The Pitchfork of Destiny

by Jack Heckel

  Tremendous gasps and screams came from the crowd. The mass of ­people surged forward. Beside him, Charming was laughing and slashing his sword and challenging the world to come at him if they would.

  Will stood, aghast, looking out over the jeering crowd. He recognized faces among the ­people gathered. There was Tuck, the blacksmith’s son, and Hans Pickle, the pig farmer. He saw the Old Geezer who told stories for a drink and Merle, the self-­declared one true beggar of Prosper. Agnes the shepherdess was standing to one side of the stage waving her large, hooked staff about. Closer up, he could see Gretel holding her arms up to the Dracomancer as though enraptured. And those were only the ones he could identify in the torchlight. How many other faces did he know?

  The ­people of Prosper may never been have good to Liz and him, but they were still his ­people. It was his selfishness that had brought them all to this place. He had run off, thinking only of Elle and himself, and not of the kingdom. He knew what he must do.

  Will grasped Charming by the arm and, pulling him toward him, said in a low voice, “Charming, you cannot fight them.”

  “Never fear, Your Majesty. There are several moves that only work when fighting armies of men that I have been waiting a chance to try,” Charming said in a voice that matched the eagerness of his eyes as he continued to whirl his sword back and forth, letting the steel whistle.

  “No, Charming, I mean that I will not let you hurt them.”

  Charming’s face fell. “My King, I can put an end to this.”

  Will studied the man at his side. Charming would do what he thought was right and continue to believe that somehow he would succeed right up to the point that the mob overwhelmed him, and he would not stop fighting until they had killed him. He might slaughter half of Prosper before they eventually dragged him down, but Will knew that they could not win. Not this fight. Not even with Charming’s sword. And Will was certain that he would not want to. How could he live with himself if he allowed such a slaughter? Will knew that he would kneel before the Dracomancer and surrender himself before he allowed that.

  “No, Charming. Do what you can to give me time to speak, but harm no one,” Will ordered.

  “As you command, Your Majesty,” Charming said grimly, and, with a flourish of steel, he took a defensive position at Will’s back.

  Will straightened to his full height and spread his shoulders. He stepped to the very front of the stage, and, holding up his hands, shouted, ­“People of Royaume and citizens of Prosper, your King speaks.”

  This made the crowd only shout louder, trying to drown him out with their chants of “DING DONG” and “DRACOMANCER,” but Will was implacable. He felt his face flush, but as to whether it was from anger or resolve, he wasn’t sure.

  “ENOUGH!” he roared. “I WILL BE HEARD!”

  A hush fell across Prosper. The only sound was the crackle of the torches. The sock puppet vanished inside the Dracomancer’s cloak.

  Will stared about at the gathered ­people. His eye fell on Gretel’s face. Memories of their time together flooded through his mind. He reminded himself that it was her and all the others like her that depended on what he did next. They were, for the most part, good ­people. They might be fools for believing what they’d been told, but they did not deserve the death that would await them if he did not succeed here. He took a deep breath and began.

  “You have been told many things by this man whom you call the Dracomancer. He has told you that only he can defeat the dragon, and he has convinced you that with his power at your side, the dragon cannot stand before you.”

  “And he’s right!’ shouted a tall, thin young man with straw-­colored hair at the foot of the stage. Agreement was echoed all around.

  Will fixed his eyes on the young man and addressed him directly. “I have seen a dragon. I have run for my life as it fell upon me. I have felt the unearthly heat of its breath and the hurricane wind of its wings. I have prayed in the darkness of the night that when the end came, it would be swift.”

  A silence had fallen on the ­people. They stared at him, spellbound. He felt the tears rise in his eyes and raised his gaze to take in the larger crowd. “I have also borne witness to the attack that this new dragon made on Castle White, when he took . . . took my Lady Rapunzel. I can barely describe the power of the creature. How it tore away the side of the castle. How the steel arrows of our archers bounced from his hide like rain from a stone.”

