The Pitchfork of Destiny

by Jack Heckel

  There was a woman who gave a satisfying cry of terror and jerked her horse back away from him, but the old man who rode beside her, holding a staff just stared at Gnarsh, seemingly unafraid.

  “Dracomancer,” the woman shouted. “Run!”

  Gnarsh gnashed his razor-­sharp teeth and clashed his daggerlike talons, but still the old man did not move. Instead, he turned his horse and addressed the woman. “You want an answer to your question, Lady Elizabeth?”

  “No,” she said, still trying to control her own nervously prancing mount. “I just want us not to get eaten.”

  “But you won’t, Lady Elizabeth,” he said calmly, “because although you are quite right that I don’t have the power to fight dragons or even trolls, and that I have no intention of fighting either, you fail to understand that I did not bring my followers with me to bear witness to my deeds. I brought them to be an army.”

  At that moment, the ground began to shake, and a mass of humans, more humans than Gnarsh had ever seen, topped the little rise behind the man and began rushing toward the bridge. The old man in the black cloak held up his staff, and they stopped.

  He rose in his stirrups and pointed the staff at Gnarsh. “Friends, Dracolytes, this creature wishes to stop us from reaching Prosper and fulfilling our destiny. Teach him what happens to those that stand in the way of the Dragon Spirit.”

  There was an inhuman roar of deranged anger from the mob, then they surged forward and around the man in the cloak like a living wave. Gnarsh swung about with his boulder-­sized arms and his daggerlike talons. Dozens fell before him, and the bridge grew slick with the blood of the dying and the dead, but the living showed no fear of Gnarsh, or of the random bits and pieces of their comrades that were strewn about. In a moment, he was swarmed and grasped from all sides. He tried to fight back, but there were too many of them, and before he realized what was happening, they had started pulling him apart.

  Gnarsh felt one arm, then the other pop free from his shoulders. He heard his legs snap and break. They hefted his head high, and tossed it off the bridge, where it landed with a splash in the river.

  It wasn’t right. Not at all.

  “This is not right,” Liz shouted as she watched the mayhem on the bridge with horror. “Make them stop,” she pleaded with the Dracomancer. “Can’t you see that ­people are dying? Your ­people are dying!”

  “Yes,” the Dracomancer said in a slow, low drawl, not taking his eyes from the melee. “They are, aren’t they? Sacrificing themselves in my name.”

  “Don’t you care?”

  “Of course I care,” he said.

  “How can you let this happen?” she asked, her voice breaking.

  He had a strange, twisted smile on his face. “You misjudge me, Lady Elizabeth,” he said in a hissing whisper meant only for her. “I don’t care that they are dying, but I do care a great deal that they are willing to die for me. When we left Two Trees, I had some doubts about their devotion. This demonstration puts my mind at rest. Their unquestioning zeal will make sending them after the dragon that much easier. Don’t you think?”

  The Dracomancer watched, quite placidly, as his army disposed of the last bits of the troll. When they were finished, he held up his staff, and the Dracolytes who were not dead or maimed all turned to salute him, each in their own unique fashion.

  Over the groans of the wounded and dying, he exclaimed, “Today, my Dracolytes, thanks to the power of the Dragon Spirit, we have achieved a great victory. This dark and gruesome beast was clearly in league with the dragon, and had been sent here to prevent our reaching the dragon’s lair. Let this day be a testament to those who still doubt. There is nothing that can stand between our destiny and us. The dragon will fall!”

  The Dracolytes roared in exultation and the Dracomancer leaned over to Liz. “Forgive me, Lady Elizabeth, but I think we will have to continue our fascinating conversation at another time.” Then the Dracomancer rode across the bridge and led the mob down into Prosper. As they marched, they picked up the song they had been singing before.

  “If you ask why we sing

  And why it is that bells should ring

  If you need our one true answer

  It’s because we follow . . . the Dracomancer!

  DRACOMANCER, DRACOMANCER!

  He commands the spirits and the mystic flame.

