by Paul Cude
"I still maintain we should kill them," offered up the elderly frail dragon in human form. "What possible use could we have for these two weaklings?"
Peter hadn't taken his eyes off Manson's face. The blood lust there was plain to see. It looked as though the other dragon's words would be enough to convince him to finally do it.
"NO! They may yet have a part to play in all this," said Earth, the words rolling off her lips as smoothly as beads of water rolling off a leaf.
The old dragon screwed his face up into a snarl. Manson seemed to be considering both options.
"They deserve to die," piped up Rosebloom, hoping to sway the argument in favour of his preferred outcome.
Manson turned to face the old dragon, both sharing the same thought at exactly the same time.
Tim shook uncontrollably. Peter's anger flared for all the good it would do him.
Bowing his head, Manson took two strides towards his father. Without warning, and faster than all of the enhanced beings could see, Manson, with all the force at his disposal, brought round his walking stick, smashing it firmly into Rosebloom's stomach, dumping the dragon councillor on the floor with a ground shaking THUMP, momentarily winded.
"Is now a good time to tell him?" asked Manson.
"As good a time as any," replied the old dragon, Earth looking on.
Rosebloom rolled over, looking to get back to his feet, but thought better of it with the tip of Manson's walking stick hovering only millimetres from the end of his nose.
"What... what's going on?" stammered the dragon councillor, fearfully.
"What's going on," exclaimed Manson, "is that it's finally time you learned the truth."
"The truth? The truth about what?"
"The truth about what really happened to your father," put in the old dragon.
"I don't understand," uttered Rosebloom nervously.
"You see, things with your father didn't go down quite the way you seem to think."
"The dragon Council captured, tortured and killed him for daring to oppose them," whispered Rosebloom.
"That is what you might have been led to believe," continued Manson.
"By you," insisted Rosebloom.
"Quite," replied the old dragon.
"But," chipped in Manson, "Osvaldo became a liability with his drinking and bragging, blabbing to all and sundry about what he was involved in, and just how powerful he would become. We had little choice but to dispose of him. In fact, it's safe to say that he was never really the quality of dragon we were looking for."
Rosebloom looked up in wide-eyed astonishment. Peter and Tim didn't know what to make of what they were hearing. Where was this all going?
"You'll be interested to know that we killed him slowly, and took great pleasure in doing so. He took days to die, in the most agonising way possible."
"Why?" asked Rosebloom stunned.
"Because we could," answered Manson.
The sickening tale came as little surprise to Peter, as he had a fairly good idea of exactly what Manson was capable of. Visions of him destroying the van full of human beings on the Astroturf on that cold, winter's night came flooding back to him.
"Why tell me all the other stuff?" snuffled Rosebloom.
"Because," gloated Manson, grinning manically, "we needed your cooperation. Where else were we going to get all that juicy information from? And how else were we supposed to sabotage the council building? Without your help it would have been very difficult to implement our plan. Your assistance has been pivotal."
Up until that moment, Rosebloom had considered himself a rather clever dragon. Not only that, but superior and of better breeding than most. But all he felt now was... FOOLISH! They'd played him for all he was worth... targeted his weaknesses, preyed on his supposed superiority. For the first time in what seemed like forever, tears streamed from his eyes.
Peter almost felt sorry for the duplicitous councillor, almost... but not quite. He'd betrayed him and nearly got him killed as well as, from the sound of things, putting the king and many other dragons in severe danger. No, he didn't feel sorry for him. In fact a small part of him hoped he was about to get his comeuppance. Be careful what you wish for.
"So you see," uttered Manson, "your usefulness has run its course. What to do? What to do?"
Rosebloom, shaking violently now, his cool and cocky exterior long since shattered, opened his mouth to speak.
"I can still be of use to you," he pleaded desperately.
"I don't think so," drooled Manson. "In fact, I would go as far as to say that you're more of a liability than your father ever was... a liability that needs quieting... permanently."
It was then that he got it. This was no test, no game. They were going to kill him here and now. The foolishness he felt at being so blatantly used was instantly washed away by the rage at how he'd been duped, and how they'd killed his father, Osvaldo. Head bowed, hunched up on the floor, he hoped they thought he'd come to accept his fate. In a way, he had. But that tiny little spark inside him that was all dragon, remote and buried from the coward that he'd become over time, had found its way to the surface, after being lost for decades. He might have no way out, but one thought spurred him on. He wasn't going alone.
'They're going to kill him,' was all that Peter could think, shaking his head at the futility of it all. Dragons were supposed to coexist peacefully with everyone and everything. How the hell had it come to this?
Tim was living in perpetual fear. Fear of dying, fear of living in this strange new world and body. Fear of the torture that he knew they would at some point inflict on him. All he wanted was to go back to being a human and forget all about this underground nightmare.
Manson took a step forward, bringing his walking stick up above his head as he did so.
A tiny voice inside Rosebloom shouted, "THIS IS IT!" With the determination and courage that had never once showed its face during the course of his long and duplicitous life, he struck like a coiled snake, unleashing every last micron of energy, power, magic and speed into his attack, eager not to die alone.