  “If this man”—­he pointed at the Dracomancer—­“tells you that he can keep you safe from the dragon, and that you will return unharmed from the Dragon’s Tower to your homes and fields, either he lies, or he is mad. Dragons are not monsters to be faced and fought. They are forces of nature, and going to battle with one is like going to battle with a raging storm. You may scream to the wind, but the wind will still blow. You may shake your fist at the heavens, but the lightning will not be denied.”

  “This, then, is the courage of the King,” the Dracomancer said, stepping forward and giving a mock bow to Will. “His judgment is that we should once again submit ourselves to the ravages of the beast. Rather than face the creature, he would have us hide ourselves in our homes and in our cellars like rats and let another dragon ravage our land for generations. Your name is well earned, Yellow King William.”

  Once again, jeers rained down on Will. He stood looking out at them with a flat, steely expression. In time, the very lack of reaction from Will seemed to sap the energy of the crowd, and they grew quiet.

  “This you have also been told,” Will said, and he could not keep the anger from his voice. “That I am a coward. This man has told you that you were abandoned by your King, and that I care not for you. It is a monstrous falsehood. I have never rested in my hunt for the dragon. I have never abandoned you. This dragon has ravaged the homes and flocks of my ­people. This dragon has stolen my beloved. I . . . I hate it.”

  This last he spit so viciously that he had to pause before he could continue. He happened to glance down and saw that there were tears in Gretel’s eyes, and in the eyes of many in the crowd.

  Will steadied himself and felt his face turn to stone with his resolve. “All I ask is that you delay your march and give me a chance to go to the Dragon’s Tower. Stay here in safety, my ­people, and let me prove myself again to you. Let me prove that I am worthy of your trust. Let me, once and for all, earn the title dragonslayer.”

  The ­people were silent. A tension filled the air, as though everyone gathered was collectively holding their breath. For the first time, the Dracomancer looked nervous, and he licked his lips and raised his hand. “Your Majesty makes a stirring speech, but how can we trust you with such a mission? Your sister, Lady Elizabeth, has shown herself to be corrupted by the dragon, your beloved is in the dragon’s clutches, and, by your own admission, you have no faith that any man can face a dragon attack. Should you falter and be seduced by the dragon, then your ­people would be under even greater threat.”

  Had Will not restrained his arm when the Dracomancer mentioned Liz, Charming might have run the man through right there. “I will not let him speak of Liz like that,” Charming hissed.

  “Patience, Charming,” he said, and gave his friend a knowing look. “I am determined.” Charming nodded and lowered his sword.

  Will looked down at the Dracomancer, who, even in his bulky cloak and tall boots was still shorter than the King. “I understand that you profess to believe in letting the ­people have a say in the course of their own destinies.” He gave the Dracomancer no time to answer but turned back to the crowd. “I am your King. This fight should fall on my shoulders and not anyone else’s, and certainly not women and children. If you will send me on this quest, I promise I will fight the monster to my dying breath, and I will not return save with the dragon’s defeat. What say you?”

  There was a profound silence that stretched until Will was certain he had fail
ed, but then a single voice that could have only been Gretel’s said, “Let’s give Will . . . the King . . . a chance.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement from the crowd. The Dracomancer held up his hands for silence and eyed Will with a shrewd expression. “You would undertake this quest alone?”

  “Yes,” Will said sternly.

  The Dracomancer nodded, and said, “Give me a moment to confer with the dragon spirits.” He gestured, and the handful of men in robes who had shared the stage came to huddle about him.

  Charming came and whispered in Will’s ear. “What about me, Your Majesty? Surely I will join you.”

  Will shook his head. “No, Charming. Not this time.”

  “But—­”

  “No,” Will said, clasping the man’s shoulder in his hand. “You must stay here and find Liz and Tomas. You must make sure no harm comes to them or to Gwendolyn or to any of these ­people. It is my last wish as your King. Do you understand?”

  Charming nodded and, with his own hand, clutched Will’s shoulder. “It will be as you command, Your Majesty, my King.”

  The huddle between the Dracomancer and Dracoviziers broke apart. The Dracomancer stepped to the edge of the stage. With a sweeping gesture, he announced, “William is our true King. Yes, he may have vanished from the land when we needed him most, but he has sought me out, a sure sign of wisdom on his part. His quest may well end in failure, but I put it to you that he deserves the chance to redeem himself for his failures. Do you agree?”

