by Resa Nelson
Like always, a deep longing inside Seph melted away a bit. His wife Bruni had died before they could have any children other than DiStephan. While Seph loved DiStephan as much as any man could love his son, Seph always hoped Bruni would bear at least one little girl to round out their family.
Every time Seph held Margreet in his arms, he felt happiness in borrowing her as if she were his own.
Even if only for a short time.
“I give up,” DiStephan said, coming to a halt.
Seph could tell DiStephan genuinely had no idea why everyone laughed, but Seph also knew that his son would milk this moment for all it was worth.
DiStephan placed his hands on his hips. “Won’t someone please give me a hint?”
Margreet answered by pulling the flower from behind her ear and holding it close to her nose. “This smells so wonderful. I wish every dragonslayer could smell this good.”
DiStephan gave a blank look. “What? You put a flower behind my ear?” He reached up and grabbed both ears.
Margreet wriggled out of Seph’s arms and slid down to the ground. She planted her feet firmly in front of DiStephan and pointed at him. “Take off your belt!”
DiStephan obeyed, and the flowers fell to his feet.
Margreet pushed him around to see them.
“Flowers,” DiStephan said. “What good are flowers to a dragonslayer?”
“You wouldn’t ask that question if you knew what you smell like after weeks on the road without a bath,” Seph said.
DiStephan crossed his arms. “And you as well, Father.”
Margreet lit up with excitement. “If you wore flowers, would they help hide your smell? Would they help keep the dragons from smelling you?”
“That’s quite a brilliant idea, Margreet,” Seph said. “I think that might work.”
With fresh purpose, Margreet plopped on the ground at DiStephan’s feet and began working with the flowers.
Seph turned to the Keepers. “All well in the temple? Any problems?”
“Like always,” a squat male Keeper answered. “You know we’re far enough from the coast to keep us out of the path of dragons.”
“It’s not dragons that concern me,” Seph said. “It’s what happened at Bellesguard.”
“That was years ago!” said a tall female Keeper. “Why do you let Bellesguard worry you?”
DiStephan spoke up. “Dragonslayer training is gone, maybe for good. From time to time someone in the Southlands tells us they’ve seen people like the ones that attacked Bellesguard.”
The squat man lowered his voice, mindful of Margreet. “But the men who attacked were killed by a dragon. What’s there to worry about?”
“It happened in the early morning hours,” Seph said. “It was dark. Everyone who saw anything tells a different account because of all the confusion.” He chewed at his thumbnail but then thought better of it. “This is the Lower Midlands. It’s possible the dragon didn’t bite all of the attackers, which means some of them might still live. If they leave the Southlands, Limru could be one of the first places they find.” He gestured at the wealth of gold and silver adorning the trees. “What do you think they’d do if they saw this?”
“No one touches the offerings,” the tall woman said in surprise. “Even brigands respect the temple. No theft has ever happened here.”
“You’re assuming too much,” Seph said. “You’re assuming these men are reasonable. Think for a moment. What kind of man would attack Bellesguard? What kind of man would kill young dragonslayers and the man who trained them?”
The three Keepers stood in silence for a moment.
The third Keeper then shook her head as if clearing it of early-morning grogginess. “Dragonslayers like you live their lives in caution. It’s a result of the work you do. You have to step with care everywhere you go in case a dragon might be hiding and planning on having you as its next meal.”
“She’s right,” the squat man said. “You find real danger, Seph. This is Limru. The Midlands is a tremendously large country, and the Lower Midlands makes up a large part of it. There’s enough space between here and the Southlands. If deadly men invade our land, don’t you think we’d have time to hear of it and prepare before they arrived at Limru?”
Seph gave into temptation and gnawed at his thumbnail. “Could be. I want you to think about being prepared in case the worst happens. That’s all.”
The third Keeper smiled. “As any good dragonslayer would.”
Margreet popped up on her feet and proclaimed, “Here!”
Her handiwork melted Seph’s cares away. He leaned forward to allow Margreet to drape a necklace made of flowers around his neck.
She put the second garland around DiStephan’s neck. “There,” Margreet said. “Now you look like proper dragonslayers.”
Seph grinned. “Indeed, we do.”
But when he and DiStephan left the Temple of Limru, Seph paused and looked back with a terrible feeling that he needed to stay and protect the temple and the keepers. For the first time in his life, Seph regretted that his duty as a dragonslayer prevented him from following a bad feeling that would haunt him for the rest of his days.
CHAPTER 19
For the first time in his existence as a dragon god of the Far East, Taddeo fell into a panic. Following his plan to be the last dragon to invade Tower Island, he’d intentionally stayed well behind the other water dragons when the sword blades nailed through the doors at the top of Tower Island and at its entrance repelled them.
He’d been the one to direct them to swim under the surface of the sea to the entrance to the island’s cave system.
He’d been the one to return to the underwater cave system—nearby but separate from the caves below Tower Island—to tell the other water dragons that they wouldn’t be needed and to stay behind.
By the time Taddeo swam back to Tower Island, a blockade of ships choked the small inlet where he’d sent his fellow dragons.
