The Author's Blood

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  The monster grabbed the edge of the tablecloth and pulled it off, at first recoiling, then turning to Clara and speaking in a high-pitched, nasal voice. “I see you have done well in preserving the anointed one.”

  “Who are you?” Clara spat, getting up. One reach of a tentacle and she was knocked down again.

  “I come in service of His Majesty, the new ruler of the Highlands and Lowlands. He requires the chosen bride of the boy prince. This, if I am not mistaken, is her wretched body.”

  “You’re mistaken. She is not the one. I am.”

  The creature cocked its head. “Amazing. Willing to give your life in place of another. And for what?”

  “She’s not who you think. I’m the one you’re looking for.”

  “Really?” the creature said, its tone unkind. “I shall take you both just to be safe. His Majesty will like that.”

  A tentacle shot from the beast’s body and enveloped Clara. Another did the same with Connie, now unconscious. They flew high above the city, and Connie looked whiter than Clara had ever seen her. Clara prayed the poor girl would die rather than endure the torture that certainly awaited them.

  For several days Batwing recorded, as best he could, the reports of Starbuck and Tusin and the comings and goings of the guards, workers, and officials in Dragon City. The only ones who left the walled city were the poor unfortunates saddled with carrying trash and animal dung and dumping it in a valley.

  One afternoon the sky filled with flyers in a procession that looked like it had royal significance. Scythe flyers with their enormous sharp tails brought up the rear before a gap (which Batwing assumed was made up of invisibles) and a lone flying beast Batwing immediately recognized as RHM, the Dragon’s aide.

  “What is that he’s carrying?” Starbuck said.

  “Shall I fly up and see?” Batwing said.

  Tusin harrumphed. “And alert the whole city that we’re here? Out of the question. It’s probably just more prisoners.”

  “There’s one on either side,” Starbuck said, scrambling higher for a better look.

  “Be careful,” Tusin said as rocks and pebbles rained on him. “You want to bury us under an avalanche?”

  RHM flew his prisoners over the wall and into the city. A small cheer went up from inside and then died.

  A few minutes later Starbuck clambered back down, again spilling rocks and dirt, and breathlessly reported, “He had two females with him. An old one and a much younger one. Dressed in strange clothes.”

  “Perhaps from the Highlands,” Batwing said, “like the Wormling. Watcher said he wore strange clothes when he first came to the Lowlands.”

  “They must be pretty important for RHM himself to go after them,” Tusin said.

  “You saw by the procession that they must be important,” Starbuck said. “But who could they be?”

  “I shudder to even guess,” Tusin said, gazing at the darkening sky. “I wish the Wormling would return.”

  That night it rained and flooded their mountainside cave, forcing them to higher ground. They slipped and slid until they reached the top of the mountain overlooking the city. Huge torches lit the massive coliseum, crammed with spectators. Vaxors cracked whips and struck humans who stretched animal skins across the arena to keep the surface dry.

  “Many will die,” Tusin said. “I can hear the growls of the tigren from here.”

  “They probably haven’t been fed for weeks,” Starbuck said. “I’d like to release them so they can attack those vaxors.”

  Batwing shifted from one foot to the other. “The Wormling told us to wait.”

  “But the killing will soon begin,” Starbuck said. “Surely he wouldn’t want us to just sit here.”

  A strong wind gusted from below, and a great presence loomed over the three.

  Starbuck grabbed Tusin’s walking stick and held it up like a sword, as if ready to fight.

  As quickly as the presence came, it left, flapping into the rain. Through the darkness came footsteps, but it wasn’t until Rogers spoke from behind him that Batwing knew who it was.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Tusin said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, but we must prepare. We don’t have much time.”

  “That’s what I told them,” Starbuck muttered. “Where’s the Wormling?”

  “The Wormling is well,” Rogers said. “He said to come up with a plan to enter the city and be ready in the morning. He says his time has come.”

