In the Shadow of the Dragon King

by J. Keller Ford

  Eric stared, wide-eyed, as one of the heads rolled past him and stopped, its eyes still open and staring up at him. His stomach churned. The room began to tilt. He stumbled back against the wall, needing something to ground him.

  The hiss of an arrow sang through the air and lodged in Trog’s shoulder. Two more struck him in the chest, propelling him backward. Blood saturated his clothes.

  No! Anger spurred inside Eric, fueling what little strength he had left. He stumbled to his feet, grabbed a sword and charged the archer. But his muscles trembled and gave way as he swung, and he fell. A masked ruffian plucked him from the floor and threw him over his shoulder. Through swollen eyes, he saw Trog—his face beaten, his own wounds open and bleeding profusely—propped like a ragdoll against the wall.

  Bainesworth wiped the blood from his mouth, knelt down and grasped Trog by his hair. “You have twenty-four hours to deliver the paladin to Einar. Do so and you can have your squire. If you don’t, he’ll come back to you in pieces.” Bainesworth shoved Trog’s head against the wall and motioned to the men behind him.

  Outside, the cold rain hammered against Eric’s naked skin. “Why are you doing this?” he mumbled. “You know he’ll never turn over the paladin. Not to anyone.”

  Bainesworth laughed. “Of course not. But he will seek him out to warn him. When he does, we’ll be in the shadows, waiting.”

  Eric raised his gaze to meet Bainesworth’s. “You think too highly of yourself.”

  “And you talk too much.”

  The pommel of Bainesworth’s sword connected with his face.

  Out went the moonlight.

  Chapter 28

  David crouched, invisible, in the brush, mere feet away from a guarded passageway at the base of Berg castle. He didn’t want to go into Berg, but he had no choice. Finn had somehow restricted David’s movement and now he had the ability to ferry only within the immediate vicinity, leaving no option other than to enter the dragon’s lair. Then again, according to Finn, everything David sought lay within the castle walls. David hoped he was right. Otherwise, he was going to end up as a piece of barbecued meat at a dragon cookout.

  Finn tapped him on the shoulder, smiled, and ran at the guard by the doorway, buzzing like a swarm of giant bees. The guy ran down the hillside, hands flailing in the air.

  Finn opened the door to the castle. David darted from the tree line and crossed the threshold into darkness, adjusted his quiver and bow, and closed the door behind him.

  “Andor.”

  He squatted on the ground in the dark and pulled the tinderbox from his pocket, removing everything except one wax-and-sulfur-tipped spunk Finn had given him. He struck the flint across the steel and after several frustrating attempts, a fire flared. “Finally,” he mumbled. He seized the only torch from an iron sconce on the wall and held it to the small flame; the oiled wax caught right away, and the spunk died. He waited a moment for the metal box to cool before placing the items back in his pocket.

  David eased along the corridor, sliding his flattened palm along the damp, chilled stone. His booted footsteps tapped against the slate floor, and with every step he took a sense of dread permeated from the walls. The passage twisted and turned several times before coming to an end. An arched wooden door studded with iron bars stood ajar, beckoning him into the blackness beyond. Goosebumps scattered up his arms. His spine prickled as he wiped the sweat from his hands, pulled his knife, and pushed on the door. It swung open on well-oiled hinges.

  Whew! Could he get any luckier?

  He found the next room to be a large, circular space, void of windows; the air was cold, damp, and thick with a musty odor. Empty shackles hung from the walls. An unadorned door punctuated the wall opposite him. He took a step forward.

  Crunch.

  He lowered the torch. Scattered about the floor were what looked to be human teeth and skeletal remains of fingers and toes. In the center of the room, a large rat, the size of his foot, lay twitching on the floor while two others twice its size fed off its warm entrails. David gagged and dropped to his knees before puking. A rat scampered toward him and feasted on his vomit.

  “Oh, God, that’s disgusting.” He stumbled to the wall and wiped his mouth onto his sleeve. His throat burned, his eyes watered. Then his torch gave a brief flare and burned itself out.

