The Author's Blood

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “Then I can kill him?”

  “No. Leave him near death so I can finish him off. Be careful. Like his father, he is crafty.”

  “I won’t let you down, sire.”

  Owen knew his friends had not likely ever seen such a horrible beast. It crawled onto the arena floor, its spiny body oozing.

  Vaxors in the stands chanted, “Slugspike! Slugspike!” and soon the entire coliseum rocked with the sound of the name.

  Meanwhile, a vaxor had wounded one tigren, which now cowered, licking a spear wound. The vaxors were regrouping when Owen released another tigren. It emerged with a roar, and the approaching vaxors quickly retreated, giving Owen time to release two more.

  However, when the snarling, roaring beasts had chased the vaxors back to the entrances, Slugspike advanced on the tigren, and the mere sight of him turned them into frightened cats.

  Owen stood between his friends and Slugspike, staring him down. He turned and said, “Those spines shoot venom. Don’t anyone try to run.”

  “It’s useless trying to protect them, Wormling,” Slugspike said. “Now step aside, and I’ll make this as painless as possible.”

  “If you harm even one of them,” Owen said, “your master’s offspring will die.”

  Slugspike drew close and whispered with a hideous smile, “And what do I care about my master’s offspring?”

  A stream of liquid shot from him, and Owen repelled it with his sword. It bore holes in the sand, sizzling and smoking.

  Slugspike faced the tigren, calling, “Here, kitty, kitty.”

  They scampered away.

  “Don’t harm them,” Owen said.

  “Like to give orders, do we?” Slugspike shot venom across the arena that hit the wall and ate through it. Adjusting his aim, he caught a tigren in the back, and the animal gave a piercing cry.

  Owen set his jaw, adjusting his grip on the sword.

  The second and third tigren went down with equally haunting howls, and then Slugspike waved the vaxors back out.

  They approached at a gallop, backing the citizens toward a wall where they endured a crescendo of taunts from the crowd.

  “Kill them! Kill them!”

  Rotten food and stones and fermented drinks rained down, and the crowd celebrated as the vaxor force pushed forward, leaving space for Slugspike to get through.

  “Trapped, Wormling,” Slugspike said. “Outnumbered. Surrounded. Give me the sword and I will dispatch your friends quickly.”

  Owen closed his eyes. “‘. . . for it is not by strength or cunning or a man’s power but by my spirit that you will overcome the evil one.’”

  “Take the sword,” Slugspike said, and several vaxors advanced with spears and pitchforklike weapons with three points.

  As quickly as Owen subdued one vaxor, two more moved in, swinging their weapons. Owen knocked them away, and soon seven vaxors lay in their own blood.

  But one slipped behind Owen and knocked the sword free. A vaxor landed on it and Owen fell back, now holding only a vaxor weapon. He called for his sword, but the vaxor’s enormous body held it fast.

  At that very moment, the ground began to soften and swirl. Slugspike’s grimy feet swayed and tipped, and he thrust out his arms for balance. His face contorted as he began to sink.

  The vaxors scrambled to get away, and the one with Owen’s sword rolled away with it.

  Owen, still whispering, pushed his friends back just as Slugspike was pulled under and then thrust on top of a mound of earth. With a sudden burst of rock and loamy soil, two sets of teeth sprang forth, engulfing Slugspike.

  The crowd recoiled, aghast at such a monster.

  Venom shot from his every inch and spine as Slugspike fought for his life. Vaxors in the stands were hit with his venom and fell onto the arena floor, writhing and squirming before lying motionless.

  With a final effort, Slugspike clawed his way to the top, but the teeth of the great beast caught him. Slugspike screamed, and venom oozed through the teeth of the gigantic worm. Slugspike’s hands rolled from the mouth of the beast and onto the ground near Owen, clenching and unclenching, sizzling with venom.

  Tears streamed down Owen’s cheeks; he knew Mucker had swallowed the poison to protect him and the others. Owen rushed to him as he plopped onto the arena floor. Stretched out here, Mucker looked regal though weary. The venom was already taking effect.