  The queen of the west’s back ached from the heavy load, her feet blistered beyond belief. She could barely see where she was going through the rain and her tears. She shoveled dung one day and hauled it the next, sleeping in cramped quarters beneath the coliseum where others cursed her because of her smell. Some envied her for being able to go aboveground, but none wanted her job.

  The most dangerous place she gathered dung was from the cages of the tigren, where even the vaxors wouldn’t enter. She had to wait until the tigren wandered into the safe section and the vaxors blocked the cages so she could run in, do her work, and get out before they pulled the lever. Plenty of people had been victims of a careless or cruel vaxor who had pulled the lever too soon just to see blood.

  But as hard as her life was, it was nothing compared to the humiliation. The queen was used to being served, to sleeping in a comfortable bed, and to waking to warm slippers and fresh fruit. Now she was fortunate to get a crust of bread or a drink of brackish water.

  Walking with the rough men and women assigned the same task was also difficult. She had ordered these types of people around, and now she was one of them—even taking orders from vaxors.

  “Faster!” one growled as she carried her load through the gate. He lashed her back with a whip.

  She screamed as the cords bit and tried to stay upright.

  The path consisted of deep mud, and the people in front of her stayed in the grass, where they could get better footing. In her former life, she had had no fears beyond the occasional snake in her garden or a hangnail. Now she had nothing but fears—that the Dragon would keep his promise about her daughter, that he would consume her and her husband with fire. But her greatest fear was falling into the dung pit at the bottom of the path. Another had done this and died.

  One by one the dung bearers pitched their baskets over the edge and hurried back up the hill.

  Vaxors wouldn’t even come close to this place. They watched from the ridge, holding their noses and laughing.

  “Nice technique, Your Majesty!”

  “The queen of dung!”

  The valley was steep and the tossing point a sharp precipice that led down several hundred feet. A person who tumbled into the chasm would be dead before she hit the bottom, if one could believe a vaxor.

  The queen was the last to the edge today and moved gingerly as she raised the pole that held two baskets on each end from her shoulders. She had become stronger here, working off some of the excess of her pampered life, but she longed for a bath and a real meal.

  She tossed the first load over the edge, but when she set the empty basket on the ground, someone grabbed at her ankle and she went down hard in the mud, her momentum carrying her toward the pit. At the last instant before plunging to her death, she wrenched around and gripped a clump of grass, her feet dangling over the edge.

  She screamed but no one came. The hard labor that had toned her allowed her to pull herself up a few inches and almost to safety. But suddenly the earth opened before her, and two eyes stared at her. Whoever it was tore her hands from the heavy grass and pushed her backward.

  She fell into the abyss, gasping, flailing, kicking, resigned to death. But she had tumbled through the air for only a second before someone yanked her inside an area dug into the soil wall.

  “It’s all right now,” a young man said. “You’re okay. I’m sorry to give you such a fright.”

  She gaped, panting. “You!”

  The Wormling bowed his head. “I had no idea it was you,
Your Majesty. Where is your husband?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, barely able to speak. “I can only imagine.”

  The Wormling held her gaze. Something about his eyes radiated confidence. Had she been wrong about him? Was there something special about this young man who had grown so strong and certain of himself?

  “We don’t have much time,” he said. “Give me your cloak and wait here.”

  “Who tripped me up there?”

  “A friend,” Owen said.

  “Some friend.”

  “We’ve watched the vaxors for several days so we could get into the city—”

  “You want to get in?” she said.

  “I have to. Now stay here until the vaxors leave.” The Wormling produced a rope. “Tie this around you, and our people will pull you up when it’s clear.”

  Without her hooded cloak she shivered in her ragged clothes. “Please find my husband and release him if you can.”

  Owen kept his head down and the queen of the west’s hood pulled low as he carried the empty dung baskets through the gate, his sword and scabbard hidden down his back.

  “Wonderful recovery, Your Majesty,” a vaxor crooned. “Thought we’d seen the last of you.”

