The Author's Blood

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  When last they had talked, the old woman had seemed to know him. And something in her eyes reminded him of someone he had met before—but who?

  A passage from The Book of the King flashed through his mind. The point was that if you truly wanted to hide something from someone, you should put it right in front of them until it became so familiar they didn’t see it for what it really is.

  Perhaps that was the plan of the enemy in regards to Owen’s bride. Perhaps the very thing he would treasure, had he known her true identity, was a person who seemed to him a nuisance, and the drum of her life had beaten in the background until it became so common that he didn’t hear it any longer.

  Owen found the shack dark, not even a candle burning inside, and the place was still. “Clara?” he whispered.

  A chill ran up Owen’s back. He had been in enough of these situations to know that silence was not good. He peeked inside the bedroom. Was someone in the bed? Would the Dragon jump out at him?

  He pulled the covers back to reveal a couple of old pillows. A piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He remade the bed, making sure it was lumpy like before, and took the paper back to the front room. In the muted light coming through the window he read:

  Owen,

  Clara is writing for me, as I have very little strength left. By now you know who I am and what the future holds. I can’t imagine you would want to marry a little chattering girl like me—who has become an old chattering woman. Perhaps there is some mistake, but Clara says your father does not make mistakes and that we should trust his plan. I don’t understand much of this, but I do know that you are without equal—in this world and whatever other world is out there. I don’t know the future, but I do know who holds it, and I believe he will help you achieve the ends he has purposed for you.

  I knew from the moment I met you that you were special. Little did I know how special.

  I cannot say more, except that Clara is taking me to a safe place where I will be able to rest and recuperate. Perhaps it will help me become young again so that you will not look at me with pity but with hope and love.

  I will wait for you, Owen Reeder. I will wait for the Son. And I will pray that your father’s strength will bring you back to me. I can’t wait to see you again.

  With all my love,

  Connie

  Owen fell, his knees hitting the floor with a thud. He read the note again and again, then folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. Out in the woods the fog was lifting, as if some unseen hand were preparing a way through the chilly morning.

  “Connie,” he whispered. “Onora. I will find you. Hold on until I do.”

  RHM flitted nervously about the castle meeting room, variously rearranging chairs, biting the ends of his talons and spitting them in the corner, and staring out the window. Though the Dragon seemed quite happy with himself and the progress in the Lowlands, RHM knew one bad report could bring the wrath of the old beast down on him.

  Unfortunately for RHM, the return of Slugspike and a gaggle of his hangers-on coincided with the Dragon’s descent down the wide spiral staircase. The Dragon had spent the night eating and drinking and blowing fire so that people even miles from the castle could see flames shooting from the upstairs windows. Anyone close enough could hear the screams of the victims as well.

  RHM had fretted all through the night and into the morning waiting for news from Slugspike, and now that he had returned, the Dragon just happened to waltz downstairs.

  “And where have you been, my overgrown friend?” the Dragon said to Slugspike. “You should have been here for the revelry last night.”

  Slugspike glanced at RHM as if to say, “He didn’t know where I was?”

  RHM responded with a smirk that could not be translated.

  Slugspike bowed low. “I was on an errand for you, O great one, in the Highlands—”

  “Yes, we wanted to surprise you with the good news,” RHM interrupted from behind. “It is good news, is it not?”

  “If the absence of minions is good news,” Slugspike groaned. He was such an evil presence that the general reaction of everyone was to back away. “We found evidence of their demise and also evidence of the havoc they wreaked.”

  “Demise?” the Dragon said.

  “A hole in the earth near the resting place of the nestor. The cage was empty. It looked like it had escaped from inside and led the whole company down after something.”

  “Then we have nothing to fear from them,” the Dragon said with a smile. “We can attack the survivors or bring them here.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Slugspike said. He gave RHM another glance. “But I must report a slightly disappointing situation.”

