Night of the Dragon

by Webb, Peggy

  "If there is no other way, I will use the ring," she said. "But not now. Not as long as I have an hour left with you, a single moment."

  "Do you promise?"

  "I promise."

  Lydia paced the length of the torture room, looking neither right nor left but inward, deep into her mind, deep into her soul. There had to be an answer. There had to be another way.

  How many hours did they have left? Sixteen? Twelve? In the dungeon it was easy to lose track of rime.

  Dragon stood at the locked gates, chained but proud, a knight who had only a few more hours to wear the badges of his honor. Lydia's heart bled for him. Even now, even after the Court had decided his guilt, Arthur ordered that no guards be posted. But it was too much to expect that he would order another visitation of magic. Merlin was not going to appear in his cone shaped hat and his star encrusted robe. There would be no last minute idyll in the enchanted glade.

  It was up to Lydia to make their last moments together memorable. She held her head high, dragging her chains behind her as if they were royal robes.

  "If there is any purpose to this, perhaps it is to spare us the dreadful fate that awaits the rest of Camelot"

  "Merlin warned not to tell the truth about the future."

  "The truth will die with you." And with me, she thought, but she didn't tell him so. "Something in Arthur will die when he learns of Guinevere and Lancelot's betrayal, and Camelot will die along with him."

  Dragon's fist closed around his sword. Even in chains he still felt the call to duty, the urge to defend his king and to save the kingdom.

  "Disease and suffering will be rampant. An eternal winter will blanket the land." Lydia reached out to him, and he pulled her into his arms. The chains were heavy and awkward, but even being bound by chains could not keep them apart "Dragon, death will release us from that horrible fate, and who knows what will happen. Perhaps a kinder fate awaits us."

  "It will release me, only me, Lydia. You promised."

  "And I will keep my pledge to you." She stood on tiptoe and kissed him softly on the lips. "No more talk of death. Let's live these last few hours as if we might live forever. What's the first thing you would do if you thought we were going to five forever?"

  "I would race you to the meadow and we would swim naked in the river."

  "Somebody might see."

  "Only the moon and the stars." He found a relatively dry spot against the wall and drew her down onto his lap. "What would you do, Lydia?"

  "I would dance naked in the rose garden."

  "Somebody might see."

  "Only the moon and stars, and you." She kissed his jaw. "And then what would you do?"

  "Do you want me to tell you or to show you?"

  "In chains?"

  "My lips are not chained. My sword is unfettered."

  "Beautiful sword," she murmured, bending over him. "You know just how to pierce straight to a woman's heart."

  For a few hours they forgot about their chains, forgot about their bleak future, forgot everything except the ancient ritual that celebrates fife. And with the approach of dawn they lay quietly in each other's arms, awaiting their fate. In her state of half-dream, half- awareness Lydia glimpsed a deep truth. She kept her eyes closed, concentrating, holding herself still, trying not to let her own excitement shatter her moment of epiphany.

  The dream solutions floated through her mind, flirting with her consciousness, teasing her, enticing her. Please, please, she silently prayed. Let me know the answer.

  Deeply felt instincts warned her of the approaching dawn. Time was short. Death awaited.

  She heard the sounds, heavy footsteps. They would take her first. That's what Dragon had told her to expect.

  He came alert, held her tight. "Use the ring, Lydia."

  "When the time comes, I will."

  There was no kindness in the guards today, no respect for the knight who had betrayed their king. They grabbed Dragon first, one on each side. He made no move to resist them, but they had to tear Lydia from his arms.

  She smelled the morning before she saw it, smelled the earth as it woke from a night's slumber to receive the first kiss of dew, smelled the air cleaned by spring breezes and perfumed with May flowers, smelled the yeast and butter and cinnamon wafting from the open doorway of the king's cooking house. A sense of loss almost overwhelmed her. She would never again know the scents of Camelot. No matter what happened, these things would be lost to her forever.

