The Pitchfork of Destiny (21 page)

“No—­” Gwen started to say, but just then a log popped in the grate, sending a shower of sparks exploding against the screen. Gwen turned her head sharply at the sound and her eyes seemed to widen in surprise as she stared at the glowing coals.

“You've thought of something,” Liz said, a new hope suddenly blooming in her empty breast.

“Possibly . . .” she whispered, but would say no more. “Whatever happened to the pitchfork? You know, the one that Magdela impaled herself on? What happened to it?”

“The Dracomancer, I mean, Delbert, asked me the same thing. I can't remember, but why does it matter?” Liz asked.

“Because it's been bathed in the blood of a dragon, Liz,” she said half rising in her seat, the volume of her voice rising with her. “I remember, in the early years, Magdela chuckling about the knights and soldiers the king would send to fight her and how it was all so futile. Humans don't have the strength to pierce a dragon's scales with ordinary steel. How, for a man to kill a dragon, he needed a weapon bathed in the blood of a dragon but there weren't any. That was the irony. How could a weapon be bathed in the blood of a dragon if it couldn't pierce the hide of the dragon in the first place? I doubt she ever thought about the possibility of a dragon stabbing itself with one. She landed on it with her full force. Her might was strong enough to force it through her scales.”

She snapped her fingers at Liz. “Try to remember, Liz, what happened to the pitchfork? Did it survive?”

“Yes. I remember sticking it in the wagon when Will went up to the tower to get you, but I don't remember seeing it again.” She covered her mouth with her hand as her heart sunk. “Oh no! He left it in the tower. I asked him about it, and he told me that he couldn't carry you and the pitchfork, so he left it.”

Gwen fell back into her chair. “The only weapon in the world capable of killing the dragon is sitting in the only place in the world we can't go.”

Liz sat silently. To her surprise, Gwen came and sat next to her and grasped her hand gently. They said nothing for a time, then Liz whispered, “They won't stop, Will and Charming. Even if I tell them it's impossible, neither will turn aside. Will would never abandon Elle to the dragon, and Edward would never abandon Will to face the dragon alone. I . . . I will lose them both.”

Though she fought them, the tears came anyway, and she found herself being embraced by Gwendolyn. “I'm sorry, Liz. This is the unfairness of being a woman. Men are allowed to march to their doom and fight against it till the end, but we are expected to yield, to sit and accept the inevitable quietly. The only comfort we are permitted is our sorrow.”

Something in what she said struck a spark of anger in Liz's breast, and that spark kindled a flame that burst into a conflagration. She pulled herself out of Gwendolyn's comforting arms and stood. “That might be what we are told to do, but that is not our destiny. You proved that. I can and I will do something.”

Liz stood and walked out into the hallway, Gwen following just behind. Liz opened the door and looked outside. “Gwen, thank you again for your kindness. I know that it came with a cost.”

Monty came out and, nodding his goodbye, wrapped his arms around Gwen and led her back into the sitting room. Liz closed the door and stepped out into the moonlit night. She looked back toward where Prosper lay and wondered if Tomas was safe. The guilt at leaving him behind hung heavy on her heart, but she knew that to try and save him would mean dooming everyone she loved. For a moment she froze, unable to take the first step on what would likely be her last adventure.

“What was it Will said to me,” she asked herself. “ ‘Long goodbyes make for long journeys.' ”

After leading her horse out of the barn where she'd hidden it, she mounted and rode toward the dark horizon to the south, where the woods and the high, cruel mountains waited.

 

CHAPTER 12

A BARGAIN WITH THE DEVIL

T
he Dracomancer was lost in dark thoughts as he rode back to Prosper flanked by his Dracovizier honor guard. Everything he had said to Gwendolyn was justified. She was not the princess she had once been but had fallen and been brought low by her own hand. Yet he still felt hollow inside. He had not wanted to hurt her. He had come to give her a chance to regain the life she had before, to reclaim her standing and position in good society, but she had rejected him. She had made him say those things.

“Why does she have to be so beastly stubborn?” he hissed between clenched teeth. “She should be taught a lesson for her insolence.”

“Do you require something, Dread Dracomancer?” the Dracovizier on his right asked.

With a start, he remembered the men around him. “Yes!” he shouted. “The witch, Gwendolyn, must be arrested. She . . . she is too dangerous to remain free. She spent years with Magdela, the Great Wyrm of the South. Indisputably, she is under draconic enchantment and, therefore, guilty of draconic conspiracy. Go back and take her into custody. Her fiancé as well since he's allowed this to happen under their roof.”

“At once, Dread Dracomancer.” The Dracovizier placed a palm on his forehead and bowed.