  The Dragon was idly picking through scorched food on the table, apparently unconcerned. “Yes, go on.”

  “We have searched for the girl Onora as well as Gwenolyn. We cannot find them or the boy who had the device inserted in his heel.”

  “That was cut out and tossed away long ago,” the Dragon said, grinding his teeth. “Perhaps they were stung and have crawled off into some hovel to die. They could be dead already.”

  “True, sire,” Slugspike said. “However, we have located the ones charged with watching those two and have brought them.”

  “Really? Here?” the Dragon said, rising to peer out the window.

  RHM sidled close and sneered at the sight of the humans. One was tall with a long nose and white hair. His name in the Highlands was Mr. Reeder. The other was a squat woman with equally white hair who looked to be in pain.

  “What of the two who were watching Gwenolyn?” RHM said. “I gave you specific instructions to—”

  Slugspike gave RHM a look that stopped him, as if all the motivation he needed to kill RHM was to hear one more word. “Those two were sputtering some gibberish, out of their minds from their stings, advancing in age by the second. We put them out of their misery.”

  “Bring the live ones to me,” the Dragon said.

  * * *

  Mr. Reeder trembled at the sight of the Dragon and stared at the floor. Mrs. Reeder (who had simply been known to Owen as the woman who cleaned up after them and Connie’s mother) could not even stand in the Dragon’s sight and fainted. Mr. Reeder knelt to tend to her.

  The Dragon sniffed at the two like a dog who smells another animal on a person’s clothes. He dribbled green liquid on them but finally backed away and gazed at Mr. Reeder. “What has become of the boy put in your charge?”

  Mr. Reeder’s chin quivered, and his legs, thin as matchsticks, knocked against each other like a metronome in a hurricane. With a stammer he managed, “He left the bookstore.”

  “When?”

  “Shortly after the strange man showed up. I tried to keep the man from him, but—”

  “And who do you think that man was?” the Dragon said.

  “Just a beggar. He wore old clothes. He had an odd look in his eyes. But he also had a magical book with him that enchanted the boy.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I haven’t seen the old man—”

  “Not the man, the boy. His Son!”

  “Son?” Mr. Reeder said. “That was the boy’s real father?”

  The Dragon snarled and looked at the woman, who began to awaken. “Would you like me to dispatch your wife now or wait until you tell me the truth?”

  “I am telling the truth!” Mr. Reeder said, and had Owen been there, he would have been surprised at the man’s passion and sudden bravado. “I tried my best to do everything I was told.”

  “But you allowed the boy to meet the Wormling!” the Dragon said.

  “I did no such thing. He left the store only to go to school or on an errand. I swear it.”

  “He met this Wormling sometime after he discovered the book,” the Dragon said. “That must be where he is now. Hiding. Waiting. Hoping.”

  “I know nothing of what you are saying.”

  “Really?” the Dragon said. And with a turn of his shoulde
r and an intake of breath so subtle the man barely heard it, the Dragon shot flame with great precision at Mr. Reeder’s wife.

  The woman barely whimpered before her life was over.

  But we shall focus on Mr. Reeder’s face, for there was something unnatural there—something we have not seen before. From the moment we first met him, he appeared a man mastered by other forces, who has allowed life to bully him. But as he looked at the charred remains of what was once a living, breathing woman with a load of fears and difficulties of her own, something changed.

  Muscles tight, his teeth clenched, he turned to the enemy of the King and his Son. “All right. I’ll tell you. But I want assurances.”

  “You are in no position to bargain, my friend,” the Dragon said.

  “You do not know what I know.”

  The Dragon stared at him as if admiring the man’s backbone, especially after having just seen his wife struck down. “Very well. If you have solid information about the one I am after, I am in a position to make it worth your while.”

  “I have given up much to be loyal to you, and you repay me with the death of my wife. I want a place at your side. A place of prominence.”

  “You must have something juicy for me.” The Dragon turned to RHM. “We have a place in the kingdom box at the coliseum, do we not?”

