The Author's Blood

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Whimpers greeted Velvel and made him smile. “But the tigren are not your only enemies. The bites of the sand snakes are just as deadly, though they cause a slower death. And then there is the great croc, perhaps the most entertaining beast of all.

  “The crowd would rather see you run, so do yourself a favor. Run at the tigren or the croc and it will be over swiftly. If you do happen to somehow survive all these creatures, you face an even surer foe—me and my company. My trained fighters will, at the Dragon’s behest, torture you before we end your miserable lives.”

  Velvel hesitated before a woman who pressed a child behind her. He tossed her a small vial and lowered his voice. “A single drop will end the suffering.”

  When Velvel left, the people argued about what to do. Some wanted to fight, using their sharpened sticks. Others fought with the weeping mother over the vial. Finally fending them off, she pulled her son close and told him to open his mouth. A single drop fell toward the child’s tongue as others pressed in to watch.

  At the last second, Owen blocked the drop with his hand and snatched the vial. “No one will take your lives today.”

  “You wasted that!” a man shouted.

  “Yes, give it to us!”

  “Better to die here than out there for the Dragon’s amusement!”

  Owen threw the vial against the wall, smashing it to bits, the liquid sizzling and smoking as it ran down the bricks.

  With fire in their eyes, the crowd rushed Owen, and a single sound stopped them from tearing him limb from limb—the blow of a horn from high above. The roar of the crowd followed.

  “Take courage,” Owen said. “The Dragon’s reign will be short-lived.”

  “How do you know?” someone said. “What makes you so great that you can order us?”

  Others hollered their agreement, and again they rushed him.

  But Owen flipped off his hood and reached down his back, drawing out the Sword of the Wormling, steel zinging against the scabbard.

  The people shoved each other to get away.

  Owen drove the sword into the sand. “You’ve heard it said: united we stand—divided we fall. Pull together and defy the Dragon.”

  “Stand against the beasts? You’re crazy.”

  “When the vaxors come, carry your sharpened sticks behind you. And do not be concerned about the beasts.”

  “He’s mad.”

  “A lunatic!”

  The child Owen had saved stared up at him with big, round eyes. “No, he’s the Wormling.”

  Owen smiled and knelt. “‘From the mouths of children comes truth. Fulfilled and happy are those with pure hearts. You will see the truth. And you will be freed by it.’”

  “Can’t be,” someone said. “The Wormling is dead.”

  “And he was much taller and stronger.”

  Owen chuckled. “I’d like to meet that Wormling. But he does not exist. I am the Wormling, and despite all arrayed against us, we will be victorious today.”

  “If you’re the Wormling, tell us something from the book.”

  “The book is safe, with friends.”

  “Oh, sure! Then tell us what it says.”

  Owen quickly recited difficult passages that spoke of hardship, heartbreak, loss, and failure. “All of these are part of our lives, but we are not identified by our circumstances.” He pointed to a woman in dirty clothes. “Are you merely a dung carrier? a slave on the way to your death?”

  The woman looked around. “I don’t know what I am, sir.”

  Owen stepped toward her. “You are a precious creation. A noble woman. Not a slave to the Dragon—you are a daughter of the King.” He turned to the others. “As are you and you—all of you.”

  “Then why are we here?”

  “The Book of the King says no circumstance is wasted, that there is no experience the King cannot use to bring glory to himself. The King will use you today to prove to everyone that he is the sovereign. You are not here by chance.”

  Heavy footsteps approached, and Owen knew the time had come. The people crowded toward him, and those in other cells pushed to get close enough to listen. “Do not go out with fear. Let the words of the King ring in your ears. What the Dragon means for evil, the King will use for good.”

  RHM stepped into the Dragon’s private box high above the arena and accepted the applause and cheers of the crowd of thousands. In the box, awaiting the arrival of the sovereign himself, sat vaxor leaders from various provinces, the honored warlord Slugspike, and several guests RHM had invited for their service in ferreting out hidden villages. Mr. Reeder sat in the back next to the brown-winged Machree.