“What was that? What are you doing?” the Dracomancer asked.

“That is the dracosalute, Dread Dracomancer,” the man said significantly.

“No, it isn't,” the Dracovizier on his left said sternly. “The dracosalute is a hand across the body like this.” He demonstrated by slapping his arm across his chest with a thump.

“That isn't it either,” said a Dracovizier behind them. He rode forward and demonstrated a gesture that required him to drop his reins and flap his hands like a bird.

“What kind of salute is that?” asked the first man. “It looks ridiculous.”

“It is not. It is meant to represent a dragon in flight.”

They began to argue, and the Dracomancer felt his head throb.

“ALL OF YOU, BE QUIET!” he shouted, and the men fell immediately into silence, each giving him an exaggerated version of their particular salute. The Dracomancer looked up and issued a silent oath to the skies. He never knew having followers would be so irritating.

“I wish to be alone,” the Dracomancer said. “Go back and arrest Gwendolyn. Once that is done, ride ahead and prepare the army for a march. We leave for Dragon Tower in the morning.”

I will show Gwendolyn what I am capable of,
he thought.
When she sees my army on the march . . .

“But, we cannot leave you unguarded, Dread Dracomancer,” one of the Dracoviziers protested, interrupting his train of thought. “What if—­”

“What?” the Dracomancer asked irritably. “I am the Dracomancer. Do you believe me incapable of defending myself from peasants and farmers? Leave me now, all of you, or you shall feel the wrath of the Dragon Spirit.”

The men gave their disparate salutes and, spurring their horses, galloped away back toward the farm.

The Dracomancer let out a sigh of relief and turned his thoughts to composing a speech to deliver to his followers. It had to be grand and eloquent, something that would spur them to new heights of frenzied devotion and convince them that being snapped up, squashed, or incinerated by a dragon was exactly what their lives had been leading up to this whole time.

Suddenly, a shadow with yellow eyes jumped onto the road. His horse reared back and nearly unseated him. “Damn!” cried the Dracomancer, and fought with the reins until he had calmed the beast.

The wolf, for that was what it was, paced back and forth across the road, its eyes never leaving the Dracomancer or his horse. The Dracomancer cursed himself for sending his guard away. Here he was, on a deserted road, with a ferocious wolf stalking him. In an attempt to project authority, he waved his staff at the beast, and cried out, “Begone, you cur!”

“That's no way to talk to a friend and admirer,” the wolf said, eyes still fixed on the Dracomancer.

“Friend?” the Dracomancer said. “Is it friendly to ambush someone?”

“I am sorry about that,” the wolf said, his long, wet tongue extending as he panted. “I had not expected to have a chance to talk to you so soon, but when you sent your guards away, I knew I had to act quickly. I hope you were not too frightened.”

“I wasn't frightened,” the Dracomancer lied. “But you did startle my horse.”

“Again, Dread Dracomancer, my apologies.”

“You know who I am?”

“Of course I do.” The wolf smiled, and his white teeth gleamed in the moonlight. “I have come a long way to find you.”

“Why is that?” the Dracomancer asked, wondering if having such a renowned name might not be a hazard in some cases.

“My name is Beo, and I wish to pledge my ser­vices to you, Powerful and Horrible Dracomancer,” the wolf said, and, rising to his haunches, placed a paw to his breast, and bowed his head.

The Dracomancer rolled his eyes and stared at the scrawny wolf in front of him. “You wish to serve me, Beo?” he asked scornfully.

“Yes, Great and Terrible Dracomancer.”

“And what ser­vice can a common wolf be to the Dracomancer?”

“Since you have proclaimed yourself as enemy to the Dragon, I thought someone that had previously been in ser­vice to Volthraxus, the Killing Wind, the Gray Terror, the Great Dragon of the North, might be of use,” the wolf answered, and, turning to go, said, “Perhaps I was wrong.”

“Do not be so hasty, Beo,” the Dracomancer said, intrigued by the possibilities. “I would need to have proof of your ser­vice to him. Anyone can claim to have knowledge of the dragon. What can you tell me that I do not already know?”

Beo considered. “Did you know that Volthraxus has come to avenge the loss of his love, Magdela?”

“Yes, anyone who has read Gurble Pettiswang's
Tooth and Tail, Tail and Tooth
would know of the connection between the Dragon of the North and the Wyrm of the South,” the Dracomancer said dismissively, and began to spur his horse forward.

“Do you know that Volthraxus has a weakness for swine?” Beo asked quickly.

The Dracomancer laughed and rode past the wolf. “You would have to be a fool, or have read nothing of the
Ars Dragonica
not to know of Volthraxus's penchant for pork.”