Thinking nothing of it at first, Taddeo submerged and swam forward until he encountered a disturbance in the water ahead.
Sunbeams penetrated the surface and brightened the water below with walls of pale blue light. A school of small fish darted around them, avoiding long strips of seaweed that hung in the water. Although everything looked normal, Taddeo sensed a mild charge that burned his dragon scales.
Peering closer at the water directly beneath the ships, Taddeo noticed gleaming threads descending from the ships toward the ocean floor below. When the threads shifted in the water and grazed each other, a brilliant white spark sizzled between them.
What is this?
Proceeding with caution, Taddeo drifted toward the vertical threads. He found them spaced so close together that he would be able to fit little more than a claw between any two adjacent threads if he tried. They appeared to be flexible enough to push aside and glide between, but Taddeo thought better of it.
Instead, he snorted a stream of air bubbles at the threads, keeping his distance while the bubbles pushed several threads against each other.
When the threads contacted each other at many points, so many sparks lit up with a sizzling sound that it seemed as if lightning had struck through the water.
Taddeo turned and swam away to gain more distance from the threads. He looked up and saw the threads descending from the end of the ship where blades had been driven through to face the ocean.
Someone drew out the properties of the iron to repel us. We can’t get through the doors. And now the properties of the iron form a barrier in the water.
Taddeo swam from one edge of the cove to the other, searching for a way beyond that barrier but it spread from shore to shore. He dared to poke his head above water and set one paw on the rocky shore, determined to make a rapid climb.
But the force generated through the gleaming threads appeared to climb onto land. When Taddeo’s paw touched the rocky shore, a debilitating shock ran through it and paralyzed his body.
Taking
a quick gulp of air, Taddeo watched in horror as his body sank into the sea and the water’s surface became distant and murky. Refusing to panic, he drew upon every ability he possessed. He drew upon the same focus he used to shift his shape to give his body strength and resilience. He silently called upon the sea surrounding him to take hold of his limbs and move them. The water swirled and obeyed.
Taddeo refrained from crying out in pain while the sea pushed his limbs out of their paralyzed state, strained to the verge of breaking. The water squeezed between his clamped teeth and pushed to force his jaw open. The sea squeezed his torso until it unlocked and could move freely.
Finally, Taddeo regained his freedom of movement. He pushed from the ocean floor and drifted up until he could see the sunbeams lighting up the water.
My kin are on the other side. They’re trapped in the caves below Tower Island.
Taddeo was a dragon god. The lesser gods of his extended family only had the power to shift between mortal and dragon form, and they guarded the many rivers and streams and brooks of the Far East. Taddeo had brought a small army of his kin here, leaving most of them behind to share their guardian duties.
With a chilling dread, Taddeo remembered his brother arguing with his wife because she was due to lay eggs within the next weeks. He remembered how she’d argued about the importance of Madam Po’s portent and that the strongest water dragons must be at Taddeo’s side to rescue Skallagrim’s children from Tower Island.
He remembered how she’d insisted that if the strongest water dragons worked together, they would free Skallagrim’s children with ease.
She insisted she’s one of our strongest, and she’s right. Now my brother and his wife are trapped below Tower Island. I have to free my kin. But how?
Taddeo swam back to the temporary home in the underwater cave created decades ago when the dragon gods first patrolled this Northlander territory. Once inside, he faced the rest of the water dragons who had made the journey to be here with him. He explained the attack and how it failed. He described how dozens of water dragons were now trapped underneath Tower Island.
“Can we attack from the top?” one of his cousins said. “If we climb the tower and break in, isn’t there a way from there to the caves below?”
“We tried,” Taddeo said. “The Scaldings drove swords through the door at the top of the tower. The iron won’t let us get anywhere near it.”
Another cousin spoke up. “If there’s a way from the tower to the caves, then there’s a way from the caves into the tower. Why can’t our family get into the tower? What if they aren’t trapped but have broken free? What if they’re fighting right now? For all we know, they’ve already defeated the Scaldings.”
“I checked,” Taddeo said. “I saw none of our kind on the island. But I did see Scaldings roaming outside their tower.”
“Then if our kin are trapped and we have no way to help them, what do we do?”
The same question had been haunting Taddeo since he swam away from Tower Island. “I don’t know.”
Despite being a dragon god, his powers were not almighty. Those powers were held by Creation alone. All gods of all countries in the world had limitations. Taddeo understood his own limitations. He also knew from experience that it would be pointless to ask the Northlander gods for help. They’d be incensed that the dragon gods of the Far East had encroached on their territory, perhaps rightly so.
But all gods had one critical advantage over mortals.
Longevity.
Taddeo had lived for thousands of years, and that experience had taught him the value of patience along with the fact that sooner or later change will come.
“This may take time,” Taddeo told his dragon relatives. “But we will find a way to free our own from Tower Island.”
CHAPTER 20
One year later, Gloomer stood atop the tower on his island and regaled in all he saw beneath his feet.
