by Paul Cude
Manson waited for the overcome Theobald to continue. Although the air was filled with whooshes and bangs, whizzes and crackles from the fireworks above them, the silence surrounding the small group of beings gathered on the synthetic pitch was all consuming.
"C... c... c... c... Casey and I, w... w... we... took care of him, Sire," muttered Theobald, to no one in particular.
"For good?" asked Manson.
"Yes, Sire."
'Sire?' thought Peter, a steady stream of tears rolling down his cheeks at the thought of what his former classmates had done to their friend. 'What on Earth is all that about?'
Manson stalked forward towards Theobald and Casey who were standing side by side, shaking from their shoulders down. Stopping in front of them, he pulled their heads up to look him in the eye.
"If I wasn't sure of your loyal support, I am now. It wasn’t the fault of either of you that Fisher was so weak willed and easily led. You did what you had to. You had no other choice."
The two bullies continued to shake, as they both nodded emphatically.
Manson grabbed both of them firmly by the shoulder, letting his walking stick drop to the frozen, sand covered pitch, which because of the freezing conditions was becoming reminiscent of an ice rink.
"When the time comes... and know this, it will... both of you will be part of the new order of things. You will have wealth, power and the rightful status that your belief and actions deserve. You will both be on the top tier, looking down at everyone and everything. The part you've played here will not be forgotten. Now... back to the matter at hand."
Both bullies nodded in agreement, buoyed at the thought of the wealth and power that had been promised them, as Manson turned away to pick up his stick. Casey sneakily wiped away a tear or two behind his back.
Walking straight up to Peter, Manson stood and looked him straight in the eyes. Peter matched his gaze, not flinching once. Staring deeply into Manson's dark forbidding eyes, a torrent of doubt rose up inside him. It all seemed to make sense that Manson was just a common human criminal, in league with Theobald, Casey and F... He'd started to think of Fisher. It was true that he'd never liked him very much, mainly because of the intense bullying he'd received from the three of them through pretty much his entire time at the nursery ring. But even Fisher didn't deserve this kind of sick fate. What on Earth was going on that would get one dragon murdered by his friends, both of whom were scared witless by a seemingly unimportant human criminal? Something was very wrong.
'I'm missing an important piece of the puzzle. Something I don't know, or haven't seen yet,' he thought, all the time keeping warm images in his head.
Abruptly Peter was startled out of his thoughts by Manson spitting in his face. It was a disgusting act, one which nearly lured him into trying to wipe his face, an action that might well have given away his one advantage. In any case, the two brutes still had a firm hold of his biceps, something that had helped stop his potentially reckless action.
"Look at you," sneered Manson, only a few centimetres from the young hockey playing dragon's face. "You think you're so superior. I bet even at this moment you're planning your escape, and just how you're going to contact your friends over there." Manson pointed towards where he knew the crowd watching the fireworks would be. Suddenly he let out a horrid laugh, more of a cross between a grunt and a giant snort.
Peter continued to gaze straight ahead, using all his focus to ignore the cold biting his body, and the spit running down his face.
"It's not going to happen you know. Your friends, I mean. You're not going to be able to reach them. They'll never know how you died, how much pain you suffered and why. Well, they won't know until it's too late."
Peter's heart (not his real one) was pounding so hard he thought it was going to jump right out of his chest. For the very first time in his life he was scared. Not just a little scared, but genuinely terrified that he was going to die. All along he'd thought he'd had some measure of control over what was happening, thinking that because he was a dragon, he was better than most, almost untouchable... that's what they were led to believe during their time in the nursery ring. Through everything, he always treated what was going on with... contempt. With hindsight, it was obvious now. Mark Hiscock's death should have been his biggest clue. It was his fault. He should have been more careful, looked at things in more detail, been more committed to finding answers, and less easily led. If he'd done all that, then just maybe he wouldn't now be at the mercy of someone who quite clearly didn't know the meaning of the word.
Weighing up everything, he decided in a split second that it was now or never, although he considered that the odds were not exactly great. But he couldn't see them getting any further in his favour. Things had gone rapidly downhill ever since he'd arrived on the synthetic pitch, and although he felt a bond to the pitch itself (you'd have to be a hockey player to understand) he couldn't see how that in itself was going to help him get out of the trouble he now understood he was in. That combined with the fact that Fisher had been killed by Theobald and Casey and also the odd way in which they'd both referred to Manson as 'Sire'. Firmly believing that Manson was not going to leave him here alive was enough to convince him it was time. Knowing all he had to do was reach the far edge of the Astroturf, right by the surrounding fence, that should put him close enough to the crowd watching the fireworks, from where he should easily be able to attract the attention of everyone, not least Tank and Richie. Yes, the dragon Council would no doubt have to come in, erase a few memories and clean up a bit afterwards, but that would be a small price to pay to thwart whatever madness was going on here. Fisher's murder would be avenged, with those responsible facing the full force of dragon law. As he prepared to act, all he could think was that he really had no other choice.