  They were led out of the darkness and into a beautiful light, pink and gold spread across the morning sky, as splendid as Guinevere's royal robes. Lydia was glad for the sun. She didn't want to die on a gloomy day. She lifted her face upward, reveling in the feel of warmth on her skin, the brightness that pressed against her eyes.

  She saw the crowds ahead, heard their restless murmurings. All of Camelot had turned out for the event. As she and Dragon were led closer she saw the stakes, two of them, heavy wooden poles reaching to the sky, and underneath piles of sticks and straw.

  Lydia made herself focus on the sky, the sun.

  There was the sound of drums, dirgelike, relentless. The crowd became still and quiet.

  "Bring Dragon forth!"

  Lydia heard the wail of an animal in pain, and with a start realized it was her. Dragon tried to turn to her, but the guards held him fast. As they led him away he yelled to her. "Go. Now."

  The drums increased in rhythm as Lancelot strode forward. Horror filled Lydia as her proud knight was made to kneel, was stripped of his sword, his shield. Then they took his spurs, lifted a heavy hammer, and left them broken in the dirt.

  Dragon kept his head high, his back proud. Lydia's heart pounded so hard, she thought it would crack her chest open.

  What would happen next? Would they lead her to the stake first? Lead them both at the same time?

  Dragon was standing now. She made a slight movement forward, toward her beloved. Her guards held her back.

  "Wait your turn, wench. Knights burn before witches."

  Lydia almost fainted. Noise pounded through her head, drums, shouts, marching feet, chants. Dragon was being led away. She couldn't look, couldn't think, couldn't breathe.

  A cheer went up. Flames. Flames were licking around Dragon's feet.

  "No!" she screamed. "No!"

  Fear gave her strength, wings. She burst loose from her guards and ran screaming toward the flames.

  "Lydia! No!" Dragon yelled. "Go back. Go home."

  She could feel the heat from the flames, smell singed cloth as the fire licked at Dragon's legs. Lydia wrenched the ring from her finger, thrust it into his hand.

  "No!" he screamed. "Take it back, Lydia. Take it!"

  Her guards were pulling at her skirts, dragging her back

  "Dragon," she screamed. "Dragon!" She could barely see him through the flames. "Use the ring. I know the way home."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Flames crackled. Lydia smelled the smoke, felt the heat. Heart lurching, she sat straight up. Her covers fell back, her pillow hit the floor.

  The moon made a path on the cracked linoleum. She was in her bed, in her apartment. She was in California.

  For a moment she was disoriented. Where was Camelot? Where was Dragon? Exhausted, she fell back against the mattress. Was it only a dream? It had all been so real. Even the kisses. Especially the kisses.

  She swung her feet over the edge of the bed. What she needed was a drink of water, something to get the cobwebs out of her brain.

  Smoke billowed underneath the door. Sirens blared on the street below. The flames were real. If she didn't do something quick, she was going to be burned all right, but not at the stake. She was going to die in a very old apartment building that probably foiled every fire inspection code in the city.

  She screamed, her hands against her throat . . . and that's when she felt the necklace, a heavy silver medallion, intricately carved. The silver dragons. Family crest of her Knight of the Round Table.
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br />   Lydia glanced down at her gown. It wasn't her white cotton sleep shirt with the tucks across the front but a lovely flowing silk robe, the one she'd been wearing in Camelot when she was led to the stake to burn.

  Burn. She was going to burn if she didn't get moving. The crackling sound came louder as her walls and ceiling burst into flames. Lydia raced to the window, threw it open.

  Fire trucks were lined up on the street, firemen everywhere, shouting orders, trying to control the fire and the curious crowd at the same time.

  "It's a woman," someone yelled. "Up there in the window."

  A huge net was stretched out, and a very tall ladder was lifted toward her window. Lydia got dizzy just looking at it. She clung to the windowsill, eyes closed.

  "Hang on. I'm coming."

  Familiar voice. Beloved voice. Was it real or only in her memory? Slightly nauseated, she swayed like a willow in the wind.

  Suddenly a strong pair of hands lifted her off her precarious perch, a strong pair of arms closed around her. She pressed her face into his broad chest.