  “I’m sorry,” Owen said, putting a hand on his old friend’s head. “I put you through so much.”

  Mucker’s teeth were already gone, eaten away by Slugspike’s venom. He nodded weakly and turned his head. “I would give my life many times over for you, Son of the King.”

  Owen looked on in wonder. “You speak? All this time . . .”

  “I was told not to speak to you. Your father wanted you to read his words, and now they are part of you. You have almost fulfilled them all, and I have completed my task.”

  Owen knelt beside his friend. “I knew you would come to help. I didn’t know it would cost your life.”

  Owen turned to the approaching vaxors and started running at the one who held his sword. He picked up several weapons as he passed vaxor bodies, hacking and lunging as wide-eyed vaxors moved back. Clanging swords, vaxors screaming in pain, Owen’s face marked with blood and sweat and grime, he finally thrust a spear into the leg of the one who had his sword. The vaxor let go momentarily and Owen yelled, “Sword!”

  It flew to him, and he raced back to Mucker, hoping he could use it to heal him. But he felt a gush of flame and turned to see the Dragon standing over the charred and crackling remains of his friend.

  Rage filled Owen, and it was all he could do to keep from throwing his sword at the Dragon right then. He knew that would do no good, as it would not reach the beast’s heart through his mass of scales.

  “Overcome with grief?” the Dragon said. “Imagine how you’ll feel when they are engulfed.” He gurgled and snorted.

  Owen ran, shouting, “Now!”

  The Dragon’s chest puffed, he threw his head back, and Owen slid to a stop in front of his band of followers. Rogers was in front, trying to protect those behind him. Brave Rogers. Owen had known the moment he saw him that he was a warrior.

  Before the fire erupted from the Dragon’s throat, brown wings flapped behind the beast and a sharp beak sank into the scales on his neck. The Dragon roared, and the fire flew off course high into the stands, roasting a whole section of vaxors who screamed and died in agony.

  Machree flew to Owen, who told the others to climb onto his back.

  “Machree, you traitor!” the Dragon roared, blowing another blast of fire.

  But Owen blocked it with the sword, then hurled the weapon at the Dragon’s throat. It stuck there, giving his friends time to escape.

  “Your kingdom is built on the sand of this city,” Machree said as he flew up and over the booing crowd. “Only fools follow a defeated leader.”

  “Sword!” Owen called, and it slid from the Dragon’s neck and back to him.

  The Dragon clutched his bleeding throat and rasped, “Your bride and your detestable Mucker are dead, and your followers have abandoned you. And you cannot kill me, not with that puny sword.”

  “Your kingdom falls without a successor,” Owen said. “You are nothing without your offspring.”

  The two turned round and round in the center of the arena, the crowd hooting in a frenzy.

  Finally the Dragon spoke. “I will make you one final offer. Return the egg and she will live.”

  Velvel pushed a brown-haired girl forward.

  “Clara!” Owen said.

  Her hands were tied in back, and tears streamed down her cheeks. “Owen, I’m so sorry! I tried to protect Connie.”

  “You did well,” he said, keeping an eye on the Dragon and his vaxors. “Don’t give up hope.”

  “How sweet,” the Dragon said. “Siblings conversing. No, dear, don’t give up. I might even let you live long enough to see him barbecued.”
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br />   The crowd cheered, but Owen’s response quieted them. “Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake? How do you know this isn’t my bride and that you killed the wrong girl?”

  The Dragon smirked, hesitating. Then, “What does it matter? One is dead and the other soon will be.”

  Someone in the box jumped up and hurtled toward Velvel, knocking him down and, with one slice of her bonds, freeing Clara. Mr. Reeder!

  He hauled Clara toward an exit, but several vaxors intercepted them.

  “A valiant attempt, you sniveling turncoat,” the Dragon said. “I believed you when you said you could draw out the Wormling, but I didn’t think you planned to defend him.”

  “You lied to me from the beginning,” Mr. Reeder said. “To me and my wife.”

  “My, my,” the Dragon said. “Such bravado in the face of death.”

  As the Dragon gurgled, preparing to release his fire, Owen put his sword down. “Release them and I’ll take you to the egg.”

