“Your kind will be the true rulers, then, not us?”
Grald made a dismissive gesture. “Only in the larger matters. We dragons care nothing for the day-to-day life of these worms. We might go for years without intervening. So long as the humans remain harmless. And you and your kind will see to that.”
“I see. Your plan to conquer humans starts with my brother’s kingdom.”
“And you will lead the army against him,” said Grald.
“I will?” Ven was incredulous. He gave a dismissive laugh. “I want no part of this.”
“I know,” said Grald, and he sighed deeply, his voice laden with sorrow and regret. “I know.”
“Draconas did you no favors by hiding you from me,” Grald continued. “He should have let me raise you, as I raised the others, to be proud of what you are. If he had, then I might not have been forced to . . .”
Grald raised his heavy shoulders and let them drop. “I could have trusted you. But your mind is tainted. You have turned against me. You have turned against your own family.”
Ven’s unease was growing. He was alone with a dragon who, even in human form, was a formidable opponent.
“There are none to help you, Ven,” said Grald quietly, reading his son’s thoughts. “Not Draconas, who has his own problems. Not your precious, magic-wielding brother. Ven. Short for Vengeance. Yes, I know. I have known for a long time. You should have killed me before now. You might have been able to do it—taken me by surprise. Caught me unawares. Fear held you back. Fear that is inherent in the human part of you. If I had raised you, you would not know fear. As it is, I will have to work hard to eradicate that weak part of you when—”
Grald paused.
“When what?” Ven was having trouble breathing. His chest was tight, his mouth dry, his throat constricting. Grald was right. Fear’s poison coursed through Ven’s veins, debilitating, weakening.
“Look behind me,” said Grald. “See through the illusion. Others cannot, but your eyes can penetrate the magical veil, can’t they, Dragon’s Son? Just like they penetrated the wall, so that you could help your brother escape. There will be no such escape for you.”
Ven saw a tomb. He had no need for the dragon to tell him whose tomb it was. Vague and horrifying memories came to him, memories of Bellona telling him about his mother and a tomb and a bleeding body sealed inside darkness and agony for years on end . . .
Ven bolted. His dragon legs were strong. He could easily outrun Grald. Ven made a dash for it, digging the clawed toes into the floor and leaping off them, the powerful thigh muscles propelling him across the vast hall toward the door.
He could outrun the lumbering human. But he could not outrun the dragon.
Grald had begun to shed his human body even as he shifted Ven’s attention away from him and to the tomb. Short human arms, with their soft and flabby flesh and grasping, stubby fingers, began to elongate and grow strong and powerful. Scales ran over the flesh like gleaming quicksilver, hardening and protecting. Sharp claws replaced puny nails. The dragon’s clawed hand reached out and caught hold of Ven’s foot and tripped him up, sent him crashing heavily onto his stomach.
Confident he was free, Ven had not expected to be grabbed from behind, and the shock when he felt himself yanked off his feet was paralyzing. He had no time to break his fall, and he slammed into the floor hard. The impact knocked the breath from his body. His chin hit the floor with brain-jarring force that drove his lower jaw into his upper. His mouth filled with blood, either from biting his tongue or from teeth knocked loose or both. His head throbbed with pain and there was a buzzing in his ears. His vision blurred, tears sprang to his eyes.
Dazed, Ven tried to scramble to his feet, only to be slammed down once more.
The dragon held his prey pinned to the floor, pressing him to the stone, as Grald continued to undergo his transformation, crawling and squirming his way out of the human body like a maggot crawling out of diseased flesh. The emergence from the human form required time, but Grald had time.
As he had told Ven, no one could hear him. No one could help him.
Except his magic-wielding brother . . . and he was far away.
23
EVELINA CLUNG TO HER LOVER. SHE HAD NEVER KNOWN PLEASURE like this and, even as they relaxed after their love-making, she kissed his neck and bit at his earlobe, when a shout cracked like thunder over them both.
Marcus stood naked by the side of the bed. His torso and arms were still covered with fading red blotches. His eyes were wide and wild, his face pale and blotchy and terrible. He stared straight at Evelina and her lover.