  “Oh, man! You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  He hugged the wall, thankful for its cool embrace, and inched toward the door. David held his breath and listened. The surroundings took on an eerie silence. He continued along the wall until his fingers met with the doorframe. He hesitated, wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, and pushed open the door. A step later he tumbled down an unseen set of steps.

  “Ow! Ouch! Umph!”

  He landed on his back, his knife and bow inches from his face.

  David lay still, afraid to move. His body felt broken, his muscles wrenched and torn. Somewhere in the distance he heard muffled voices. He got on all fours and collected his weapons. A blind search of the landing revealed a handrail and a second set of steps. A shiver ran through him. He inhaled a deep breath and descended into the unknown, the thought of Charlotte’s face, her hair, her laughter, driving him on.

  The steps spiraled before emptying onto a lantern-lit corridor flanked on both sides by iron cages. The air held a pungent scent of straw and dirt. Up ahead, two men argued over who was going to kill a prisoner.

  Heart racing, David whispered, Ibidem Evanescere, and moved down the corridor. He stopped just short of the two disheveled guards and studied the layout.

  The corridor, flanked on both sides by more cells, continued some distance ahead, coming to an end at a chained door embedded with a small window. To his left, opposite the guards, a set of wooden steps led straight to a tall door, unadorned except for wide bands of iron. Keys dangled from a column at the base of the stairs. To his right, in a cell behind the guards, stood a man shackled at the wrists to the dungeon wall, his forehead planted against the unforgiving stone. His hair, knotted together with sweat and dirt, hung to the top of his bare, broad shoulders. Shredded trousers hung from his hips. Multiple, scabbed, thrash marks crisscrossed over his back, and from the sound of his erratic breathing, he was in a great amount of pain.

  An ear-splitting screech sounded from the top of the stairs as the door creaked open. David ducked into the cell across from the prisoner as if doing so would make him less detectable. Two men conversed on the landing above before one strode off and the other descended the steps.

  “Koŕghan! Get the prisoner to his feet! You two imbeciles—get out!”

  Heavy footsteps pounded the steps as the guards fled upstairs. The door shut behind them. The imposing man—about the same age and size as Trog—stepped off the bottom rung and removed his gloves. David gulped, unsure if the red tinge on the man’s black clothing and leather armor was there by design or if it was blood.

  A gargantuan specimen of a creature, sickly green with freakishly long, pointed ears and wart-like growths all over its face, appeared from the far-reaching corridor of empty prison cells that streamed beyond David’s view. He snorted and grumbled obscenities under his breath as he approached.

  “Yes, sire.”

  “Open the door. I wish to have a conversation with our guest.”

  Koŕghan fumbled with the lock then stepped inside and jerked the prisoner around, leaving his chained arms above to twist like a grapevine. The prisoner gasped, but neither screamed nor struggled.

  He was an older man, his lean and angular face covered in bruises. Gashes, crusted in blood, crisscrossed his chest like roads on a map. The pair of deep-set blue eyes, however, spoke of wisdom, intelligence and perseverance. They also apparently recognized with loathing the flaxen-haired man before him.

  “Bainesworth,” the prisoner said. “I thought I smelled your traitorous stench.”

  “Gildore.” Bainesworth placed his gloves on the bench inside the cell. “
What a surprise.”

  David straightened. Gildore! The king of Hirth? Seriously?

  “I doubt that,” Gildore said, his voice rough and scratchy. “Where is my wife?”

  “Where else but the Elastine Forest, but let’s not concern ourselves with such trivial matters.” Bainesworth turned, his palm wrapped around the pommel of his sword. “Where might I find the heir to the throne of Hirth?”

  Gildore said nothing.

  Bainesworth backhanded his captive’s face.

  David strangled the yell in his throat as Gildore crumpled.

  Koŕghan yanked Gildore’s head back by the hair. “Ya will ad’ress y’er audience as ’nstructed!”

  Gildore snorted. Blood trickled from his mouth. “When you bring me someone worth addressing, then I shall do so.”