“I . . . I . . . can tell you his weakness,” Beo pleaded, stalking alongside the Dracomancer's trotting horse. “Where his scales have gaps, what weapons to use . . .”

“Go back to the woods, wolf, and leave dragons to experts,” the Dracomancer said with a wave of his hand. “There is only one weapon in all the world that could have killed Volthraxus, and I know for a fact that the pitchfork that slew Magdela, William Pickett's pitchfork, has been destroyed.”

The Dracomancer had gone on another few yards when the wolf's voice, now calm and confident, called after him, “And what if I told you that I know where King William's pitchfork is?”

The Dracomancer reined his horse to a stop but did not turn around. “That's impossible,” he said, but his mind was racing with the possibilities. Liz did not actually say that it was destroyed. She had only not disputed his assumption. If it was true . . .

“Not impossible, Your Worshipful Dracomancer. I've seen the pitchfork with my own eyes.”

The Dracomancer turned his horse about. “Where?”

Beo shook his head and grinned his toothy grin. “It doesn't work like that. You agree to take me on as your ally, to protect me from the dragon, then I will tell you where it is.”

The man and the wolf stared at each other across the gap of road. Finally, the Dracomancer came to a decision. “If you bring me the Pitchfork of Destiny, Beo, then I shall seat you at my right side, and you shall become exalted throughout the land.”

“It will be done,” said the wolf, and once again he rose onto his haunches, put his paw to his chest, and bowed his head.

The Dracomancer watched the wolf slip into the trees beside the road. If he could get his hands on the Pitchfork of Destiny, it would change everything. He would delay the march long enough to give the wolf a chance to retrieve the thing. It would take several days at the least, but it would be well worth it.

Besides, even if the wolf was lying or couldn't get the pitchfork, he had gained something from their meeting. The salute the wolf had made had actually been quite elegant. The Dracomancer decided on his return to Prosper that he would make it standard throughout his army.

 

CHAPTER 13

A BRUSH WITH DESTINY

T
ypically, the pages of a fairy-­tale story can only comfortably hold one fairy-­tale princess. In their stories, neither Cinderella nor Beauty nor Briar Rose have a real rival for beauty, grace, and wit. Perhaps Snow White's stepmother, for a time, competes with the young princess for title of fairest of the realm, but from the moment the mirror speaks, it is clear that the Queen's reign will soon give way. The fact that Lady Rapunzel's own fairy-­tale story was shared with Gwendolyn Mostfair had never set well with Elle, but, even by her own admission, their stories had become intertwined almost to the point of being tangled.

Will's untimely rescue of Gwendolyn, or at least the untimely nature of Prince Charming's learning of the rescue, had resulted in Charming's rapid flight from Rapunzel's tower and the resultant loss of half her hair. The loss of her hair had driven her mad with anger, which had led to her assaulting the Prince at the Royal Ball and her subsequently, and quite deservedly, she had to admit, becoming a social outcast. Gwendolyn's poor treatment of Elizabeth Pickett had led Elle to try to protect Lady Pickett, which bonded the two women in friendship, which ultimately led to her romance with Liz's brother, Will. It was also Gwendolyn who had put Will on the throne, which meant that one day, if Elle lived to be queen, she had to acknowledge that her fairy-­tale ending would never have happened had it not been for Princess Gwendolyn Mostfair.

But that didn't mean she had to like the woman, or like the fact that Volthraxus was now suggesting that she sleep in the same bed where Gwendolyn had slept during her imprisonment. The same bed where Will had given, or tried to give, Gwendolyn, true love's kiss.

“I assure you it's an excellent bed,” said Volthraxus from behind her.

“How would you know?” asked Elle with a pout of her lips.

“I guess I don't really, but it does look nice,” he said brightly. “Look, it even has a little pillow.” He leaned his massive snout through the door and sniffed at the bedding. “It also has a lovely scent about it, like faded roses.”

“But it's that woman's scent,” Elle protested with a stomp of her foot.

“Who, Gwendolyn's?” he asked, and inhaled again. “Lovely.”

“Lovely,” she mimicked, then added in a sulky voice, “everything
she
did was always lovely. She is a better dancer, wears gowns better, and even laughs better.”

“You are jealous of her?” Volthraxus asked in surprise.

“A little,” she admitted quietly.

“But she has been banished from court, and you will become queen. What in her could possibly inspire such envy in you?”

Elle shrugged and voiced aloud the worry that had been nagging at her for months now, really ever since Will proposed. “I worry that I won't be the queen she could have been. She was everything a princess is supposed to be . . .”