  The ­people roared their assent.

  “It is decided,” he said, and to forestall any cheering, he raised a finger to the sky. ”But, to further prove my loyalty to His Majesty, the King, I also say that we, the ­people of the Dragon Spirit, should give him our greatest boon. I say that we render unto him the Pitchfork of Destiny, that with it, guided by his mighty arm and our prayers, he might strike down the ravening beast of the sky, the Great Dragon of the North. What say you to this?”

  He thrust the pitchfork high, and an even louder roar erupted from the crowd.

  “It is decided. Let no one say that we did not send him forth with every chance to slay the dragon. And now, in the eyes of all assembled, I, the Dracomancer, grant thee, King William, the Pitchfork of Destiny! Take this pitchfork with my blessing, and should you prove worthy of it, surely you will come back triumphant. But remember, should your courage waver, should your heart weaken, should your fortitude fail, the Pitchfork of Destiny will deny you and leave you naked against the beast’s wrath!”

  The Dracomancer thrust the pitchfork into Will’s hands. Will leaned in close to the Dracomancer, and even as he wrapped his hand around the pitchfork’s handle, he whispered, “This isn’t my pitchfork.”

  “Yes, I know,” the Dracomancer whispered back, “but your pitchfork simply doesn’t look heroic enough.”

  “But this one will have no special power against the dragon,” Will hissed.

  “I know that, and you know that, but they don’t know that, King William,” the Dracomancer said in a mocking, singsong voice. “Will you still take on this quest, or will you turn away now and prove once and for all your title, Yellow King William?”

  A mad malevolence shone in the Dracomancer’s eyes. He meant for Will to fail, and Will knew if he failed, that nothing would stand in his way of the Dracomancer’s climb to the throne. “Still I will go,” replied Will. “But be warned, Dracomancer, should we meet again—­”

  “We will not,” the Dracomancer hissed, then he grasped Will’s arm and raised it to the sky. “Rejoice! The Dracomancer has blessed the King!”

  Prosper erupted into cheers. Will turned to face the ­people, his ­people. They were rapturous, and Will resolved to give them the one thing that he could: hope. He raised the pitchfork in the air.

  A white horse was brought into the square, and the crowd parted to let Will make his way over to it. There were a tremendous number of shouts. Once he was in the saddle, Will felt his course, whether due to chance or fate, was set. He was going to ride to the Dragon’s Tower, and once he was there, he would confront the dragon. And he would sacrifice himself to save the kingdom. And to save Elle.

  As soon as Will was out of sight, the crowd began to disperse. Charming was still standing on the stage, watching the road up into the mountains, wondering how, once again, he had been left behind.

  The Dracomancer’s voice in his ear shook him from his reverie. “I suppose, Lord Charming, that you would like to find your good wife, Lady Charming?”

  “What?” asked Charming, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you said she’d left.”

  “Well, that is what I told the crowd,” the Dracomancer said. ”The truth is that many among my followers did not like the way she spoke to me or of her skepticism of the Dragon Spirit.”

  “I have no doubt,” Charming said with a grin at how much irritation Liz’s sharp tongue must have caused the Dracomancer.

  “I was obliged to keep her out of sight. For her own safety, you understand,” the Dracomancer said earnestly. “Let me bring you to her.”

  Charming sheathed his sword. “Thank you, Delbert, I appreciate it.”

  He put an arm around Charming’s shoulder and led him from the stage. With a gesture, a number of his Dracoviziers fell in behind them.

  “It is nothing, Lord Charming,” the Dracomancer said with a deprecating shrug and directed their steps toward a low building set against the tavern. “How could I do anything less for my best pupil? It is a shame it has been so long since last we met to discourse on dragon lore.”

  “Until recently, I had thought the need for such studies on my part to be at an end,” Charming said. They had reached a door set low into the wall of a stone building. It almost looked like a root cellar. Charming turned to the Dracomancer. “You have put her in here?”