  RHM waved to the throng, and they quieted. “Friends and countrymen, welcome to Dragon City and the inaugural games created by and for our sovereign ruler!”

  A thunderous cheer arose.

  RHM waited for it to fade. “The horn you heard marks the end of the Dragon’s decree against music. You may sing or play anything you wish, as long as the songs exalt our wonderful ruler. Today, for your pleasure, all remaining enemies of the throne will receive their just rewards!”

  Drums rolled, trumpets blared, and a procession of acrobats and jugglers filed in, followed by vaxors carrying flags bearing the likeness of the Dragon.

  “And now,” RHM pronounced, “rise and remove your hats and welcome the sovereign of the Lowlands, the Highlands, and the unseen world—the one, the only, His Majesty, the Dragon!”

  The music stopped and the crowd hushed.

  A curtain parted and the Dragon strode through, head high, blasting a flame that caught three of his own flags on fire.

  The crowd went wild.

  “Welcome to the games.” The Dragon’s voice was nearly drowned out by the roar of the tigren below, so he bellowed all the louder. “And enjoy your stay in Dragon City! I have created a utopia most beings only dream of. A special surprise awaits, but for now, on with the games!”

  More cheering ensued as birds were loosed. When they reached the top of the coliseum, they were attacked and slaughtered by invisible demon flyers. Their bloody remains plopped into the arena and some in the crowd, who cheered all the more and tussled for souvenir pieces.

  The captives—men, women, and children of all ages—were led out in chains to waves of booing.

  Despite the pomp and ceremony exalting the Dragon, RHM couldn’t help but notice that the prisoners did not skulk and slink along but rather held their heads high. RHM signaled to the lead guard to crack his whip and put the prisoners on the defensive, but none cowered or begged for their lives or ran. There seemed a strange confidence about them.

  * * *

  Owen sat in a dark corner with his back to the wall of his cell as the others were rousted out. He kept his head down, hood over his face.

  A vaxor doing a final sweep stopped. “You there! Up and out—now!”

  Owen didn’t move until the vaxor charged with his spear. He sprang to his feet, dodged, and seized the weapon, pulling the vaxor past him and crashing his head into the wall. The warrior lay in what appeared a peaceful repose as Owen moved down the dark corridor.

  Owen had heard of the tigren from Watcher, who had described them as monstrously large and fierce. Now, as he grabbed hold of the final gate to one’s lair, he recalled Watcher urging him on, her voice, soft and low, reminding him of things from the book. How he missed her and longed to see her again!

  The tigren paced in its cramped space, illuminated by sunlight peeking through a metal grate above. The noise of the crowd seemed to agitate it, and whenever the horns blew, the creature roared with such ferocity that Owen had to cover his ears. He knew these beasts had been starved for days, making them ravenous.

  As Owen sneaked into the cage, the tigren froze and locked eyes with him, baring its fangs and tensing its shoulder muscles. Suddenly it drew its ears back, and the hair rose on its body. The cat crouched low and slowly advanced a front paw through the smelly straw.

  The Dragon preened as the cro
wd roared. They clearly wanted blood, eager to see what he had planned.

  He raised one of his arms and drank in the resulting silence. “I want to thank all who have joined me here in the royal box to view what is about to unfold. Soon I will introduce a very special guest who will bring with her some little friends you will be excited to meet. But first, another guest now joins us.”

  A gate opened on the far side of the arena, and two vaxors in bull-horn headdresses nudged a man forward with their spears. His full beard peeked out from a scarf tied over his eyes, and his hands were bound with rope in front. He stumbled along barefoot.

  “I know he does not look like such, but this is royalty!” the Dragon said, leading the crowd in derisive laughter. “See how low the king of the west has fallen.”