  Another laughed, but Owen just kept moving. Once inside he was surprised to see brightly colored apartments with balconies that overlooked stone streets. The Dragon had brought gloom and doom to the countryside, but these places looked at least livable. Unfortunately they were occupied by vaxors and other followers of the Dragon, and Owen knew it wouldn’t be long before they made a mess of the city.

  Horse-drawn carriages were plentiful, and small animals ran here and there. Judging from the number of rats, Owen figured cats were scarce.

  He followed the other dung haulers as those in the streets gave way and held their noses. Little vaxors mocked them, reciting poems about the stench and throwing rotten fruit at them. Someone threw a bucket of foul-smelling liquid on them from a balcony.

  The streets all ran the same direction, pointing to a white-pillared structure—the coliseum.

  Owen’s group was led to a side entrance that went down several flights until it became dark.

  “Keep moving, vermin!” a vaxor yelled.

  Down they went, through iron gates that slammed and locked behind them. In the bowels of the structure Owen could hear the roar of tigren and the clang of metal against metal. He glanced at people in cells as he passed and recognized a few of them. Why are they being held?

  “Inside and stack your baskets,” a vaxor shouted. “You know the drill.”

  They were herded farther down to yet another entrance, where they were locked away. People coughed and wheezed, collapsing from exhaustion. Many looked as if they hadn’t eaten in days.

  “My lady, you took a terrible fall,” a man said, approaching Owen. “Are you all right?”

  His hood still covering his head, Owen nodded and quickly moved to a corner, where he leaned against the wall.

  But the man followed. “Sorry to bother you, Your Majesty, but I’ve news of your husband.”

  Owen recognized Dalphus, the king of the west’s armor bearer.

  The man’s already pale face blanched at the sight of Owen, his mouth dropping. “What have you done with her?”

  Owen grabbed the man and pulled him to the wall. “Keep your voice down. Your queen is free.”

  “But how?” Dalphus whined. “We are watched every moment.”

  “My friends have her,” Owen said. “Now what do you know of the king of the west?”

  “He is jailed with the group to be led out first tomorrow for the opening ceremonies.”

  “Ceremonies?”

  “Celebrating the Dragon’s triumph over his enemies. The vaxors say the king is to be eaten by the tigren. His wife is to be spared until she sees the blood of her daughter spilled on the Dragon’s throne.”

  “They have captured Onora?”

  “So the vaxors say. Of course, who knows if—?”

  Owen turned toward the wall, whispering, “Everything is coming to pass just as it was written.”

  “What are you saying? This is part of some plan?”

  “Exactly. And though it may seem otherwise, it’s working perfectly.”

  “Ach! Who would come up with a plan that has the Dragon on the throne, killing the king and queen of the west and their daughter as well as the King, his wife, and his children?”

  “Children?”

  “I overheard a vaxor say the Dragon’s right-hand man returned with not only Onora but also with Gwenolyn, the King’s daughter.”

  “She stayed with her to the end,” Owen said, tears coming. “What does he believe about the King’s Son?”

  Dalphus winced. “The Dragon believes he is either dead or cowers somewhere in the Highlands.”

  Owen drew closer to Dalphus. “Know this. The Son does not cower. Nor is he dead. And the King’s plans will be completed in spite of the Dragon’s plot.”

  “You are the Son?”

  “You were there when I told the king and queen of the west my identity.”

  “But how can you know this?”

  “The same way I know the sun will rise and dispel the darkness each morning. The way I know beyond doubt that we have all been put here for a purpose. The way I know that with each heartbeat a destiny of greatness calls, telling us we are part of a much bigger story, with a secure future.”

  Dalphus stared, mouth agape.

  “Tell your friends to be ready to fight,” Owen said. “Spread the word that the return of the Son is near. Do we have weapons of any kind?”

  “Just the sticks they gave us to gather dung and the poles to carry the baskets across our shoulders.”

