.

The darkened heart of the wheezing old beast beat furiously until the sword pierced it, spilling blood into the chest cavity like a flood. The crippled muscle undulated and pulsed around the sword, striving to pull itself back into rhythm. Somehow the Dragon's body seemed energized by this. Perhaps it was adrenaline or the twisted thinking of a being so malevolent that made him rather have an object pierce his heart than be forced to bend his knee to the true King.

Suddenly a smile came over the face of this tyrant, and the scales on his chest seemed to stitch themselves back together and turn a lifelike color again. Little did he know that the same sword that pierced him also had the power to heal but only to preserve him long enough for the King's purposes.

“Now you will feel my wrath,” the Dragon said.

* * *

“Everyone down!” Owen yelled. “Worship the true King!”

The white-robed army fell at once.

The vaxors had begun to charge, led by Velvel. Owen pleaded with his eyes and waved at the ground, signaling for him to fall on his knees, but the vaxor's hard countenance showed the same bloodlust as the others.

Talea whimpered, her face ashen, as the horde bore down on them with sharpened axes, swords, and all manner of other deadly weapons. From the air came scythe flyers and, from the looks of the clouds, invisibles ready to pounce.

“Do not take your eyes off the King,” Owen said. “He is the one who gains the victory.”

The King loomed, a majestic figure with arms spread before the Dragon.

* * *

The Dragon shot his fire across the edge of the lake at the King and the white-robed army. But he had never blasted so much heat and flame in his life, for at the first spark from his mouth, the lake rose and exploded. When the fire fell, the entire world seemed afire around them.

The King, arms still outstretched, seemed to guide the fire over his subjects and toward the oncoming horde. Those who had fallen on their faces were saved, but those bearing down on them were engulfed. Vaxors and their weapons melted where they stood.

“No,” the Dragon whispered. Then he shouted over the massacre of his mighty army, “No!”

All who had thrown things, who had laughed at the spectacle in the arena, who had pledged their allegiance to the Dragon, who had killed the innocent and treated people like objects, lay smoldering. The invisible flyers were suddenly as visible as the scythe flyers, as every beast of the air committed to the Dragon fell burning to the ground.

Without so much as a whimper, the Dragon's forces had been there one second and gone the next. The only thing left was their ashes, and those blew away with the wind.

Tears came to the Dragon's eyes, not because of any compassion for his forces but because he himself had ignored the King's warning and wiped out everything he had worked to accomplish. He wept for himself and the end of his dream.

Looking at the King, who should have melted away but now shone like gold, the Dragon sneered.

The King lifted a hand, signaling his followers to rise. “Son,” he called, “arise and retrieve your weapon.”

As if changed into the image and likeness of his father, the Son stood tall on the knoll, his garments glowing as well. No longer a boy, the man was eerily framed by sunlight that streamed through the dark clouds. Suddenly the sky brightened and clouds vanished, the sun now brilliantly covering the land.

“I hate the sun,” the Dragon muttered. “I hate the Son.”

The Son shouted, “Sword!”

From deep inside the Dragon came a creaking and squeaking as his chest bulged. Breaking through the scales, the sword flew out, leaving a cross-shaped hole.

The old beast reached and felt blood pouring from the wound. He set his jaw, and though he fought to stay upright, he teetered and dropped to his knees before the King. And with a final rush of air and smoke from his lips, the Dragon's head crashed down on a rock.

The King turned, his face and beard pure white, and smiled. “My friends, the battle is over. It is time for a wedding!”