With Manson's face hovering ever closer to his, he gave everything in an effort to look as though he'd given up and, in a gesture of submission, pulled his head back with a feigned sigh. When his head was back as far as it would go, he focused with everything he had and, after a deep breath, brought his head forward with as much power and strength as he could.
A resounding CRACK very much like a gunshot echoed across the pitch as Peter's head butt made contact with Manson's forehead. His nemesis hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. Knowing there was no time to waste, Peter shrugged off the two men holding his biceps, hitting them both with his opposing free hands as he spun round, his arms whirling like a windmill. The real worry, which he was constantly having to contain, was Theobald and Casey. Now that he knew what they'd done to Fisher, they couldn't afford to leave him alive, and with their dragon powers they would easily be a match for him individually, let alone together. In his heart he hoped they would take a few seconds, or more in the freezing conditions, to change into their natural forms because that just might buy him enough time to raise the alarm and get Tank and Richie firmly on his side, both of whom were more than a match for the two bullies. After dropping the two guards, he turned and, leaping over Manson's writhing body, ran off into the darkness, sprinting for all he was worth towards the nearest part of the fence with the fireworks display’s spectators behind it, knowing that in only a few more seconds his fate would be decided.
Running for all he was worth, he could just see out of the corner of his eye the hired help with flashlights had all stopped unloading and were starting to head in his direction. Pulling in a frozen breath, he put on one last burst of speed. There wasn't one part of him that didn't hurt from being in the van, being out in the cold, and from not having had anything to eat or drink for nearly half the day. Forcing the pain from his mind, he gave everything, not looking back over his shoulder for fear of what he would find. His imagination told him that both Theobald and Casey had already turned into their natural forms and were right at this very moment, swooping down behind him, talons outstretched, jaws opened wide, ready to tear him apart, followed closely by Manson and his goons. Two more steps his mind told him, and he
was there. Smashing at speed into the wire meshed fence that surrounded the pitch, he opened his mouth ready to scream for help, and quite possibly, his life. As he did so, the stark realisation of something hit him like a prize fighter no longer pulling his punches. Although he could see the crowd and the fireworks display going on through the hazy mist that encompassed the pitch, he couldn't actually feel any of them with his dragon senses. Not as he should have been able to anyway. Shrugging it off and blaming it on the cold and his battered and beaten condition, only a few feet from the cheering crowd, he shook the fence with both his hands and let out the biggest scream of, "HELP" that he could muster. To his utter amazement, nobody paid him any attention at all, not even the young children that were standing no more than six feet away. Once again he banged on the fence with all his might and let out the mother of all screams. Still nothing.
'I know the fireworks are loud, but not nearly loud enough to prevent them from hearing me.'
From behind him came a huge, rumbling belly laugh (think Jabba the Hutt, only MORE!). Scared of what he might find, Peter found the courage to turn around, hoping against hope that it would be nothing like his imagination had pictured.
The sight that greeted him on turning around was strangely worse than anything his imagination could have mustered. Theobald and Casey hadn't moved at all. The flashlight goons had resumed their unloading. Only the enraged figure of Manson, blood gushing down the outside of his nose from two cuts above each eye, paid him any heed at all. It fact, it had been Manson's giant belly laugh from about twenty yards away that Peter had heard.
"So predictable and pathetic," Manson spat angrily, blood seeping down his face.
Peter still could not understand why the crowd behind him hadn't reacted to his screams for help.
'Surely they must have heard me,' he thought.
"Do you really think your annoying friends and those precious humans will come to your aid?” fumed Manson, wiping some of the blood from his face. "It's almost a shame that they can't. I would take great pleasure in killing them all. Hmmmm. Looks as though I'll have to make do with just you."
Still puzzled as to what was going on, there were just too many things for him that didn't add up. And just how was this misbegotten devil in charge of everything?
Manson stepped closer, the reflected light from the exploding fireworks accenting the features of his grizzled face.
"It's about time you learned exactly who you're dealing with," the ex-army Major bragged menacingly.
As the words finished coming out of his mouth, something incredible, deeply terrifying and completely unexpected happened. The blood from the gaping wounds that Peter had caused with his crushing head butt stopped running down the side of Manson’s nose. Not only stopped, but actually started to move back up his face towards the source of the cuts. Once there, the blood withdrew into the cuts just before they healed over, leaving no visible sign that they'd ever even been there. Shocked, the hockey playing dragon had no idea of what to make of it. As if that weren’t enough, a vaguely familiar transformation started to occur in Manson's midriff. It looked for all intents and purposes as if his body was folding in on itself, starting with a small part right in the middle of his stomach. Peter had seen this effect dozens of times, but not for many years. In the nursery ring, young dragons learning to take human form, were encouraged to practice in front of a series of mirrors, to try and help perfect their technique and the time it takes to change. He himself had done so hundreds of times and startlingly, the effect when he transformed as viewed from outside, was very similar to the transition that Manson was going through right now.
'Oh crap,' thought Peter. 'He's a flippin' dragon!'