  "You're safe now. I've got you."

  That voice. Those arms.

  Slowly Lydia opened her eyes. She was staring straight at the name patch on his fireman's uniform, black stitched with red. It bore one word: Dragon. She sucked in her breath, caught the hand that held her close. On his finger was the ring, tail carved in silver, red eyes glowing.

  She looked into his face, and he smiled.

  "Did you think I wouldn't come for you?"

  -o0o-

  Chapter One Where Dolphins Go

  EXCERPT BY

  By Peggy Webb

  Forgetfulness came quicker if he mixed bourbon with his beer.

  Paul left his chair by the window, proud of how he could hide his condition as he walked to the closet where he kept his waders. He swayed a little at the door, then caught the knob to steady himself.

  "Whoa, boy. Can't have Bill find you like this . . . good old Bill." He opened the door and reached inside the deep rubber boot. His hand closed around the bottle.

  "Be mad as hell if he caught his good old buddy having a little afternoon boilermaker."

  Carrying the whiskey close to his chest, he made his careful way back to the desk. His hand shook only a little as he poured the liquor into his can of beer. Whiskey sloshed over the side of the can and pooled on the scarred desktop.

  Paul stared at the stain awhile, as if it affronted him. Then he shrugged and lifted the can to his lips.

  "Physician, heal thyself."

  He closed his eyes, waiting for the warm gray fog to settle over him, waiting for the blessed numbness to overtake his brain. The only thing that overtook him was the certainty that the next day he'd have a hangover.

  In the holding pen outside Paul's window, a huge dolphin surfaced and slapped his tail in the water.

  "Not today, Ferguson. Can't come out and play today."

  The great tail hit the water once more, and Paul turned to look out his window. Ferguson circled round and round in the pool, occasionally rising up in a fountain of spray, his body glinting silver in the bright hot summer sun.

  Across the pool Bill McKenzie stood with his back toward Paul, talking to a woman. She was half-hidden behind Bill, but Paul could see enough to know that she was fair and slim, bordering on skinny, and that she had a quiet face with big earnest eyes.

  For a moment Paul's curiosity was stirred.

  The woman talked with her hands. Her body language was urgent, almost intimate; and her movements were graceful and eloquent, like music come to life.

  Music come to life? He was drunker than he thought— or perhaps not drunk enough.

  Paul saluted the woman with his beer can. "Here's to you, whoever you are." The beer had gotten piss warm, but he didn't care. As long as it anesthetized.

  He reached for the whiskey bottle and poured another shot down the small elliptical hole. Might as well make sure.

  Outside in the holding pen, Ferguson began to chortle and squeak. What was Bill doing? They had done vocalization studies with Fergie that morning.

  Paul turned back to the window. The first thing he saw was the child, a tiny tousle-haired boy, sitting in his stroller, pale and motionless as a porcelain doll. His head lolled to one side, and his arms and legs stuck out as if they had no relation to his body. He looked like a Tinkertoy put together wrong.

  Paul clutched his beer can so hard, the sides began to buckle. The child gazed into the water, helpless, while the woman with the solemn face leaned toward Bill.

  The little fact was so still, so still.

  "For God's sake, Paul. Do something. DO SOMETHING!"

  Caught in a time warp, Paul stared out the window.

  As the aluminum gave way under the pressure, liquid ran down his hand, his arm. He didn't notice. All his attention was focused on the child, the silent, needy child.

  A wave of dizziness came, followed by nausea. Even in his semi-anesthetized state, Paul knew it wasn't the boilermaker at work: it was the past with its ghosts that wouldn't let go and its memories that crawled out of the dark corners of his mind when he least expected them.

  "No . . . God . . . no." He stood up fast, knocking his chair over. With his fingers still sunk into the sides of the beer can, he went to the refrigerator and leaned his forehead against the cool door. An image of the child wavered, faded, then came back with a vengeance.

  Paul clutched his stomach and heaved. Nothing came up except guilt and pain—and the memory of a tiny face, looking up at him with big pleading eyes.