“She was also mad,” Volthraxus said seriously. “Gwendolyn Mostfair spent two of your lifetimes lying in this stone cell, alive and aware but unable to move or speak. Don't forget that, Lady Rapunzel, and do not envy her life.”

She knew she was being childish, but she hated the idea of being kept in the same tower as Gwendolyn, to forge yet another link between them. She looked around the room. It was empty save for the bed and a battered pitchfork leaning against a wall in the corner by the door. She went over to the bed. Volthraxus was right. It was very nice. A year had passed, and there was no sign of age or decay in the bedding, not even a hint of dust. She wondered if some of the fairy's magic might still linger among the stones of the tower.

A shiver of fear ran along Elle's spine.
What if Gwendolyn's fate becomes mine? What if I go to sleep on this bed and can't wake up? What if Will never comes?

Elle felt her face drain of blood, and she turned around to face the dragon, putting the bed at her back. She felt her heart pounding and her head swimming.

“What?” he asked, clearly alarmed at her appearance. “You have nothing to fear here, Lady Rapunzel. The thorns that surround this tower keep all but my kind from gaining entrance, and if anything does try to molest you in the night, they will find me waiting. You can sleep easy.”

“I . . . I want to go home, Volthraxus,” she said, and tears began to fill her eyes. “I want to go home to Will. Let's stop this charade. You don't want to hurt me. You know that Will didn't intend to kill the Great Wyrm of the South.”

“Her name was Magdela.” Volthraxus bared his daggerlike, teeth and a rumbling, burning growl resonated beneath his words.

Elle took a half step back. “Yes, Magdela. I'm sorry.” She clasped her hands together and, her voice pleaded. “But it was an accident.”

“An accident maybe, but what about after? Did or did he not take full advantage of her death to build up his own reputation?” Volthraxus thumped his tail in irritation, and the tower shook. “I tire of this same argument! When we meet,” he said, and now his voice was ominously low, “I will give him the chance to prove whether he is a dragonslayer or not.”

He turned away from her to stare out at the evening sky.

Elle shuddered at the anger and pain she heard in Volthraxus. He was frightening when he was like this. At last, she said, “Killing Will won't heal your heart. It would only destroy mine.”

Volthraxus didn't respond.

“What would Magdela have wanted?” she asked.

“I don't know,” he admitted, and the pain and regret in his voice was so strong that it was hard for Elle not to feel for him despite everything.

She turned and stared back down at the bed. It did look warm, and the main room, with its open balcony, was so cold at night. She sat down on the edge of the bed and felt the soft covers and silken pillow. Elle sighed. It was foolish to deny that it would be far more comfortable than another night on the floor next to Volthraxus. She lay down on her side, gazing back out the archway into the main chamber, where Volthraxus sat watching the sunset over the mountains beyond.

That must have been what Magdela did every night,
she thought.

Elle suddenly had a need to know more about the dragon that had been such a figure of terror all her life and whose shadow now threatened all of her dreams.

“Come and talk to me while I go to sleep,” she said to the dragon's back.

He snorted in anger.

“Don't be like that,” she said, sitting back up. “We both have reason for thinking the other unreasonable and pigheaded, but that does not mean we need be discourteous to each other.”

“I don't feel like talking,” he said irritably.

“If you don't come and tell me stories, then I will keep talking all the night, and you won't get a wink of sleep, and we shall both be out of sorts tomorrow,” she threatened.

“Fine,” he said with a grumble, and, turning, snaked his long neck along the floor until his head rested just outside the door to her room. “What do you want to talk about, little princess?”

She lay back down, staring into his gray face. A question hung on her tongue for a moment, and her mouth went dry as she waited to ask, wondering if it would be pushing too far.

His lamp-­like golden eyes shone on her. “What?”

She decided to come at the topic indirectly, and said, “I was wondering how you met her.”

“Why?”

“Don't be like that,” she said, shaking a scolding finger at him. “Just answer the question.”

His tongue flickered out in annoyance, but, finally, he said, “The first time I remember seeing Magdela was up north many, many years ago.” He closed his eyes in the memory. “She was in flight, and we soared and tumbled around each other for a long time. She was such a beauty. At once, I knew that I must have her.”

“Did you tell her?” Elle asked softly.

His eyes opened again. “I couldn't speak. She was too beautiful and terrible. I . . . I flew away.”

Elle giggled. “So, even big, bad dragons get nervous around girls. Imagine!”

Volthraxus made a rasping sound, which she realized was a sort of draconic cough. “It wasn't quite like that. Things are different with dragons. There are standards of behavior to uphold. You wouldn't understand.”