  “It is perhaps not what I might have wished for her,” the Dracomancer said apologetically, “but I assure you it is very secure.”

  Two of the Dracoviziers opened the door, and a rush of cold air, on which came the smell of wet and stone and wine, issued forth. A low light flickered from within. “Liz?” Charming called into the room beyond and made his way down two low steps to the door. “Liz, are you there?”

  A deep groan came back to him. He had heard that groan before. “Tomas?” He leaned forward.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of movement from behind, but before he could react, a sharp blow landed on his head, and someone pushed him forward. He stumbled into the room, his head spinning and eyes dancing. The doors slammed closed, and the sound of a bolt’s being thrown shut rang out. He staggered and spun. The room began to tip sideways. He saw Tomas sitting against one wall, a long chain about one ankle and dozens of empty wine bottles surrounding him, against a second wall was chained a mangy wolf, which was gnawing on the end of a bone.

  The wolf looked up and growled, “Oh, blessed moon, not another one.”

  “Shut up you flea-­bitten mongrel,” Tomas slurred, then raised a bottle to his lips, and said, “To your health, Lord Charming. I see you have also become a guest of the Dracomancer. I hope you had as much fun as I had getting the invitation.” With this Tomas smiled broadly and poked his tongue through a gap where one of his teeth had been knocked out.

  It’s unclear whether Charming’s mind fully registered Beo’s presence because his last conscious thought was, What’s that wretched hobgoblin doing here? before the world rolled over and went dark.

  CHAPTER 15

  UP IN FLAMES REDUX

  The road that led through the Dark Wood and up into the highlands of the Southern Mountains where Dragon Tower stood was exactly where Will had described. Unfortunately, Liz’s trip up the mountains was nowhere near as uneventful as her brother’s. To begin with, it was spring, which meant constant rain, which meant roads that were more quagmire than road
. Also, while slipping out of town was essential to her not getting stopped either by the Dracomancer or Tomas, she hadn’t planned or packed for the trip. When she went through her saddlebags, Liz discovered that she had with her one spare cloak and only the most meager of rations.

  Liz would have gladly accepted being cold and wet, but the food was a problem. She was ravenous and felt that even the ­couple of days she had been without good food had left her weaker than usual. Still, this was not the greatest of her concerns. That honor was reserved for the inhabitants of the Dark Wood. In the year since the death of the dragon, many creatures that had formerly avoided the Black Road out of sheer good sense had begun to return. This is not to say that the road had become so mind-­bendingly dangerous that it lived up to its reputation—­frankly, there weren’t enough monsters and evil witches in all of Royaume to do that—­but it was no longer the walk in the dragon-­patrolled park that it had formerly been.

  Among the Dark Wood’s new denizens were a pack of particularly mangy and desperate wolves, who liked the woods because the King’s hunters still believed the old tales about dragons, and, despite repeated Royal edicts to the contrary, wouldn’t enter the place. Liz began to hear the pack’s distant howls on the first night of her trip as she huddled in her sodden cloak beneath a dense stand of pines. On the second night, it became clear that either they were getting closer to her or she was getting closer to them. Her sleep, cold and miserable and fitful as it was, was filled with dark and primitive dreams of tooth and claw. By the third night, the air around her seemed alive with their howls, and she did not sleep at all. In fact, she did not even stop to rest but, feeling safer on the move, pressed on into the night, walking her horse when it became too dark to see the path.

  Liz first caught sight of the wolves at dawn the next morning. The sun had come up and was just beginning to paint everything around her in its soft light when Liz saw a pair of yellow eyes staring at her from between two trees. Despite her desire to turn and look, some instinct told Liz to keep her eyes fixed on the trail ahead. Unfortunately, ignoring the wolves did not stop them from gathering. One pair of eyes became two, then four, then eight. The wolves were careful never to come directly into her sight, but Liz could sense them soundlessly pacing her on either side of the trail; like ghosts, they slipped into and out of view behind the trees. It took every ounce of her willpower not to spur her jittery and extremely eager horse into a gallop. Somehow, she knew that the moment she ran, they would be on her.