“His condition is most critical, milady,” Zander said quietly. “I do not know yet if he will make it.” He had the largest hole spread open, the skin held back with small needles. He was draining the blood out of one of Keelan’s swollen organs with a small tube made of smooth wood that had the center hollowed out; the blood drained into a large bowl at the other end of the tube. “I’ve inspected the other wounds from the weapon used—a morning star by the looks of the damage—and I have determined no other organ punctures. The spikes on the weapon made several more lacerations as it was torn from his skin. I will sew them in a bit, but they are not too bad compared to this one. His right arm was out of socket, which I have already fixed, however his muscles there are torn. It will take weeks for them to heal properly unless there is some sort of miracle medicine I have not yet come across. The ribs on his left side are either broken or cracked. I will put a special bone strengthener I have discovered upon them. I give no guarantees that it will work…that any of this will work.”
“Okay, so after you finish here what do we do?” asked Quentin.
Zander sighed. “We wait to see if the wounds get infected.”
“How will you know it’s infected if everything is sewn up?” said Silvia.
The old man gazed at her deep green eyes sadly. “He will die.”
It did not take much longer for the blood to quit draining from the organ, which Zander (quietly) took as a good sign. He sewed the punctures deftly, then the skin over top of it, cleaning the man thoroughly to prevent infection. Keelan would be horribly bruised and scarred; one could be sure of that. His rear and feet and head would be the only unchanged places on his body.
Silvia and Quentin took turns wiping the King’s face with cool cloths to keep the fever at bay, talking to him in soothing tones. Vera and Cornelius had been summoned from another part of the palace and were sitting quietly on a small loveseat that had been moved close to the lounging sofa their son lay upon. Maura had gone to take a nap with Hans so that they could stay up with the King during the night. Geremy and Dessica talked in low tones at the door, comforting each other as they worried over the injured young man. Dalton and Grant were sitting together on chairs, staring at Keelan intently with strained eyes. Anxiety smothered everyone as they waited with forced patience to see if he would wake.
A little while later the Captain of the Royal Guard came in. “How is he?” he asked softly.
“He hasn’t yet opened his eyes,” said the Queen, stroking Keelan’s hair.
George closed his eyes and shook his head. “I am truly sorry, Your Highness.” He turned to Prince Dalton. “Your Eminence? May I disturb your thoughts a moment? You received a message by eagle a short time ago. This is the first chance I have had to bring it to you.” He hesitated before saying, “I knew you would be in here with my king, and I did not wish for any other Guard or servant to see His Majesty in such a state.”
“Very considerate of you.” The Prince stood to take the tiny folded paper from him and opened it. His eyes widened as he read, and his mouth dropped.
Sir Grant stood up as well. “What’s wrong?” he inquired. “Something worse has happened?”
Dalton folded the letter angrily and slid it inside the breast pocket of his dirty shirt. “Nothing!” he spat. “Nothing is wrong, and that is precisely what’s wrong!”
“Will you speak in terms we can all understand? I am not up to date with your inner voice,” said Grant irritably.
“It is a letter from my mother; I’ve been expecting one for weeks now.”
“And?” Quentin prompted
“And she is fine! So is my father. Oh, and by the way, there is no army of Rohedon besieging the outer walls of Wexford.”
“But I thought you said—“ Silvia began.
“I said they were in danger because I received a letter saying as much,” he growled. “Gregorich said it as well—remember? I think I may have gotten a letter from someone who either wished me to be gone from here, or to have me so worried that I cannot think straight. But she did say his army is close to overtaking Lordale.”
“Who would send such a horrible letter?” Dessica said.
“Gregorich Hapshamin, that’s who,” Silvia said. She couldn’t prove it, but knew it was true in her heart.
“That…bastard.”
Silvia looked down. Keelan’s eyes were open just a little and he gave her a small smile. “You’re awake!” she said, choking on salty tears.
“Appears…that I am,” he said, breathing in short gasps.
Everyone breathed sighs of relief. They hugged and clapped each other on the back as they shook hands. Keelan tried to smile again, and asked for water. Fresh water was poured from a chilled pitcher, but pain racked his body as he tried to swallow. He grimaced.
“Oh yes—forgot to tell Your Highness of all of your new disabilities,” Zander said. “Your ribs were practically crushed, we had to sew up a hole the size of my thumb in one of your innards, your right arm can’t be used properly for weeks due to muscle damage from where you landed, and you are going to be black, blue, and purple all over for quite a while. Besides all of that, you have patches of shredded skin all over your body where those funny things bit you and you will have to have help doing anything and everything.” He leaned closer. “And I do mean everything. But on the good side, you are alive for now. Let’s hope you stay that way.”
“Great,” the King said. “I’m…ecstatic about all the…wonderful changes in my body.”
They began to go over the battle in detail, for Keelan had missed much. Comparing notes, they all thought it strange that Lord Rohedon had not been on horseback. It was brought up that perhaps he wished to be inconspicuous, but how had he traveled so far so quickly?
Sir Grant leaned forward from his resumed perch on his chair. “Do any of you recall the tales of Lord Rohedon? It was said that he had acquired six wives and many, many children.”
“I remember what you told me,” said Silvia. “What of it?”
“What if…what if they were the ones with all the magic and power?” he proposed, looking around at everyone in the room. “I saw him use no magic except to get himself trapped in a tree.”
An uncomfortable silence ensued. If they had only killed the smaller source of power, how hard would the rest of them strike back?
“Then they will be…in a world of trouble,” Keelan whispered.
“Why is that?” Quentin asked.
“Because my wife…will go after them next,” he chuckled, and then winced in pain.
Dalton laughed. “Well, do not worry, my Lord. She will have a lot of help.”
King Keelan fell asleep moments later, utter exhaustion taking over his defeated body. Silvia left him with Maura and Hans many hours later and walked to the top of one of the towers to stare at the hundreds of bright stars that had lit up the evening sky.
“I wish my parents were still alive,” she said to the night, not knowing to whom she was speaking. It felt good to say things out loud after such a difficult day. “I would tell them of my first battle, my first victory, and my fine husband.” A tear trickled down her cheek, sparkling in the starlight. “May the gods see fit to let him live to be a good King. I have avenged my family and fought my enemy. I have control of who I am, what I’m doing, and where I go. I am the Queen of Lystia, and let no one try to change it lest they wish my wrath.” She let the dragon take over and roared with her entire body, the sound reverberating through the night air and echoing far into the mountains in the distance.
She was home…for the moment.
About the Author
Sherri Beth Mitchell was born in Virginia and raised in a small town in Western North Carolina. She began writing at the ripe age of six, when she discovered she thoroughly enjoyed creating tales. After being published in several poetic anthologies, she chose to start writing short stories, which slowly became full-length books.
bsp; Sherri Beth Mitchell, Rise of the Dragon Queen
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