Vertical iron bars stood guard at the edge of the island’s perimeter, succeeding in keeping dragons away. Although they stood far apart, the bars worked for now. Thanks to the Scaldings sent by Gloomer to the Northlands, Midlands, and Southlands to act as brigands and rob travelers on the road—and recruit other brigands to serve them, he would acquire the silver he needed to buy more iron bars from the blacksmiths who forged them at his will. Within the next 20 years, Tower Island would become the strongest fortress in the world and impossible for dragons to attack.
His Scalding kin went about their daily business in the courtyard below. Beyond the courtyard, Gloomer saw hired farmhands tend to the crops and livestock owned by the Scaldings. He also saw the butcher brought in from the Northlands at his station next to a barn. Gloomer would have preferred the butcher to work in the courtyard below, but too many of his Scalding kin rejected that idea.
They said they didn’t like the smell.
Gloomer’s kin complained because the recent skirmish disturbed them. They were frightened when a few dragons forced iron swords out from where they were impaled through the door separating the underground caves from the tower. Those dragons had died from the direct exposure to so much iron, and their carcasses now stood in a pile near the butcher’s quarters.
Just thinking about the incident irritated Gloomer. No one had bothered to thank him for stationing armed adults inside the tower, ready in case such a problem might happen. No one expressed any gratitude for a fresh supply of meat bound to last for the next year, which gave the cattle more time to reproduce.
Instead, the Scaldings complained about the smell.
Ingrates. They don’t know who’s truly in charge of this island.
Of course, that was the problem. Everyone on Tower Island considered Drageen their leader because that leadership had been handed down directly from his grandfather, Sven Scalding. No one acknowledged that Gloomer pulled the strings and manipulated Drageen.
But acknowledgement and knowledge were two different beasts.
Gloomer knew by the way some of his kin looked him that they knew the truth.
It didn’t matter. No one could change anything. Gloomer had control, and no one could take that away from him.
Not as long as Gloomer made his special honey mead for everyone else to drink. He knew for a fact that no one realized each batch of honey mead contained a special potion for the recipient. Drawing upon the herbs, spices, and other ingredients he’d pilfered from the homes of alchemists in villages he’d raided during the Scaldings’ berserker days, Gloomer had spent years experimenting with them to understand their properties. For the most part, he put potions of forgetfulness in his honey mead.
Gloomer had tinkered with that recipe every time he made a batch of honey mead for Tower Island’s alchemist, Bee. He didn’t like her fondness for Drageen and Astrid. Neither did Gloomer care for Bee’s knowledge and experience in alchemy. He needed to keep her reined in so she wouldn’t ask questions or challenge any decisions that Drageen made under Gloomer’s influence.
Only one potential problem could threaten Gloomer’s complete control of the island and its wealth.
That bratty child Astrid.
Just the thought of the girl made Gloomer’s stomach turn. Drageen insisted no girl so young should drink honey mead, even though all other Scalding children drank it as soon as they could walk. Gloomer didn’t know whether to blame the influence of a dragonslayer father (whose work required him to keep his wits about him at all times and probably thought others should do likewise) or the troubling effect of being born and raised abroad.
Unable to slip his special honey mead down Astrid’s throat, Gloomer held sway over everyone on Tower Island except for her.
And he didn’t like the way she looked at him with those piercing lavender eyes. Nearly all Scaldings had lavender eyes, thanks to the workings of a long-ago alchemist whose intent had been to mark them as murderers. But Astrid hadn’t earned that color. Although most Scaldings believed her father Skallagrim to be one of their own, Gloomer had
sorted out the truth long ago. He’d pieced it together from overheard conversations and whispers in the night.
Gloomer knew Skallagrim had no Scalding blood, and the lavender color of Skallagrim’s children’s eyes befuddled him. He imagined it must have come from mischief caused by some alchemist. After all, Sven and Snip had only pretended to be Skallagrim’s grandparents. But Skallagrim had been the son of Benzel of the Wolf, who had no Scalding blood. That meant Drageen and Astrid were Scaldings in name only.
They didn’t belong on Tower Island. They had no claim to its riches or any of the wealth the Scaldings sequestered away from their berserker days. Gloomer let them live only because his right to rule Tower Island fell so far down the inheritance list that all his relatives would have to die before he’d come into power.
And what good would that do?
The better solution was to control Drageen and let him take the complaints for any decisions or consequences the Scaldings didn’t like.
A brisk breeze blew across the top of the tower. Gloomer noticed the pungent aroma of raw dragon meat.
A loud knock rattled the door separating the top of the tower from the stairs inside it. Gloomer had wedged the door shut to give himself some privacy.
From the other side of the closed door, Drageen’s muffled voice called out. “Uncle Gloomer?”
Gloomer crossed his forearms on the edge of the tower wall and leaned against them. “Not now, Drageen.”
The young man stayed silent for a moment as if unsure of what to do next. He then said, “A merchant just arrived and asks for you. But he carries mostly the kinds of things that Bee would use, so I don’t understand why he wants to see you.”
Last week, Gloomer brought a blacksmith up to the tower top. Although everyone on the island must have seen the smoke of the blacksmith’s fire curling from atop the tower and heard the metallic rings of his hammer against iron, it appeared that Gloomer’s most recent batch of honey mead had made them forget.