  The man was prodded past the line of other captives until he stood encircled by six metal grates. From below came the roaring of the tigren, their paws and claws reaching through the grates. Even the mighty vaxors retreated. They jumped and sprinted past the grates in the swirling dust, leaving the bearded man in place, unmoving.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the Dragon boomed, “I give you the last few moments of the life of the king of the west, who is no king at all. In fact, as I learned from his wife, he is a traitor, having assisted the so-called Wormling in an escape. He will now pay the ultimate price.”

  The crowd shouted insults between sips of fermented ale and nibbles at jargid-zots, warm meat wrapped in corn bread. “Kill him! Kill him!” they chanted. “Loose the tigren!”

  The Dragon lifted his wings and called for quiet, shouting, “In my benevolence, Your Exalted Majesty, I will allow you a few last words! But please spare me any begging.”

  The king of the west pushed the scarf over his head until it fell on the ground, revealing blackened eyes and a swollen face. “I would not deign to seek mercy from one who does not know the meaning of the word. You are no king. You are a thief and a liar, and you and your followers will pay for your sins.”

  The crowd booed.

  Suddenly the Dragon took flight and soared over the arena. “My, my, how bold and insolent! Dare I believe such eloquence actually comes from you, or were you coached?”

  “Not everyone has to be told what to say,” the king of the west said. “And if I had the chance to again help the Wormling, I would in a heartbeat.”

  “You have few heartbeats left,” the Dragon said to his own delight and that of the crowd. “The tigren will soon be released, but they are on chains that reach only so far. There is one point at which none of them can hurt you. Find that area, and you might buy yourself a few extra seconds. But I warn you, one beast’s chain is slightly longer than the others.”

  The Dragon returned to his royal seat and locked eyes with the king of the west. “I’m sorry you won’t get to see your daughter, but life has its disappointments.” He paused and yawned. “Release the tigren.”

  When the grates slid open, five beasts leaped out, straining at their leashes, swiping at the air, and gnashing their teeth while the crowd erupted. The king of the west stood still as one of the animals barely reached his leg with a claw and drew blood.

  The crowd screamed, and the other animals went wild, lurching against their chains.

  “They haven’t eaten,” the Dragon cooed. “See how long it takes once they get their paws on him.”

  “Sire,” RHM said, “where is the other? Aren’t there supposed to be six?”

  The Dragon furrowed his brow and scanned the grounds. “Perhaps something is wrong with his cage.” He motioned to a vaxor in the arena who gingerly trotted over, clearly knowing that if one of the other tigren charged him, he would be torn to pieces. The vaxor leaned over the grate, then fell in as if something had pulled him.

  The crowd gasped, and with the other five tigren agitated to such a fever pitch that they jerked the chains deep into their neck fur, the sixth appeared. The crowd roared, but instead of attacking, the beast sat back on its haunches, licking its paws as if finishing a tasty meal.

  “What in the world?” the Dragon said.

  “Perhaps he’s a vegetarian,” RHM said, but when the Dragon was plainly not amused, he looked away.

  Then the vaxor who had fallen through the grate appeared and approached the languid sixth tigren in the middle of the arena.

  * * *

  But it wasn’t really that vaxor. Owen, in the vaxor’s headdress, spoke soothingly to the tigren. The big cat was tall, and its muscles rippled as it finished licking its paws and turned its attention to getting the straw off its coat. When Owen reached it, the beast lay on its back and swiveled in the dust as if scratching itself.

  “Playful, aren’t you?” Owen whispered. “Stay right there and enjoy this.”

  Suddenly the other five tigren abandoned the king of the west and focused on Owen. The nearest two came closer while the other three could only roar and gnash their teeth.

  The crowd, thinking one of their own was trapped in this circle of death, appeared at first dumbfounded. Soon, though, they began chanting for the kill.

  Owen raised his vaxor helmet slightly to show part of his face to the king of the west. “Don’t be afraid. When you see your chance, move slowly back toward the other captives. Understand?”

  Two tigren ran at Owen with all their strength, their chains too long to save him. If he turned and ran, he could save himself. But he stood his ground.