  He shall make the dragon writhe in pain

  All must acknowledge the world’s new master.

  Put your faith in the Dracomancer!

  DRACOMANCER, DRACOMANCER!”

  Liz sat motionless on her horse, an island trapped in a tide of the Dracomancer’s followers. Finally, Tomas reached her. To the grizzled old squire, she looked lost. He went to her.

  “What’s the matter, Your Ladyship?” he asked in as kind a tone as the gruffness of his voice would allow.

  She was silent a moment, then shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry I got us into this mess. I’ve been a fool, Tomas.”

  “Come on, now, don’t say that.”

  “But, it’s true, Tomas. I didn’t see. I didn’t understand what he meant to do.”

  “What does he mean to do?” he asked, the gruffness returning as he readied himself for the worse.

  “He . . . he means to send all those ­people to their deaths,” she sobbed. “He’s going to march them up the mountains to Dragon Tower to attack the dragon. So many will die, and for what? The dragon will kill them all. It is pointless.”

  “It’s madness, that’s what it is, Your Ladyship. They won’t do it,” Tomas said hopefully. “He can’t make them, and they won’t do it. No one will listen to him.”

  “But he can, and they will,” she said, looking up at him with tears running down her cheeks. “That’s what I didn’t understand. I thought he was a charlatan, but he does have power, only it isn’t over dragons, it’s over ­people. He has them so convinced he is a prophet that they would follow him off a cliff if he told them it was their destiny.”

  “Then they must be barking also.”

  “Maybe,” she said with a resigned shrug. “Who knows? But even if they are, we can’t let this happen.”

  “But how can we stop it? As long as the dragon is there, the Dracomancer seems determined to try something.”

  Liz stared at Tomas, her head cocked at an angle as though listening to something very far away. “I don’t know that we can stop it, but maybe I know someone who can.”

  One of the Dracoviziers rode over and gestured for them to move on. Liz and Tomas rejoined the marching horde. While her time with the Dracomancer had been illuminating, it no longer suited her purposes. She needed to escape.

  Liz leaned down so that she was close to Tomas’s ear and whispered, “How good are you at distractions?”

  Tomas cracked his knuckles and bent his mouth into an evil grin. “Fair, Your Ladyship.”

  Carried downstream by the current of the River Running, Gnarsh’s head bobbed along with the other remains of his body. Gnarsh would have sighed had he still had lungs. Instead, he satisfied himself with rolling his googly eyes in despair. It would take him weeks to regenerate.

  It wasn’t right. Not at all.

  And it was at that moment that Gnarsh vowed to abandon lurking and bridges altogether and return to retirement in the mountains, where he could live in peace—­where all he would have to worry about were the goats.

  CHAPTER 10

  DRACOMOCRACY IN ACTION

  When Will Pickett first made up his mind to seek out Gwendolyn Mostfair, there had been no doubt in his mind. Being that rarest of person, someone who has spoken with a dragon and not ended the conversation inside the dragon’s belly, the former Princess would know far more about dragons than anyone else in the land, and Will knew in his heart that Gwendolyn would help him if she could. She wouldn’t suffer any woman to be imprisoned by
a dragon. With her as his goal, the stubborn determination that he had wasted on his attempt to head north was now completely redirected to getting back to his old farm.

  As the days passed, however, he had time to reflect on his decision. It wasn’t that the prospect of talking to Gwendolyn frightened him, but she had used her magic to enslave him and nearly forced him to marry her. It wasn’t that he worried about the reception he might get from her, but who was to say how she felt now that she’d spent months as a common farmer on, to put it mildly, the humble Pickett homestead in Prosper? Will recalled quite vividly how delicate she was and how particular she was about her comforts. What if her thankfulness for his mercy had turned to thoughts of revenge? What if she’d turned back to sorcery?