“Oh wouldn't I,” she replied with an arched eyebrow. Raising herself on her elbow, she asked, “When you finally managed to work up the nerve to speak with her, what did you say?”

He shrugged. “Most of the time she wouldn't let me catch her. When she did, I never seemed to know exactly what to say. I tried the standard lines. I would tell her of my exploits and my titles. You know, armies killed, villages flattened, swine eaten, that sort of thing, but she didn't seem that impressed. One day, I went looking for her, and she was gone. I heard that she had flown south, and later that she had been enchanted by the fairy and forced to guard Princess Gwendolyn.”

“Why didn't you fly after her at once?”

He shuffled uncomfortably. “Dragons can be very proud, and dragon females terribly so, especially those of Magdela's more youthful age. I was afraid that if I broke her free, she would resent it. Eventually, I ran out of things to distract myself with and got tired of waiting for her to break free herself. When I came south this time, it was to rescue her. But I was too late,” he concluded with a long, vaporous exhale.

Elle knew they were getting near the heart of the matter now. She took a deep breath. “So you never did get to know who she was, not really.”

A rumble of warning came from his throat, and she felt his hot breath rush into the room. “What are you saying?”

Elle sat up so that she could look directly into his eyes. She was beginning to regret finding out so much about Volthraxus. She didn't want to hurt him, but her only hope of saving Will was to make him understand the truth.

“What?” he grumped, as she continued to stare at him.

“What was Magdela's favorite food?”

“Something crunchy, I don't know.” He snorted. “Why does it matter?”

She took a deep breath and threaded her fingers together nervously. Making her voice as gentle as she could, she said, “I'm saying, Volthraxus, that you never truly loved Magdela any more than I loved one of my many girlhood crushes like Prince Charming. You were in love with the idea of Magdela, but you never knew her. I'm saying that I'm not sure why you are doing this. Maybe you feel guilty. Maybe you are mad at yourself, but whatever the reason, it isn't because you were in love with her.”

His eyes flashed from gold to a flaming red. “How do you know?”

She reached a shaking hand out to touch his scaled snout. “I know because I know what true love feels like, and it is something that can only grow by knowing someone.”

He pulled his head away from her touch. She saw in his body a tension of suppressed anger, and the heat emanating from him was almost unbearable. If he was ever going to kill her, this would be the time.

“I'm sorry,” she said, and closed her eyes.

She tensed for an explosion, but in the next instant, there was a tremendous rush of wind. When she opened her eyes, Volthraxus was gone. She went out to the balcony, and saw him between the faint afterglow of sunset and the gentle kiss of the moon as the light reflected off his scales.

The thought rushed through her that now was a chance to escape, but looking over the edge of the balcony, she could see the massive wall of thorns that Volthraxus had mentioned. It completely surrounded the tower's base and covered the door. If she tried to push her way through that, she'd be torn to pieces.

A wind blew in over the mountain, hinting at a cold night ahead, and even colder without the Dragon's heat to warm the tower. She shivered and retreated back to the little room. Lying down on the bed, Elle thought back over her conversation with Volthraxus, picking over each word and gesture in the hopes that she might gain some insight into how the conundrum of Will and the dragon might be resolved without one of them dying. Soon, despite all the thoughts racing about her head, her eyes drifted closed, and she slept.

E
lle woke and felt instinctively that something was wrong. The feel of the air in the tower was different. Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked through the open door to the outer room. It was still night, and the main chamber was dark and empty.

Volthraxus had not yet returned.

Apart from knowing that he was gone, Elle could see little else in the dim light of the stars and the moon. She realized that she had become accustomed to the dragon's warm glow being her light at night.

Elle waited for a few minutes and had nearly convinced herself that her wakefulness was nothing more than nerves, when a gray shadow passed across the opening of her doorway. It looked about the size and shape of a wolf.

The hair rose on the back of her neck, and goose bumps ran over her arms. Her heart pounded in her chest. She knew without a doubt that it was Beo. She also knew that if the wolf found her here, he would kill her.

Slowly, deliberately, and quietly as a shadow, she slipped off the bed and crouched behind the stone platform that supported it. Here she would be hidden from the door, but if Beo investigated the alcove, he would be sure to find her.

Straining her ears, she listened for any sign of activity from the outer room, but there was only silence and the sound of her own breathing.

Elle started to relax, thinking perhaps that Beo had either found what he was looking for or had not found what he had expected and moved on, when she heard the soft flap of padded feet at the door to her room. The sharp sound of metal ringing on stone and the soft thunk as of something heavy being dropped on the carpeted floor of the main chamber followed, then the wolf began to sniff the air. Elle tensed in her hiding place, not even daring to breathe.