  Bainesworth pulled his sword from its scabbard and pressed its silver tip against Gildore’s throat.

  “What? Are you going to kill me with my sword?”

  “Your sword?” He flicked a glance at Koŕghan as if looking for confirmation.

  “Aye, ’tis the pris’ner’s, sire. He ’ad it on ’im w’en ’e arrived.”

  “Really,” Bainesworth said, taking a step back, admiring the weapon. “Remarkable. A true Hirthinian sword forged specifically for its king. No wonder Einar insisted I use it to interrogate you.”

  Bainesworth pivoted, cutting the air with the blade with the ease and smoothness of slicing a warm fig. The tip of the blade slit Gildore’s cheek.

  The king winced but volunteered no other sound.

  Bainesworth remained poised, his left hand to his side, the tip of the sword pinned to Gildore’s throat. “Where is your heir?”

  Gildore closed his eyes.

  A matching slice appeared on Gildore’s other cheek. David flinched. How the king could remain quiet blew him away.

  “Hmm.” Bainesworth dropped the sword to his side. “I suspected as much. I told Einar you would resist.” He shook his head and motioned to Koŕghan. “Release him.”

  The shackles opened. Gildore stumbled a few feet forward and collapsed to the hay-covered earthen floor.

  Bainesworth flipped Gildore onto his back, and knelt, the sword resting across one knee. “Let’s try a different approach, shall we? It has come to Einar’s attention that you have betrayed a certain wizard’s trust and as such, opened your kingdom to a long, overdue attack by Einar. You alone are responsible for the deaths of your people. Why would you do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gildore’s dry voice grated like sandpaper over a rock.

  Bainesworth stood and paced the cell. “Is it not true you accepted Seyekrad’s promise to protect Hirth from an attack by Einar so long as you expelled your heirs to the throne?”

  “What?”

  “And did Seyekrad not explain the pact would be null and void should Slavandria ever summon the paladin, thus revealing the presence of an heir, your heir, within Fallhollow?”

  “You’re mad, Bainesworth. I have no children.”

  “Liar!” Bainesworth kicked Gildore in the ribs. “If you know what is best for you, you will cease with this charade and tell me where I can find the heir to Hirth. Where is your son?”

  “I—have—no—child.”

  Bainesworth shoved Gildore’s face to the floor. “You obstinate fool! Perhaps you need a bit more persuasion. Koŕghan! Fetch the boy!”

  The creature lumbered off and returned moments later with a battered boy about David’s age and height.

  Bainesworth grasped the new prisoner by the back of the neck and shoved his face hard against the bars of Gildore’s cell.

  Gildore’s swollen eyes widened. “Eric!”

  “Sire!” Eric’s raw, flesh-torn fingers tightened around the bars.

  Bainesworth flung him across the corridor into David’s cell and locked the door.

  Gildore rolled to his knees and stood. “So help me, Bainesworth, if you hurt him in any way—”

  Bainesworth pinned Gildore to the wall. “You’ll do what? Kill me? Try.” With a swift elbow blow to the head, Gildore fell with dead weight to the ground. He didn’t move.

  Bainesworth sheathed his weapon and collected his gloves. “Koŕghan, lock this door. For the next twenty-four hours, you are to guard the dungeon entrance. Do not return until I send for you. Go!”

  The creature cursed as he lumbered away and climbed the same steps David had descended earlier. Bainesworth glanced over his shoulder at Gildore, spit, and said, “Fool,” before climbing the towering steps. The door above closed and the bolt slid into place.

  Downstairs, David said the word, Andor in his head, and materialized inches from his cellmate.

  Eric startled and scuttled back. Dark hair hung in strands around his swollen face.

  Bruises covered his face, his arms, his torso, and his left shoulder looked funky like it wasn’t set in the socket right.

  “Shh,” David said. “Keep it down before that ape and his pet troll hear you.”

  Eric used the bars as leverage and struggled to his feet. “Goblin,” he said. “His pet goblin.” He studied David the way a fox would view a cornered rabbit. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Let’s just say I’m a friend.”