  Will felt that he should talk about his doubts, but the only person he had to share his concerns with was Charming, and Charming was now taking his role as dragonslayer instructor very seriously. Will knew that this was exactly what he’d been asking for, but the timing, order and subject of these lessons was, peculiar, to say the least. One moment, Charming would be talking in intimate detail about dragon anatomy and the best points to strike for maximum effectiveness, and the next he would be discussing, with equal seriousness, the relative effects different hat styles had on one’s profile. Charming was currently, and had for the past hour, been talking about one of his favorite topics, the state of their clothing and his appearance.

  “Will, I wish you hadn’t run off from the cottage like that. It makes the second time you haven’t given me the proper chance to pack extra clothes, and now we are beginning to see the consequences. I don’t think dirt is a look that I can pull off. I mean, if I were going to be a farmer, I suppose I’d have to find a way, perhaps by being more of an advisory-­farmer than a laboring-­farmer. Oh, and I think it would be better for us not to use our real names unless absolutely necessary. Our reputations would suffer terribly. I also wanted to talk to you about your eyebrows. A well-­shaped eyebrow must be at the very top of your . . .”

  Will stopped listening, something he was getting better and better at. Even if he did broach the topic of Gwendolyn, he couldn’t envision Charming giving him the sort of levelheaded advice he was looking for. Besides, what could they do? Whether Gwendolyn hated him or not, they still needed to at least try to speak to her. And, if she wouldn’t help, he still felt confident that every moment they came closer to Prosper was a moment closer to Elle.

  At his mind’s mention of her name, his thoughts wandered onto the topic of Elle and lingered there as they rode. At some point, Will realized that it was almost evening. Long shadows covered the road. He looked about. They were riding in a deeper part of the wood. Ruins could be seen partially hidden among the trees. There was a crumbling stone wall, covered in vines, and through the broken stones, the last few rays of the setting sun fell on gravestones. He thought of Elle, about how long she had been gone, about what he might do if the unthinkable happened. His throat tightened. His eyes burned, and he started blinking.

  “Getting tired, I see,” said Charming. “Understandable. I have been cramming a lot of dragon-­slaying wisdom into you, and it must be exhausting. I know it has been for me.” He put a hand to his jaw and flexed it. “Let’s stop and set up camp.”

  Charming dismounted and began tying his horse to a tree directly opposite the cemetery. In the next moments, Charming was setting up camp. Will was distracted and useless. He kept looking at the graves and thinking of Elle.

  “Charming? Do you ever worry about dying?” Will regretted the question as soon as he asked it.

  A fire crackled to life, and Charming fed larger and larger sticks and branches onto the growing flames as he answered. “Yes, of course. Rather goes with the trade, you know.” He sat on a log and extended his booted feet to the fire. “It used to be a bit of a hobby of mine, actually. I’ve always been pretty sure I’d do it well. I have imagined dozens of different dramatic and poignant deaths. In one, I expire, wounded and bleeding, after victoriously battling dozens of enemies to save the kingdom. In another, I sacrifice myself to stop an evil enchanter from stealing all the children of the land away using a magical flute or something like that. I’ll admit it’s a bit of a rough draft. Though lately, I’ve been thinking that, perhaps, if I’m lucky—­”

  Charming stopped and looked thoughtful.

  “What?”

  Charming said wistfully, “Maybe I’ll pass quietly in bed as a wrinkled old man with Liz stroking my forehead and my children all about me.”

  “You have changed, Charming.”

  “I know,” said Charming. “I’ve gone terribly soft.”

  “No, it’s a good thing,” Will assured him. “I guess I thought your advice on dying well would be . . . I don’t know, more dramatic.”

  Charming laughed. “No, no, Will. It’s a common misapprehension for the layman, but the truth is that one of the great boons of being a dragonslayer is that you are guaranteed a good death. You might be boiled alive by dragon fire or lashed to pieces by its tail. You might be bitten in twain between the dragon’s jaws or ripped asunder by its claws. Regardless, it will be dramatic.”

  Will paled at this list of violent ends, but Charming continued airily, “No, the only danger for the dragonslayer is of their death not being properly chronicled by the minstrels. That is why I have already deposited several volumes of suitable ­couplets, ballads, elegies, laments, odes, threnodies, and, of course, a multivolume epic that may be used on my death. My only regret is that I won’t get to hear the verses put to song.”