  "Paul?" The outside door to the combination office- feeding room clicked shut behind Bill. "Are you all right?"

  Paul felt the hand on his shoulder, large, warm, the hand of friendship and compassion. He had promised Bill he would do better. And he really had tried. Oh, Lord, how he had tried.

  He turned to face his friend. "You don't deserve this, old buddy. I'll give you my written notice tomorrow."

  "Like hell you will. You can't keep running."

  "I can't keep accepting your charity."

  "This is not charity, it's a job. And you're going to stick with it until you can pull yourself together."

  Bill's pale red freckles nearly disappeared in the color that flushed his face as he pried the can from Paul's hand. "Dammit, Paul. I'm not going to let you kill yourself—at least not on my turf."

  Bill strode to the desk, jerked up the bottle, and flung it into the garbage can along with the beer. Metal clanged against metal. Broken glass tinkled. Bill stared into the wreckage, his chest heaving.

  Paul was not too far gone to see past his friend's anger into his pain. He didn't like to see Bill hurting. More than that, he didn't like to be the cause.

  "I'm sorry, Bill. I tried to wait until I got out of here." Paul ran his hands through his hair, hating the way they trembled. "Sometimes life seems so damned . . . useless."

  Bill hung his head and cursed the floor until all the anger went out of him. Then he sagged, like a sack of potatoes settling into place.

  He put both hands on Paul's shoulders. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. You, of all people, should know better."

  "Guilty, as charged.”

  "You need a challenge . . . something more than feeding dolphins."

  "The dolphins don't expect much of me except a few buckets of fish. I like it that way."

  "I don't. It's a waste, Paul." The air around Bill seemed to stir and hum as he made his way to the swivel chair. Hurricane Bill, employees at the center fondly called their director. He picked up a pencil and twirled it between his fingers. "You're wasting your life here at the center, and I can't seem to do a damned thing about it."

  "It's not your place, Bill. You and Maggie have been wonderful to me."

  "You'd do the same for me if you could." Bill studied the gaunt man leaning beside the refrigerator, then threw the pencil onto the desk. It bounced and rolled across the concrete floor, stopping inches from Paul
's feet.

  Paul picked it up and put it back on the desk. "You dropped this."

  "Son of a gun." Bill grinned. "Half-crocked and still trying to get me to control my temper."

  "It's bad for your blood pressure."

  "Maggie will thank you. Probably with one of her chicken casseroles." Bill doodled around the edges of the desk calendar, turning the one into a stick figure, putting ears and a tail on the eight. Then he sat back in his chair, tapping the pencil against his teeth and studying his artwork.

  Paul waited. He had nothing else to do except go to bleak bare walls and functional furniture, an empty space that didn’t even deserve to be called home. Bill would insist on driving him, and Paul would consent. He had no intention of adding highway murder to his list of" sins.

  "A woman came to see me today," Bill said. "A woman and a little boy."

  Paul went very still.

  "Her name is Susan . . . Susan Riley. She knew about the center from that article in the newspaper last week."

  There had been many articles written about Dr. Bill McKenzie and the research he did with dolphins. The most recent one, though, had delved into the personality of the dolphins themselves. An enterprising reporter had done his homework. Dolphins, he had written, relate well to people. Some even seem to have extrasensory perception. They seem to sense when a person is sick or hurt or depressed.

  "Here little boy has a condition called truncus arteriosus." Bill squinted in the way he always did when he was judging a person's reaction.

  Paul was careful not to show one. Truncus arteriosus. A condition of the heart. Malfunctioning arteries. Surgery required.

  "Bill, I don't practice medicine anymore."

  "I'm not asking you to practice medicine. I'm asking you to listen."

  "I'm listening."

  "The boy was scheduled for surgery, but he had a stroke before it could be performed."

  For God's sake, Paul. Do something. DO SOMETHING!

  Paul held up his hand. "Don’t go any further with this, Bill.”

  "Just listen, Paul. The child is depressed, doesn't respond to anything, anybody. She thought the dolphins might be the answer. She wanted to bring him here on a regular basis."