Peter watched Rosebloom turn from shivering wreck to speeding bullet in units of time that were barely measurable. Even to his enhanced senses it was still all a bit of a blur. He had no love for the councillor, but now found himself rooting for the peculiar dragon in what he hoped would be the end of Manson, and just maybe an end to the hostilities.
Like a frozen statue, Manson seemed stuck in time as Rosebloom leapt up and flew at him with everything he had. As the particles of air in the room looked on, there could only be one outcome. And from the expression on Manson's face, he knew he was in trouble.
Air boiled, thrummed and crackled, becoming thicker, so much so that you could almost cut it with a knife. Every inch of Peter's skin felt prickly.
With nothing more than a flick of her fingers, Manson's queen, Earth, unleashed a torrent of deadly purple lightning at Rosebloom, catching him mid-flight and then holding him there, trapped like an animal at a zoo, helpless for all to see. The traitorous councillor writhed and wriggled, shouted and screamed for all the good it did him, his floating mass only inches away from its target... MANSON!
Peter gagged slightly, the overpowering smell of burnt flesh almost too much for him.
Tim sat bound to Peter, goggle eyed, absolutely terrified at the events unfolding to the side of him. If the purpose of this demonstration had been to induce paralytic fear into the White Dragon, then it had succeeded beyond any doubt.
After being momentarily lost for words and surprised at the speed, viciousness and, ultimately, courage Rosebloom had shown, Manson had now recomposed himself, after of course showering his queen with his brightest smile, a small thank you for the timely and most welcome save. Fingers still shooting lethal lightning, she returned his smile with interest, all the time her hair snaking about almost of its own accord, making her look like an ancient Medusa.
Ghostly grey, pungent smoke floated up from nearly e
very part of Rosebloom. His screams had turned to howls as blood dripped from his body and he tried to squirm his way out of the magical trap. But it was not to be.
"It's a shame you didn't show that kind of backbone when you worked for me," snarled Manson.
Both Peter and Tim recognised that what was left of the councillor was trying to spit into Manson's face, without very much luck. Not only was the air too thick and full of sizzling lightning, but the councillor was just too dehydrated and near death. Turning his head towards his new queen, Manson uttered two words:
"FINISH IT!"
She did. The increase in power to her lightning was intense, enough to force Peter and Tim to close their eyes and look away. Over the blistering assault on Rosebloom's body, the two friends could make out Earth's squeals of pleasure. It terrified both of them to their very cores.
And then without warning it was over, the bright, violent light fading, the crackling and sizzling of the magic replaced by the sound of Earth panting like an exhausted dog. Fighting off the urge to vomit, and really not wanting to, Peter opened his eyes. His imagination had long since run away, but somehow the sight that greeted him was worse. On the floor in front of Manson, Rosebloom's charred cadaver lay smoking away, every bit of it blacker than the darkest lump of coal. Manson strolled over and embraced Earth; the elderly dragon disguised as a human, Peter noticed, looked on disapprovingly.
Bile rose in Peter's throat at the sight of them celebrating their cold and heinous act.
Manson turned and headed in the direction of the two bound friends, kicking the charred lump of flesh on his way.
"This," he pointed at the corpse with his stick, "is what awaits not only the two of you, but the rest of the weak willed dragons and each and every one of their pet humans," he spat. "Now you'll have to excuse me," he said, turning and walking back to Earth and his father, "I've got to go and make sure your friend the king isn't getting too comfortable... laters."
With that the three of them trooped off, leaving the two friends sitting in front of the scorched carcass, pondering their own fate.
13 A Handy Surprise
Surrounded and outnumbered, Flash couldn't believe the situation he found himself in. Fredric, Peter's grandfather and founder of the elite Crimson Guards, shot him a look. A look that said he wanted very much to join the fight, wanted to bet his life, wanted to be free one way or the other. As the captive dragon stretched them taut, the unbreakable chains jingled briefly, just to the side of Flash.
A chuckle, half cackle, half laugh, resounded around the cavern from the foul smelling, deranged looking being that headed across the ice towards them. Fredric's face contorted with rage at seeing the jailer, all smug and full of himself. He had no doubt it would cost him a beating later, or worse. He didn't care.
"How nice of you to join us... dragon," the jailer spluttered in broken English, still considering whether or not his enemy actually belonged to that kind of race.
Swallowing nervously as the nagas closed in around him from all sides, Flash put on a brave face.
"This has to stop now!" he demanded, puffing out his chest.
Howling with laughter, the filthy jailer spat in his direction.
"What makes you think you're in any position to make demands? Look around you. This is only going to go one way. And as luck would have it, we currently have a vacancy for a new guest," he said, pointing to the crumbled corpse of Bag O' Bones off in the distance.
A sickening terror climbed up Flash's legs at the very thought of being incarcerated in this frozen hell. His stomach flipped, while his arms went weak.