  The Dragon turned, his tail slithering in the sand. “Take me?”

  “Just you and me,” Owen said. “No invisible flyers. No vaxor guards. Just the two of us.”

  “And if there is no egg?” the Dragon said.

  “Then you can kill me. I assure you, upon my word and the memory of my father, it is there.”

  The Dragon thought a moment. “Give me your word that you will not attack me with that sword as we fly.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Release them!” the Dragon said.

  The Dragon cackled as he carried Owen over the throng of cheering worshippers. “Stay and await my return!” he shouted. “I shall bring your next ruler with me!”

  Having the King’s Son so close gave the Dragon secret glee. How fitting that they were together now at the pinnacle of the Dragon’s rule. He had conquered the enemy, scattering everyone except the Son, and would soon have control of the Highlands. In fact, his very own son or daughter could rule the Highlands when old enough. Perfect.

  No one need see the Dragon kill this human—once he knew the egg’s location, he could merely tip the Wormling from his back and let him fall. Then he would display the body in the arena, slice open the croc, and put the body of the girl next to him.

  Soon he would teach his own offspring to belch fire. He or she could ride on the Dragon’s back. His son or daughter would rule the kingdom with fire and eradicate every enemy.

  “Fly east,” the boy said, his teeth chattering in the frigid air at that altitude.

  Dark clouds appeared on the horizon, and lightning flashed. Perfect weather for a death, the Dragon thought.

  When they neared what was left of the White Mountain, the lad told the Dragon to fly lower. He felt the Wormling lean and look down. He wants to see his friends one last time.

  “Turn here,” he said.

  “Not to the White Mountain?” the Dragon said.

  The boy did not answer.

  The Dragon rose to where it was even colder. He had no temperature issues, with his many layers of scales. The only place on his body that had fewer were his legs, where the boy had sliced him in the castle long ago. Lightning flashed again, and the Dragon flew through wind pockets that bounced them about.

  The boy struggled to hang on and soon called out, “Land over there. I need a minute.”

  “We must reach the egg as quickly as possible,” the Dragon said. “My crowd awaits—”

  “Now,” the boy said, “in that cave, out of the weather, or I’ll spill the contents of my stomach on your back.”

  Soon they were down and the lad was inside, retching and coughing.

  The Dragon shook his head, rolled his eyes, and peered into the cave. Familiar. Something about this reminded him . . . that was it, the hole in the wall. This was the location of one portal. And there, before the opening the Wormling had no doubt breached, was a linen cloth that bore Drucilla’s family crest. It covered something round and large, and as the Dragon reached for it, he heard a voice.

  “Now you see I was telling the truth,” the boy said. There was a zing of metal upon metal. “Your offspring is nearly ready to hatch.”

  The Dragon pulled off the cloth and gazed admiringly at the egg, all veiny and thick. “Yes,” he hissed. “It could be with us at any moment.” He was so enamored of the egg that he almost missed the buzzing. He had heard that sound before in the castle. RHM had been there.

  “My father gave me the power to rule the animal kingdom,” the boy said. “Two of your flyers learned to follow my every command. Those tigren obeyed me because they know my father.”

  The Dragon looked around, trying to determine the origin of the sound. “You can’t order me about!”

  “You are not of the animal kingdom. You are pure evil, and that is why you must be killed as well as your offspring.”

  The Dragon smiled warily. “And how do you plan to do that? You have no army. You have just one weapon, and it cannot penetrate my—”

  “I need only the words of the King.”

  “Words, words, words. I prefer action.”

  “Very well,” the boy said. “Then hear these words of action.”

  The Dragon prepared to blast fire, but before he could, the boy shouted, “Attack!”

  The force of his voice surprised the Dragon. The buzzing increased, and when a dark beast flew out of the tunnel left by the Mucker, the Dragon belched fire too late. The nestor had already flown behind him and sunk his stinger into the flesh behind the Dragon’s head.

  * * *

  As the Dragon belched flames wildly about the cave, Owen raised his sword high and moved toward the egg, careful to stay away from the Dragon’s deadly, thrashing tail.