As the cold from the chain link fence burnt into his back, Peter's senses became somehow heightened as time around him very much slowed. Exhaling, his frozen breath took an age to exit his mouth, as all the time in front of him Manson continued to transform, Peter only able to watch in horrified fascination as the edges around the ex-army Major's form started to fold out and gain more mass. With only a few seconds having passed, worryingly, in Peter's mind anyway, was the fact that the transformation was taking considerably longer than it would for most other dragons. Combine that with the size of the mass it seemed to be producing, which already appeared to be... huge. Way bigger than Tank was in dragon form, no mean feat in itself, with the really worrying aspect for Peter being that there was no sign of it abating.
Looking around, thinking about how to get away, his options seemed limited. It only now dawned on him that the hazy mist surrounding the synthetic pitch was clearly some kind of magical construct, created by Manson using whatever power he possessed, to prevent anyone from seeing or hearing what was happening within, as much as not letting any light or noise out. Without knowing much more about how it was created, there was almost zero chance that he could counteract it in the short space of time needed to. The emergency entrance that the vans had used to come in on the far side of the pitch from where he stood seemed to be the only way out, as surprisingly it was the only unlocked gate on the pitch, currently hanging open about halfway, revealing the bumpy, muddy track that connected it to the main road. What struck Peter as odd as he thought about the logistics of things was the fact that only two keys for that gate existed: one was kept behind the bar in the clubhouse, while the other one belonged to the chairman of the sports club.
Unfortunately for him, Peter's wandering mind returned to the nightmarish scene in front of him. The folding out from the middle had stopped, with the edges of the giant form starting to resolve neatly into place. Manson as a dragon was... MASSIVE! He must have been at least three times the size of Tank, who was easily the biggest dragon Peter knew personally. This, however, was not nearly the most frightening thing. Manson's whole body was entirely black. Peter had never seen a fully black dragon, in fact he'd only ever heard of them in stories as myths or make believe characters. Black was just such an uncommon colour throughout the dragon domain. Occasionally you would come across a dragon that had the odd patch of black on his or her body, like a black tail, underbelly, the odd stripe or marking on their head or back. But that was rare. And whoever they were, or wherever they were, they would always be stared at in the most uncomfortable of ways, much in the same way a human would if they had a visible, outlandish birthmark. But a huge dragon like that, totally black from the tip of its tail to the top of its ears was just... incredible!
The transformation had, by the look of things, finished. More like a dinosaur in some respects, the giant dragon looked unsteady on its feet as its head swayed from side to side, trying to get used to its new surroundings, scraping the tips of its giant wings through the frost that had now formed on the synthetic pitch. Peering beneath one of its wings, Peter could just make out Theobald and Casey still standing where they had been, totally unsurprised at the super-imposing dragon that towered over all of them.
'That's why they called him 'Sire'; they've known all along what he was. But why haven't any of us been able to sense him?’ Peter wondered, as he legs threatened to give way from both fatigue and cold.
"Not so clever now, are you... little dragon?" Manson boomed groggily.
His voice was so loud that it almost knocked Peter off his feet. Optimistic, he glanced round at the crowd behind him on the other side of the fence, hoping that they might have heard it and be raising the alarm right at this very moment, but no, they were still all glued to the fireworks display. Manson eyed Peter, much as a human would an annoying fly, knowing full well he could swat it any time that he wanted to. And Peter knew that Manson was most definitely going to swat him, it was just a matter of... when.
Crazy as it may have seemed, Peter started to edge forward from the fence towards the black prehistoric beast, having realised that standing right up against it made him pretty much a sitting duck. At least if he moved out a little, he might have more room to manoeuvre or run away when the inevitable attack came. Also, he was, c
unningly, on the lookout for Manson's weak spot, knowing if he got close enough, he should at least in theory be able to see it, not that it was going to help him in any significant way as he had no weapons, was seriously outnumbered, was too weak to transform into his natural state, and even if he could, Manson would still be way too powerful for him.
'Normally,' he thought, 'I can find something to smile about in almost any situation. Surprisingly, nothing springs to mind right now.'
Manson's jaws opened impossibly wide, almost akin to a snake eating prey twice its size, giving the effect of a really disturbing smile.
"Coming to attack me little dragon?" he chortled. "Did you really think I didn't know that you had broken free of your handcuffs? I mean really, you are so naive, even for such a young dragon." Manson dragged one of his giant wings off the floor, pointing it in his direction. "You've been a permanent thorn in my side... little dragon. Our plans have constantly had to be readjusted because of you... and now... now you're going to pay the price for meddling in affairs that don't concern you. Don't worry though, you won't be alone. Your death will be the first of many to come. Your precious domain won't know what's hit it until it’s way too late. Got any last words?"
Peter took a deep breath and calmed himself. With little alternative, he knew he would have to fight, something he was ill equipped and ill prepared to do. Nothing in the nursery ring had readied him to face a giant psychopathic dragon with nothing but murder on his mind. The best he could hope for was to buy himself enough time in the hope that some sort, any sort of opportunity presented itself, whether a chance to attack Manson or to run and escape intact.
Manson opened his jaws, imitating a big cheesy grin.