'Better to die fighting than be captured and held here,' he thought to himself, setting his mind on a reckless course of action. With the nagas closing in, forming an impenetrable semi circle, Flash started picking out targets, determined to take as many as possible with him. Just as he did so, he caught sight of something ridiculous, directly behind the nagas in front of him. Wavering in mid-air, a hand, seemingly attached to nothing, palm facing him, fingers outstretched, just hovered there. At first he thought he was dreaming. Then the more rational (ha) explanation hit him, as the thumb on the hand tucked into the palm, followed quickly by the closest finger. Time slowed. Every fraction of a second became a minute to Flash. He knew what was happening. It was a countdown. Clearly Yoyo and the others were present in the cavern now... but a countdown to what? That was the question.
Another finger dropped on the hand. Flash plundered the depths of his mind for the right mantra. Hundredths of a second later, he had it ready to go.
'A concussive blast in a 180° arc, perfect,' he thought.
The second from last finger dropped.
The jailer had moved in close, close enough for Flash to smell his sickeningly cloying breath, a mixture of rotting fish and whale innards if he wasn't mistaken. Flash's stomach howled in protest.
As the last finger dropped, in his mind Flash spoke the words, putting all his belief and intent behind them. Immediately, all hell broke loose.
Unleashing the blast, Flash caught them all by surprise and took the jailer and the first row of the surrounding nagas off their feet. On top of that, colourful magic had appeared from all around, to devastating effect.
It was on. GAME TIME!
14 Silent Running (Well, A Fast Walk)
Gathered in the ruins of a burnt out shop, the eclectic group were all on guard, even the human contingent. They'd yet to travel even a mile through the battered and torn fire and smoke filled landscape since leaving the Hampton Court nursery ring. All of them were stunned at the utter devastation of the attacks. Their upbeat mood had quickly changed on seeing the first dragon corpses. A couple by the look of things, taking their dragon egg to the nursery ring. Evidently no mercy was shown, no quarter given. From the position of their bodies, they'd died trying to protect their offspring, with the egg itself having been smashed to pieces. Fragments of shell lay strewn throughout the debris. If the group needed a reminder of the brutality of the events they'd found themselves tangled up in, then this had certainly done the trick. Some of the humans had been sick. At least half a dozen dragons looked pale, almost in shock. It wasn't exactly the kind of start to his leadership that he'd hoped for. So here they were, in the first real defendable position they'd come to. With all those not on lookout duty taking on water, the old shopkeeper wondered how his friends were doing on their separate missions. Silently he wished them well, wondering if he'd ever see them again. These were dangerous times; the future was hard to fathom. Falling rubble off in the distance startled him back to the present. Letting out a huge yawn, he padded over to the gathered group.
"We've stopped for two reasons. One, so that we can all take on some much needed water. And two," continued the old dragon, "so that I can apply something that might just give us an edge."
One or two of the dragon faces in his tiny audience perked up noticeably.
"It's a little mantra that SHOULD render everyone here totally and utterly silent in everything they do, other than their speech."
He was rewarded by a collective intake of breath. The experienced warriors amongst the dragons had a very good idea of exactly what this could do for their chances. Motioning for those on lookout duty to rejoin the group, Gee Tee pushed his glasses as far up his nose as they would go, closed his eyes, relaxed his body and focused his thoughts. Eventually he found the solace he was looking for, but not before getting slightly disappointed at how much longer it now took. In his youth, he'd have been ready to go in the blink of an eye, but now just finding that state of mind was a struggle. Old age, no doubt, just like all the other things that niggled him about his body. Trouble remembering, clumsily knocking things over, deteriorating vision and feeling the need to pee almost as soon as he'd just gone... he was sure if Tank had his way he'd be wrapped up in some kind of rubber pants, sooner rather than later. Imagine that... a dragon in rubber pants. It doesn't bear thinking about, well... unless that's your thing.
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br /> Cleared of all thoughts, he let his mind call forth the words he'd last whispered in the Mantra Emporium with Tank, when Peter had wandered in right at the end. Briefly the air in and around the ruins shimmered, like glitter being sprinkled onto a picture by a small child. And then it was done. None of the group moved... at first. Then one or two of them tentatively padded across the broken rubble of the shop. Gasps of surprise abounded all round at the effectiveness of the old shopkeeper's magic.
Knowing full well that every second mattered in what they had set out to achieve, Gee Tee figured that, with their movements shrouded in silence, they could perhaps pick up the pace a little. Not running exactly, but more of a fast walk. That should at least get them back on track, and might well prevent any nasty surprises from the enemy.
"It's time to move out," he whispered, a large part of him really not wanting to. As the force picked up their belongings and arranged themselves in their previous order, with the humans in the middle, himself towards the front and one or two of the more combat experienced dragons at the front and rear, he once again thought of his friends, hoping that they were safe.
15 Stampede
Irritated, that's how the leader of the small group of nagas felt. Whatever was so important, why not just say it in person, he thought. Telepathic contact was so draining and unnecessary. No doubt he'd made some terrific discovery about one of the species down here. BOO HOO! There were hundreds of different varieties held captive here, and he was going to catalogue at least a dozen before it was time to go back and report to their so called leader. He knew if he didn't, things would go very badly. Although he'd not been told to do so, his imagination played out some brutal scenes, with Manson asking him time and time again as to why he hadn't used his initiative and made a note of some of the different types. So he was damn sure that's what he was going to do, and as far as he was concerned, the more the merrier.