  The Dragon crashed his head against the back of the cave, and the nestor fell. The Dragon, rage in his eyes and the nestor’s venom coursing through him, blasted a furious stream of fire that Owen had to block with his sword. Some of the flames diverted to the egg and charred it.

  “Get away!” the Dragon roared, lunging at Owen but falling.

  Owen was able to get beyond the reach of his razorlike talons, but when the Dragon swiped at him again, his claw sent the weapon flying. Owen scrambled back and called for it, but as it came he saw the Dragon bent over the egg, holding it in his reptilian arms.

  Owen couldn’t let the Dragon get away, so he rammed his sword through his tail and into the earth, pinning him and causing him to emit an unearthly howl. He blasted fire again, but Owen remained behind the sword, untouched.

  The nestor rose from the floor and lodged itself in the Dragon’s chest, burrowing through the scales. Already the Dragon was turning gray, and try as he might, he couldn’t pull the sword out.

  Suddenly the Dragon pivoted, his tail still pinned to the floor, and extended his body as far toward the cave entrance as it would go. He then heaved the egg so high into the sky that it became a tiny speck before disappearing into the distance.

  “You killed your own offspring,” Owen said.

  “Perhaps,” the Dragon rasped. “At least you will not have the satisfaction. And your pain will be even greater than mine. You will never marry the one your father chose.”

  “Wrong,” Owen said. “The croc you captured is a friend of mine named Rotag.”

  “But he devoured her! I watched him!”

  “She was unharmed,” Owen said. “Even now we prepare for the ceremony my father envisioned long ago. And there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

  With a mighty lunge, the Dragon pulled free, leaving half his tail in the cave. He flew lopsided and weaving, the nestor buzzing around him.

  Owen readied himself to fling the sword at the Dragon’s chest, where the nestor had thinned out his scales, but he held up as the Dragon escaped.

  Wings flapped below the entrance, and a brown bird rose. “You didn’t kill him?” Machree said.

  “Soon,” Owen said. “Let’s get back to the coliseum.”

  RHM had ordered the clowns back to the
center of the arena, but the vaxors in the stands grew restless, watching the skies for any sign of their leader. Velvel asked to speak with him, and RHM moved back into the corridor.

  “We must face the possibility of our leader not returning,” Velvel said.

  “What?” RHM said, aghast. “A mere boy against a dragon? He cannot win.”

  “There is a strength in him I have never seen,” Velvel said. “In the face of defeat, he remained sure of his father’s power and eventual victory.” He drew closer, looking around as if to make sure he wasn’t heard. “He told me his father still lives.”

  “Impossible!” RHM said. “We had reports. This cloaked figure—if it truly was the enemy of our leader—was thrown down by the entire minion horde. He could not have survived.”

  “Do you have his body?” the vaxor said.

  “No, but he could never survive. . . .”

  “You thought the Wormling could not survive the Dragon’s fire in the White Mountain.”

  RHM eyed Velvel suspiciously. “Do I detect a weakening in your allegiance to our king?”

  The vaxor shook his head. “No, but I admit the boy nearly swayed me. He speaks with strong conviction and purpose. I can see how people would be drawn to him.”

  RHM pressed a tentacle into Velvel’s chest. “If the Dragon does not return, I will be king. I will show this pip-squeak that he cannot thwart our plans. And I expect your complete devotion.”

  “You will have it, sir.”

  “Now, what else did he tell you?”

  “That the Dragon would be weakened before returning for the final battle. And that the Wormling’s army would march on Dragon City and—”

  “His army! His army?” RHM laughed. “He has no army! They are either dead or on the run. He is deluded.” He grabbed Velvel and pulled him close. “No more talk of this utter fantasy. Kill the croc and bring me the old woman’s remains.”

  Enjoy your freedom,” an ugly vaxor said. “While it lasts.” He threw Clara and Mr. Reeder to the ground outside the city.

  Mr. Reeder helped her up. She was unsure where to go, knowing the vaxors could return soon to hunt them down and drag them back to the coliseum.