  Owen nodded. “Sharpen them.”

  Connie lay under a canopy on a soft bed in the corner of a huge room. A vase of flowers and a basket of fresh fruit sat beside her. The trip from the Highlands had all but taken her last breath. She had lost track of Clara and wanted to ask where she was, but the creatures that tended her were not friendly-looking and had not even spoken.

  When the beast that had captured her entered, she tried to sit up, but she was light-headed and fell back.

  The beast cleared his throat. “His Majesty, the king of all lands, wishes a word with you.”

  Both doors opened, and a creature ducked to get through and once inside seemed to gain stature as he puffed out his chest. At once she recognized the Dragon who had tried to kill Owen and her at the B and B, the one who breathed fire and terrorized them the day Mr. Page had first left.

  “My dear Onora,” the Dragon purred, “how lovely you look . . . for your age.”

  Connie remained silent, looking the Dragon in the eye, which, she could tell by his reaction, rarely happened. The beast was used to victims cowering and whimpering and pleading for their lives.

  “Did you have a nice trip from your world? I hope my friend here wasn’t too rough with you.”

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  The Dragon chuckled. “I think you know. You are needed.”

  “For what?”

  “Why, to marry your true love, your intended. Unless, of course, your intended doesn’t show up.”

  “I’m not stupid,” Connie said, her voice as strong as she could make it. “You have no intention of seeing me—”

  “I read it in the book,” the Dragon said. “Lots of wonderful things about new worlds, blue skies, blah, blah, blah. You must be terribly excited.”

  “I’m terribly old.”

  “You are. But the effects of the minions of time can lessen. You could still enjoy a long, productive life if you swear allegiance to me and my kingdom.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  The Dragon held out his arms, talons up. “I don’t know, perhaps to avoid the prospect of being cut open and having your blood anoint my throne, then being burned alive? Doesn’t that sound icky to you?”

  “It does.”
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  The Dragon smiled. “I thought so.”

  “You’re wasting your cinder-stained breath,” Connie said. “Swear allegiance to you? With my dying breath I’d spit on your throne. But I don’t plan to die, for the Son of the King and I are to marry, and our union will signal the end of your reign. Indeed, every word the true King wrote shall come to pass.”

  A rattle sounded in the Dragon’s throat. “I should consume you right now, but I wouldn’t want to disappoint your parents. I promised they’d see you expire, and I always keep my word.” He turned and addressed his aide. “RHM, she believes the Son remains alive.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” RHM said. “But regardless, he is of no consequence. Hiding in the Highlands or dead, it doesn’t matter. The enemy has lost.”

  True evil is perilous if one gets too close, as it can taint the soul of even the onlooker. However, to understand true goodness and purity, we must view true wickedness. It would be much easier to turn away—and perhaps less painful—but as we have seen, easier is not always best. In fact, as The Book of the King states, Nothing good is ever easy.

  The day dawned bright and clear over Dragon City. Banners unfurled, marketplaces filled, and eager vaxors and the curious made their way to the coliseum for the bloodletting of the innocents.

  The crowd made haste, not simply because they feared missing the opening ceremonies but because the Dragon had decreed that latecomers would face the same fate as the unfortunates waiting behind bars to provide the entertainment.

  Beneath the floor of the arena, before the hot, cramped, nearly airless dungeons, the chief vaxor, Velvel—one of the few survivors of the attack on Yodom—strutted, pacing and staring in at the pitiful victims.

  They warily looked back through lifeless eyes.

  “I would flood these cages and be done with you,” he said. “Only one of your kind ever had the ability to entertain His Majesty, and he is long dead.

  “The tigren await with teeth sharper than my sword. Their claws are like forged iron and can rip open a man’s chest and pull out his heart in one thrust. Hunger and the scent of blood fuel their desire, and they can’t get enough. One could kill a cell full of you in minutes. Imagine when two are released. Then four. Then six.”