  Charming frowned, then shrugged the thought off. “Oh, well, I suppose there is nothing to be done about that now. If we survive this, maybe I’ll work with the Bremen-­Four and Norm to set them to music.” He looked up at Will with a quick smile. “I’m getting a little hungry. How about you?”

  Will shook his head. He couldn’t imagine eating right now. The discussion of death and dying had been a mistake, and he felt jumpy.

  “No? Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll look around for some game,” Charming said, rising and grabbing a bow and a quiver of arrows from his pack. “You should rest. You are looking a little pale.”

  Will nodded and watched Charming stalk off into the night. Almost immediately, a cold mist began rising out of the ground and creeping about the trunks of the trees and the stones in the graveyard. The horses picketed at the edge of the firelight whinnied nervously. Fear born of a hundred scary bedtime stories crept inside Will’s head. He began to shiver in earnest and also to become intensely aware of all the little nighttime noises around him, the crackling of leaves, the rubbing of branches, a bird crying in the night, furtive, shuffling footsteps.

  Probably Charming, he told himself.

  As he listened, the footsteps grew more distinct. Whoever or whatever it was was coming his direction.

  Must be Charming, he reassured his nerves.

  But, Charming always walked with a bold, determined stride. Whatever this was had a shuffle in its step. It was not the clomp, clomp of Charming, but more of a clomp, clomp, drag, clomp, clomp, drag.

  Perhaps he is dragging game behind him.

  Will stared into the misty night, turning his head this way and that, trying to locate the source of the sound. At first, he could see nothing, but as the ominous “clomp, clomp, drag” grew closer, he saw the silhouette of something approaching through the mist. It was a shuffling misshapen form, ragged and hunched. Will fumbled in his pack for his sword, got to his feet, and stood with his back to the fire, watching the figure approach.

  Will heard a strangled coughing sound and the shuffling “clomp, clomp, drag” began to come faster. The figure was much closer and making low, groaning noises. Will wiped the sweat from his palms and gripped his sword even tighter.

  A rasping strangled sound came from it. The figure stopped and hacked for a moment. There was a terrible wet n
oise, and Charming said, “There you are. Much better, I’m sure. When we get to the fire, I can make you some tea.”

  “Oh, thank you, dearie,” came the voice of an old woman.

  Will exhaled as Charming came into the circle of light carrying a heavy bag in one hand and supporting an ancient-­looking woman with his other. She was wrapped in a deeply hooded cloak and was so bent that her body was almost doubled over.

  Charming carefully lowered the woman to sit on a stone near the fire, then dropped the bag with a thump onto the ground beside her. The top of the bag opened, and a handful of apples so red and beautiful that they were almost irresistible rolled out.

  “Apples!” proclaimed Charming. “They look wonderful. May I?”

  “Of course, dearie,” cackled the old woman. She drew back her hood, and long white hair spilled out. “I’m sorry I interrupted your hunt, young man, I was just heading home, and the time got the best of me. Thank you ever so much for inviting me to share your fire.”

  “It’s nothing,” Charming said, “My brother . . .” he winked elaborately at Will, “Van Winkle and I . . .” he winked again, “Rip Winkle, are always ready to assist our fellow traveler.”

  Will’s thoughts whirled about. He didn’t mind Charming’s making up names for them, although Rip and Van Winkle sounded ridiculous, but the apples bothered him. It was the wrong season, and they were too perfect. He remembered tales about witches and poison apples. If she was a witch, what better way than to kill naïve and unsuspecting travelers like Charming than with something as seemingly harmless as an apple?

  “Wait,” said Will.

  Charming held the apple in front of his open mouth. He paused. “What is it, Van? If you want one, there are plenty, Van. I’m sure the good woman won’t mind, Van.”

  “Not at all, not at all,” she said with another cackle and, reaching into the bag with her bony white hand, she plucked a particularly juicy-­looking one and handed it over to Will.