  * * *

  “Who is that vaxor?” the Dragon said, rising.

  “Just an arena guard, sire,” RHM said. “No one special.”

  “You’re wrong! He has nerves of steel. Those beasts simply sit before him. One of them just licked his hand!”

  Next the vaxor twirled a hand over the head of one beast, causing the tigren to stand on its hind legs and spin, as if dancing. The crowd laughed as he pointed to another, and it mimicked the first. Soon five tigren were dancing in unison as the sixth lay sunning itself.

  “The king of the west is getting away!” the Dragon said. But he sat again when the vaxor pulled a gleaming sword and held it over one of the tigren.

  “Where did he get that?” the Dragon said. “It doesn’t look like any of ours. See how it shines!”

  The vaxor brought the sword down hard on the tigren’s neck, slicing through only the chain, and the beast loped away as if in search of shade. The vaxor did the same for the rest until all had been released. Some frolicked in the sand, but two seemed to stand watch for the vaxor, growling at the guards.

  “I must know who he is,” the Dragon said. “Command him to get those tigren back in their cages.”

  RHM flew down and landed at the edge of the arena. “You there, vaxor! Return the tigren to their holding areas. The Dragon wishes a word with you.”

  The vaxor nodded and waved, motioning for the tigren to leave.

  All six traipsed back into their cages as the crowd whistled and cheered.

  * * *

  Owen signaled for the king of the west and the rest of the captives to join him. He looked toward the mountain where he had left Starbuck, Rogers, Tusin, and his other friends. The queen of the west should be there by now, protected by them.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” the king of the west whispered. “How did you get here?”

  Owen cut the bonds that held the man. “Your wife aided me.”

  “My wife?”

  “I believe she is safe.” He glanced at the others. “And you all will be as well if you do as I tell you.”

  “We will,” a young one said.

  But the group dispersed when the Dragon landed twenty yards from Owen. “Vaxor,” the Dragon said, “you have a strange talent. But this is not the time or place to show it, is it?”

  Owen returned his sword to its scabbard.

  “Will you not answer me?” the Dragon said. “Where does your power come from?”

  Owen leveled his eyes at the monstrosity. “True power comes only from the ultimate source, the one who cr
eates.”

  “And the sword,” the Dragon said, stretching his neck to see the weapon. “It is not one of ours.”

  The prisoners, flanked by vaxors, gathered behind Owen. There was no way out.

  Owen walked to his left, causing sand to fall in one of the tigren’s cages. The beast growled. “A warrior’s sword is his prize,” Owen said. “It was given to me by another great warrior.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “My father.”

  “I see,” the Dragon said, moving right and massaging his chin with a talon. “So your father was a great warrior. . . . What was his name?”

  “He was a man of infinite kindness and mercy, so you would not have called him your friend.”

  The Dragon stopped and gritted his teeth. “A great warrior would have taught you obedience and devotion. You may show yours by finishing that man.” He pointed to the king of the west. “Use that sword for something other than show.”

  “My sword will not shed innocent blood,” Owen said.

  “Innocent? Innocent? Insurrectionist, you mean! This man sought to usurp my authority.”

  “Authority belongs to only one,” Owen said. “You have none.”

  “Take off your headdress,” the Dragon sneered. “Tell me your name.”

  Though he did not know it when he lived above the used-book store in the Highlands, Owen had waited for this moment all his life. He had prepared for it by reading great writers. The Dragon and those who had exiled him there had hoped he would lose himself in all those words. Their plan might have worked, had it not been for a man known as Mr. Page, who delivered the book that changed Owen’s life forever.

  Now, standing before the Dragon, he slowly removed the headdress and let it fall. All eyes were on him, but his were on the enemy.

  The look on the face of the Dragon was worth everything Owen had been through, for what Owen saw emboldened him even more. In the Dragon’s eyes was more than shock or disbelief or even anger—it was abject fear.