Jorge shoved Evelina off him and leapt to his feet in the same motion, dumping her onto the floor. He grabbed at his trousers, which were down around his thighs. Yanking them up, he hastily began to stuff himself and his shirt back into them.
“Fight!” Marcus cried, his fists clenched. “You have to fight.”
“I’ll not fight you, Your Highness!” Jorge gasped. “Oh, sweet blessed saints! You a prince! I’ll be drawn and quartered and my head hung up on spikes!”
Turning to flee, Jorge tripped over Evelina, who was huddled on her hands and knees, trying frantically to figure some way out of this disaster. Jorge pitched headlong over her and landed on the floor. Rolling onto his back, he began to crawl, crabwise, toward the door.
Marcus advanced on him. “Fight, Ven! Stand and fight him! The magic! Use the magic!”
Evelina’s head jerked up. She stared intently at Marcus.
“I’ll not fight you, Your Highness,” Jorge babbled. He was sweating and shivering and crawling for all he was worth.
“Ven . . .” Evelina murmured. “What is he talking about? Ven’s not here . . . Unless . . .”
She scrambled to her feet. Running over to Jorge, she pulled him up and shoved him bodily toward the door.
“Get out!” she cried. “Get out! Hurry up!”
Jorge didn’t need telling. He flung open the door and bolted out, holding his unlaced britches up with one hand as he dashed into the night. Evelina slammed shut the door and put her back to it and faced Marcus, who was staring straight at her and, apparently, not seeing her.
Evelina waved her hand in front of his face. His eyes darted back and forth, and his breath came short and fast, as though watching some harrowing contest.
“Fight!” he cried again, then he suddenly clutched at his head and reeled backward, staggering halfway across the room.
“I was right. He’s possessed. He’s fighting a demon!” Evelina breathed.
Evelina knew something about demons. She’d been in a tavern once when one of her father’s companions had been seized by a demon. The man had fallen to the floor, writhing and twitching and foaming at the mouth. Someone had wanted to call a priest, but his woman said that wasn’t necessary. Her man fought with demons on a regular basis and he always came out the winner. She told all his friends to pin him down, and she gave him a stick to bite on so that he wouldn’t choke to death. He wrestled with the demon for a short time, then, victorious, he fell asleep. When he came back to consciousness—and this Evelina remembered quite clearly—he had no recollection of anything that had happened.
Marcus gave another cry and made a swipe and a lunge at the air, as though he were holding a sword, though his hand was empty. Evelina watched for her chance, and when he moved near the mattress, she rushed at him and struck him hard in the chest, knocking him down. Evelina pounced, straddling him and holding his arms. He did not resist her, but lay there, staring up at whatever it was he was seeing—which wasn’t her. His face contorted. His hands twitched and he gasped or cried out. Fearing someone would hear him yelling like a madman and interfere, she stuffed a rag into his mouth to stifle his shouts, and she swaddled his arms against his sides with the blanket.
Now, it was up to Marcus. Either he won or the demon did. At this point, Evelina was almost too exhausted to care which.
She left Marcus to his fight and went
back to pour herself a cup of the strong red wine. She gulped it down and poured out another cup, drank half of it, then carried it to the bed and splashed a bit of wine onto the mattress. She examined the red stain and was pleased. It resembled blood, if one didn’t look too closely. Evelina finished the rest of the wine, then stripped off all her clothes and lay down beside Marcus.
He stirred and gave a muffled cry. His arms bulged against the bindings. His body twisted and heaved.
“Freak!” Evelina muttered, shoving him over to make room for herself. “Just like his monster of a brother. I’m glad Marcus isn’t going to be the father of my child. He’ll just think he is. And he will marry me. Oh, yes, he will. I deserve nothing less, after all I’ve put up with.”
Closing her eyes, she gave a contented belch and let the wine fumes carry her pleasantly into slumber.
Beside her, on the bed, Marcus fought the dragon.