  “Yes, sire, but—”

  “If you give me truly helpful information,” the Dragon said, “you will enjoy a seat where every spectator and combatant in the coliseum will see you. You will be envied.”

  “Then listen carefully,” Mr. Reeder said, whispering in the Dragon’s ear.

  And now, though it pains us, we visit the valley near the forest of Emul, which in time shall be known as the Valley of Death and later by another name—for reasons you will see. It is a peaceful place, with mounds of dirt scattered across the hillside like someone has been digging for hidden treasure. It has the feel of a cemetery, quiet and languid. Even the trees seem to slow their swaying in the breeze. Some have been blackened by the heat of battle. A few have bloomed and already returned to their original beauty.

  Above the trees, the sky is blue and dotted with clouds rolling lazily past as if unaware of what has gone on below. Of the grief that has gripped the countryside. Of the sorrow and tears and dreams that have been planted for harvest.

  Something winged flits about, just under the tree branches. It is Batwing, the diminutive creature who has remained with the others to bury those who have been so mercilessly killed by the Dragon’s forces.

  Among the survivors are Rogers, the deep-voiced youngster who had been a stable boy for the king of the west, and Starbuck, the son of Erol and a friend of the Wormling. Tusin, assemblyman of the undergroundlings, is also here.

  “That is the end,” Starbuck says. “The very last of them. Except for the horse. I don’t think we can dig a hole large enough to—”

  “Humphrey was his name,” Rogers says. “Please don’t refer to them without using their names. We should never forget their names or what they tried to do.”

  Starbuck turns. “You’re not the only one who lost those you love.”

  “Young ones, don’t quarrel,” Tusin says. “We must hold together.”

  “For what purpose?” Starbuck says. “The Dragon has won. He’s defeated us.”

  “As long as the King lives, there is hope,” Tusin says. “Remember that and do not despair.”

  “My father, mother, brothers, and sisters are buried here. I should have been as well if Rogers hadn’t dragged me to the cave up the mountain.”

  “Be thankful he saved your life.”

  “I would rather have died fighting the Dragon’s forces with my friends. At least I would have died with my dignity.”

  Tusin sits on a rock and leans against his walking stick. “There is great dignity in caring for those who have lost their lives. Their graves cry out for justice.”

  “There will be no justice,” Starbuck says, eyes flashing and tears forming. “How can there be when there is no army? We have no hope.”

  “Didn’t you say the Wormling told your father he would sing a song of victory when the Dragon is overthrown?”

  “He did.”

  “And does the Wormling lie?”

  “He lies dead inside the White Mountain.”

  “Then perhaps we should retrieve his body and bury it here.”

  “You know the mountain is probably guarded,” Starbuck says, looking at the sky. “And it’s only a matter of time before the forces of the Dragon return to kill us.”

  “How can you be sure?” Tusin says. “How can you know that things spoken by the Wormling will not come true?”

  “A wedding? Victory over the Dragon? It’s nothing more than a story.”

  “Didn’t he pledge something to you?” Rogers says.

  “The Wormling promised my father that he would be by his side when victory came and sing. And here he lies, covered with dirt.”

  Rogers wanders up the hillside alone and stops at the knoll where Humphrey fell. Humphrey had carried him and Starbuck as he galloped from the Dragon’s forces. When the horse fell, Rogers had grabbed Starbuck and scrambled into a cave just as a fiery blast consumed their friends and Humphrey.

  The screeching and the burning and the crying of the attack flood over him, and though Rogers puts his hands over his ears, he cannot drown out the sounds, though it has been many days.

  Using a crude shovel of wood and stone, Rogers digs a hole beside the horse, and the tears come. Like Starbuck, he had been so filled with hope when he heard stories of the Wormling, and then when he had met him that hope inside rose up like a lion. But now . . .