  “Really? Who sent you?”

  “Slavandria, sort of.” David stepped closer, his gaze on the Eric’s arm dangling like a limp vine from its socket. “What happened to your arm?”

  Eric winced. “Dislocated.”

  “Ouch. It looks painful.”

  Eric groaned. “Well, it’s certainly not pleasant.” He cast David a sideways glance. “What do you want, anyway? Why are you here?”

  “I’m searching for something, a necklace, about the size of my fist.”

  Eric’s eyes widened. A tired smile twitched at his bruised lips. A weary laugh trickled out of him. “I don’t believe it. You’re him. The paladin. You’re who I risked my life for.” He turned his head to the wall and sighed. “Someone shoot me now.”

  David stiffened. “How do you know who I am? Who are you?”

  Eric pressed his back to the bars. “Eric, squire extraordinaire, or so I’d like to think. Slavandria and Trog told me about you.”

  David’s breathing did a hop and a skip. “Trog? You’ve seen Trog? Is he okay?”

  Eric nodded once. “He’s been better. He’s angry about what happened to you and your friend. He blames himself, of course.”

  David hung his head. “He shouldn’t. It was my fault what happened.” He looked at Eric. “I can fix it, though, but I need to find the necklace and give it to someone named Farnsworth. Then I can search for my friend.”

  Eric clung to the bars of his cage. “What if I told you I can help you find the necklace? Can you get me out of here?”

  David’s breath hitched. “Do you know where it is?”

  Eric closed his eyes; his face contorted in pain. “Bainesworth took it, and since it wasn’t around his traitorous neck, I would assume it’s upstairs somewhere.”

  “Can you get upstairs?”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  David shrugged. “I don’t know. Fame. Glory. Knowing you did something to save mankind?”

  Eric winced as he adjusted his position. Here it was, the chance to prove himself to Trog. Somehow it didn’t seem to be such a top priority anymore. Still, if the boy could get him out of the castle, he could get help for Trog. Get him back to the castle to have his wounds cared for, that is if he wasn’t already dead.

  “How good are you with those magic spells?”

  David rubbed his nose. “I know them well enough to steal back what I need and to get us out of here.”

  “Do it, Eric.” Gildore’s voice cut through the stale air. “But fix that shoulder first.” The king groaned as he stood. “Come here, boy. Get me out of this cage.”
/>   David incanted himself out of the cell and, using the key from the wall, opened the cell and released the king of Hirth.

  Gildore patted him on the arm. “Thank you, young man. What is your name?”

  “David, sir.”

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He stood before Eric’s cell. “Open this door, please.”

  David did as asked. The king approached Eric, and examined his shoulder. “Where did you last see Trog?”

  Eric relayed the events at the cottage. When done, Eric looked at the king and said, “He told me about what happened after I was born.”

  “Everything?” Gildore said.

  Eric nodded.

  “Good. It’s about time. Now let’s see what we can do to pop that shoulder back in place.” He turned to David. “We’ll need your sash.”

  Alarms ping-ponged all over David. Do not remove the sash, Slavandria had said. He shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t.” He removed his shirt. “You can borrow this if you want.”

  “That will work.”

  He handed it to Eric who teetered on his feet for a second before putting a sleeve in his mouth. He studied the solid wall in front of him as if it was a mountain and he was standing on the precipice waiting to jump.

  “Steady yourself,” Gildore said. “The initial blow will howl through you, but then it will be over.” He patted Eric on the back. “You can do this.”

  David’s eyes darted between Eric and Gildore. “W-what’s he going to do?”

  “I’m going to set my arm.” Eric took a deep breath, steeled himself, then ran forward, twisting his body at the last minute. His shoulder slammed full force into the unforgiving stone.

  Crack!

  David squinted his eyes shut, the thought of what just happened paining his own shoulder.

  An almost inhuman, guttural cry sounded from behind the lump of cloth. Eric dropped to the hay floor, rocking back and forth with tears rolling off his chin. He spit the cloth out of his mouth and cradled his arm while muttering a string of cuss words.