24
THE WORMWOOD EVELINA HAD SLIPPED INTO MARCUS’S WINE ACTED as a key on the lock of the door of his mental room, removing all fear of the dragon that lurked outside, removing all his inhibitions. He left that little room and went stumbling about into the minds of the dragons like a drunken man, weaving and laughing along a street of swirling, shimmering dragon dreams that were beautiful and horrifying, bestial, alien—like himself.
Marcus cavorted inside the minds of dragons. He didn’t know how many dragons, but a lot, seemingly, for the fantastically colored images flew at him from every direction, fluttering around inside of him, like being bombarded by ribbons of rainbow. Then suddenly lightning splintered the rainbow and a voice intruded, shocked and dismayed.
“What are you doing, Human? Please, stop! This is not wise.”
“My name is Marcus. Who are you?” he cried merrily.
“I told you! I am Lysira.” She sounded stern and thoroughly put out, like his old tutor. “And this is not proper behavior!”
Marcus had never liked his tutor, and so he ignored her. Like a drunken reveler—or an escaped prisoner, drunk on freedom— Marcus capered into and out of the minds of the dragons. Naked, shouting his defiance, shouting his adoration, he wrapped his nakedness in the colors of their amazement and danced from dragon to dragon. He glided into their minds with the elegance of a dancer, doing a turn, singing a song with the colors of his own mind, then gliding swiftly out. He played tag with them, hide-and-go-seek, dodging and darting, evading and avoiding, all the while laughing wildly at the sheer joy of it all.
Marcus was a child again, a lunatic child, and his soul remembered what his brain worked hard to try to forget—the beautiful, dazzling, alien world of wondrous, magical beasts, whose thoughts wove silken tapestries, using the stars for needles and the sunbeams for thread. This was the reason that, long ago, he had traded madness for sanity, traded the lonely, isolated, shut-off, locked-up-tight gray world of humans for the dreams of dragons.
The dragons soon got over their shock that a human had actually managed to invade their minds. They were horrified and angry, just like his parents had been. He knew how that worked. It made him powerful.
Some of the dragons tried to catch him. Another dragon, a young female, sought to protect him. They all ended up in a bitter argument, and Marcus was forgotten or shoved aside. The flames of their passion roiled around him, but could not touch him.
Marcus kept it up, made himself a nuisance.
The young female fluttered about after him. “Listen to me, Human! You must come to your senses. Draconas sent me to warn you—”
“Draconas!” Marcus called. “Where are you, you old fart? Still alive? I should have known it. I escaped, by the way. No thanks to you.”
He laughed and stumbled about in a dazzling, brilliant fog.
And then the fog shredded, torn apart by a dragon’s claw.
The eyes that had found him in the cave found him again.
Marcus had stumbled into the mind of Grald.
No pretty colors here. Steel blue bars slammed down around Marcus, trapping him. He hurled himself against Grald’s mind, trying to free himself, but the dragon held him fast.
“As long as you are here, Prince Marcus,” the dragon said, “you can see what I see, feel what I feel. When next you meet your brother, you’ll be meeting me.”
Ven stood in a dark room. In back of him was a tomb—Ven’s tomb. Marcus could hear Ven’s heart beating, and it was a thrilling sound to the dragon, for that beating heart was the key to the magical spell that would allow him to take over Ven’s body and make it his own.
Grald opened the tomb, and there inside lay the human Grald, a look of horror on his face, his mouth gaping wide in screams of agony that had long gone unheard. The dragon held a golden locket in his hand. He opened the lock, dumped the heart into the bloody cavity of the human’s chest. When the heart fell, the human gave a last, shuddering cry and died. The body lay in the tomb, eyes wide, mouth still open.
Grald discarded the human body he had worn, crawling out of it, leaving it on the floor like a snake leaves its shed skin. The dragon advanced on the new body he had chosen.
“Fight!” Marcus cried. “You have to fight!”
Ven turned to flee, but the dragon seized hold of him.
“Fight, Ven!” Marcus shouted. “Stand and fight him! The magic! Use the magic!”