  He digs into the rocky soil until his hands blister and the shovel falls apart. He continues digging until his fingers bleed, crying and clawing and talking to Humphrey and his other friends. He misses the Scribe’s voice—crackly and old but full of wisdom. He misses the anger of Connor, who had first yelled the warning of the attack and tried to get his wife, Dreyanna, to safety.

  Most of all, Rogers misses Watcher. She was so kind. How anything could harm her, he didn’t know. She was the most pure, loving, and sensitive creature he had ever met, yet she was also a fierce warrior. He blinks his tears away, but he cannot blink away the last vision he had of her. She had turned to fight, a mere speck against the enemies arrayed against them. With her ears straight and her back arched, she grabbed a spear from one of Connor’s men and aimed it at the heart of a beast flying toward them.

  The blast of fire had thrown her onto her back on a rock. Rogers wanted to run to her, but he was galloping away on Humphrey’s back. The horse had hesitated when Watcher fell, as if he too had sensed the loss. She reached out toward them. . . .

  These images and more run through Rogers’s mind the deeper he digs. Night falls and the moon is bright, illuminating his workplace.

  Soon he hears footsteps. A fog rises and shrouds the countryside as a lone figure approaches out of the darkness.

  Rogers crawls into the hole he dug for Humphrey, picks up a stone, and waits.

  The fog drifted up to eerily shroud the visitor like a phantom. Rogers had heard stories (mostly from Starbuck) of evil beings stalking the places of the dead. With this figure walking down the mountain, the moonlight behind him, a hood over his head, Rogers’s mind ran wild. Could this be a friend of the Dragon? Had they watched and waited until all the bodies were buried only to attack the living?

  Rogers trembled in the hole and gripped the rock. He wished he had gone back to the fire with Starbuck and Tusin before nightfall. At least there he would die with his friends.

  The stranger ambled to the edge of the hole. “Dig this yourself?” His voice was strong and compassionate, as familiar as the scent of a meal cooked by someone who loved you.

  “Yes,” Rogers said, still trembling. “What do you want?”

  The stranger knelt and put his hands on his knees, surveying the foggy, moonlit countryside. “What
happened?”

  “Are you a stranger?” Rogers said. “Have you not heard what the Dragon’s forces did to the warriors of the Wormling?”

  “Tell me.”

  “The Wormling told us to leave the White Mountain and we did, just before the Dragon killed him with a blast of fire. No sooner was the Wormling dead than the Dragon amassed his armies against us—before we even had a chance to arm ourselves. They came with fire and venom, and we had no chance.”

  The stranger scanned the valley, studying the hundreds upon hundreds of graves that rose up in the moonlight. “Did you bury all these yourself?”

  “With a few friends,” Rogers said. “This is the last, the one who saved my friend and me. We are lucky to be alive.”

  The stranger moved toward Humphrey, covered with blankets Rogers had taken from other bodies.

  “I had to cover him or he would stink,” Rogers said.

  The stranger—whether from fatigue or emotion, Rogers could not tell—rested his head against the body of the horse and whispered something that drifted off in the night.

  “What are you doing?” Rogers said.

  “Come up here.”

  As soon as Rogers had climbed from the pit, the man rolled the horse into the hole without so much as a finger of help from Rogers.

  “How strong are you? He weighs a ton.”

  “It was his heart that was huge,” the man said as if he knew Humphrey, and Rogers thought he saw a tear reflected by the moonlight. “You are not lucky, you know,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “It was not luck that allowed you to survive. There was a purpose.”

  “Yes, to bury the dead.”

  “An honorable chore,” the man said, filling in the hole around Humphrey’s body with the shovel. “But there is more to accomplish.”

  When the stranger had finished, he patted the earth covering Humphrey and leaned down as if saying a final word to the horse, his chin and mouth visible to Rogers for the first time. “Your future is a bright one, Rogers. Didn’t the Wormling say you would be there when he defeats the Dragon?”

  “How do you know that?” Rogers said, recoiling.