Ven struggled valiantly, but he had never learned how to use the magic, and he was no match for the dragon. Grald dug his claws into Ven’s breast, ripping through skin and flesh and tissue, cracking ribs. Ven screamed in agony and Marcus shuddered and tried frantically to break free of the bars of the dragon’s mind. The dragon forced Marcus to watch.
“You wanted to see our dreams,” said Grald. “Now you see them.”
A clawed hand tossed aside broken fragments of Ven’s ribcage, as he writhed in excruciating torment in the dragon’s grip. The dragon wound Ven up in strands of magic, enchantment that bound his life to the dragon’s and the dragon’s life to Ven’s. Then the dragon seized hold of the beating heart and tore it from Ven’s chest, leaving behind a gaping, bloody hole in the shattered breast.
Grald held the heart in his hand and bent his will upon it, and the heart began to shrink until it was a doll’s heart or that of a bird, rapidly beating. Grald tucked the heart carefully inside the golden locket that he held suspended by a golden chain on a single claw.
Then the dragon carried Ven into the sarcophagus and dumped him into stone-bound darkness. Grald lifted up the heavy lid and slid it in place, sealing Ven—bound by enchantment to a horrible life—inside the tomb.
The last image Marcus saw was his brother’s face as he came to realize that he would be trapped in darkness and unceasing pain, with no escape but death, and that would come only when the human body the dragon had taken over had aged past the point of usefulness.
Grald turned to face Marcus. The dragon opened the locket he held in his claw.
“Here’s a dream for you, little prince.”
An army of humans wearing armor that sparkled in the sun like the glittering scales of the dragon marched triumphantly through the gates of his father’s castle.
Leading the army was Ven.
Slit eyes glared at Marcus. Jaws opened wide. Slashing fangs dripped saliva. Claws, stained in blood, curled over him. The massive tail lashed and twitched.
Marcus grabbed for his sword, but ... he had no sword. He was naked and soft and fragile, and he couldn’t escape . . .
A hand—his brother’s hand—thrust through the darkness. The hand was that of the little child who had reached out to Marcus so many years ago. The hand was the hand that had shown him the way through the walls of Dragonkeep. His heart aching, his thoughts floundering in confusion, Marcus grasped at the hand.
Ven clasped him firmly, and the bars of Grald’s mind vanished.
Marcus stood in a vast dark hall, standing beside an empty tomb. Ven lay on the floor. Grald loomed over him. The dragon was a grotesque monstrosity—half-in and h
alf-out of the human body. He clutched Ven’s ankle with a single claw, keeping fast hold of him, preventing him from escaping while the dragon continued to shift form.
The dragon head was emerging from the human’s stooped and fleshy shoulders, the human neck elongating into that of the dragon. The human legs shifted, stretched, bent into the powerful hind legs of the dragon. Dragon wings sprouted from human shoulders.
“Help me, Marcus,” Ven cried, his voice grating across Marcus’s mind. “I can’t fight him alone.”
“You’re dead,” said Marcus. “I saw him kill you.”
Even as he spoke, he understood. You wanted to see our dreams . . .
Marcus looked from his brother to Grald, and Marcus realized suddenly that he had seen what the dragon dreamed, not what he had done. The battle was not over. It was just beginning.
“Use the magic!” Marcus told his brother. “He’s weak now!”
“I can’t use the magic,” Ven cried, struggling to free himself from the dragon’s grip. “It isn’t in me!”
“It is,” said Marcus. “It is a part of you. Admit it.”
Ven continued to fight, twisting. Trying to break the dragon’s grip on his ankle, he kicked at Grald’s scale-covered arm with his own clawed foot. Ven was strong and powerful, but the dragon was stronger, and every second that passed, Grald was growing stronger still. Already, there was very little left of him that was human.
Grald dragged Ven closer and stretched out the other clawed hand.
“The magic beats in your heart, Ven,” Marcus told him. “It pulses through your veins. It mixes with the air in your lungs and throbs in your fingertips. It sparkles in the sunlight like the scales on your legs.”
Ven closed his eyes and clenched his fists. His body shuddered. The battle that raged inside him was as desperate as the battle he was waging for his life. For they were both the same.
Master of Dragons Page 18
