Dragon Sleeping (The Dragon Circle Trilogy Book 1)

by CRAIG SHAW GARDNER

  “She’s getting away!” cried Zachs’ singsong. The creature flashed like lightning before him, as if Zachs could no longer contain the energy pent up inside him.

  “Only for a moment,” the wizard managed, stretching out the weary muscles in his arms. “She has wonderful potential. I will let her think she is free for a little while longer.”

  Zachs’ light dimmed enough for the wizard to see the petulant expression upon the creature’s face. “You’re not going to give me the girl, are you?”

  Nunn tried to keep the annoyance from his voice. Zachs was far too useful; he had to be treated gently. “I never said that I would.”

  The light-creature wailed. “You won’t give me Mary Lou? I’m so hungry! You haven’t fed me in so long!” Light pulsed along the creature’s trunk as its voice rose and fell. “I must have another.”

  The wizard stared at his minion for a long moment. “We both will need to replenish our energy.”

  Nunn felt a tingling where the light-creature rubbed his head against the wizard’s sleeve.

  “Nunn is so good to me,” the creature purred. “Zachs is so happy.”

  Nunn stood, feeling the slightest bit light-headed. Still, the weakness was passing, for now.

  “I have spent too much and gotten too little,” he said, more to himself than to his minion. He felt a lancing pain in one of his calves. He was seated for so long that the muscles must have fallen asleep. It surely wasn’t any more than that. “Perhaps I was too sure of myself.”

  “Nunn will win!” Zachs cried loudly, as if any other outcome would be unthinkable. “Nunn always wins!”

  “It will all come to me, sooner or later,” the wizard agreed. “I have made too many plans, forged too many alliances, and corrupted too many officials. All that is left is for me to sort through our new uncertainties—our guests, if you will.”

  He shivered, and quickly placed a hand upon his chair to steady himself. “We both need new energy—new strength. I have been far too gentle with those around me of late.”

  “Food at last!” the light-creature cheered. “Where do we begin? We have so much of it at hand.” He jumped to the rafters, swinging back and forth like a pigeon trapped in a bell tower. “I am famished! I can help! Who is dispensable?” Zachs beat a wild rhythm on the broad oak ceiling beam. “The Captain would be quite tasty. And he’d offer hardly any resistance at all.”

  Nunn sighed. This great display of Zachs’ only seemed to make him feel still more exhausted. “No. It would be a waste of resources to kill the Captain—just yet. He has worked for me too long. He has a certain knowledge that I might need.”

  He smiled, looking out beyond the small windowless room that served as his workspace. “I think it is time to test the visitors. I am sure we will find a few of them who are expendable.”

  Zachs giggled from the rafters.

  Nunn sat back down upon his stool. “I will need to rest for a moment. Then we will determine which of our guests will survive.”

  Zachs returned to the floor to dance and laugh in delight. Nunn closed his eyes at last. For a moment. Only for a moment.

  Then he would let the dragon’s eyes fill him again.

  Nineteen

  Had it all been a dream? The forest, the soldiers, the cabin in the woods, their slick but sinister leader—and how about Sayre? Evan Mills remembered how the old man died, the way he tried to keep his intestines from spilling on the ground, the way the body jerked when the Captain had shot Sayre in the head. That was much more graphic than Mills’ usual dream.

  But if it wasn’t a dream, what was he doing back at school? He was at the blackboard, writing out the beginning of the lesson on sines and cosines. He could smell the mix of chalk dust and floor wax; hear the shuffle of bodies in the classroom behind him, Homeroom 409. His room for twelve years, scribbling lessons on the board.

  There was always something very reassuring about trigonometry.

  But he had no idea why he was here.

  He hadn’t spent any time in the classroom in the last three years, since his promotion to vice-principal. Well, he had made a couple of emergency substitutions. Could that be what this was? He couldn’t remember being given this assignment. He couldn’t even remember getting up this morning.

  He finished his notes on the board and turned to face the class.

  Carl Jackson was passing a note to Joan Blake. That Jackson always was a troublemaker. But Joan was a sweet girl. If he could call her a girl. Joan was almost his age. In fact, the whole class was much older than usual.

  Somebody snickered in the back of the room. Leo Furlong, that was who it was, always waiting for the teacher to screw up. This new classroom had shaken Mills more than he liked to admit. He had to start his lesson, get control of the class.

  “Class,” he began, his voice sounding oddly hollow in the classroom, “today we will continue to study the determination of angles in trigonometry. Sounds pretty long-winded, but we’ve got a couple of tools to help us.” He pointed with his chalk to the spot where he’d written the words on the blackboard. “Sines and Cosines.”

  “Long-winded?” Jackson piped up from his seat. “That’s our teacher, Mr. Mills the blowhard!”

  Most of the class laughed. Harold and Leo and Rose and Margaret all thought it was hilarious. Even Rebecca grinned. Only Joan didn’t smile. Mills was losing control. Leo threw a spitball at Margaret Furlong.

  Margaret and Leo were husband and wife.

  “Blowhard! Blowhard!” Jackson called in a singsong. “Blow it out your rear, Millsy!”

  Evan had dealt with worse discipline problems than this. He was over at the side of the student’s desk in an instant.

  “Do we have a problem, Mr. Jackson?” he asked in a very even tone. “Hey,” Jackson sneered up at him, “I don’t have any problem that couldn’t be solved by me walking right out of here.”

  Maybe this was going to be even more of a problem than Mills had thought. “Would you like to say that to the vice-principal?”

  Evan Mills was one of the vice-principals.

  “Hey, I’ll say it to anybody!” Jackson pushed his chair back from his desk. “I never had any use for school. There’s no way for you to keep me here.” He stood, balling his hands into fists. “I’m too old to be kept caged in like this.” He took a step toward Mills, but the teacher stood his ground. He wasn’t going to let any punk get the better of him. He stared straight at Jackson, teacher and student locked eye-to-eye.

  “We’re all too old!” a woman’s voice cut in.

  Mills blinked, startled from his stubbornness. Jackson took a step away as Mills turned to look at Constance Smith. He hadn’t seen her before. The sun that poured through the classroom window showed how little grey hair she had left on her head.

  “Can’t you see what’s happening here?” she demanded. “Don’t you remember where we are? This has to be some sort of trick!”

  “A trick?” Mills murmured. “Incoming!” Jackson screamed.

  A hand grabbed Mills’ fatigues and pulled him roughly to the jungle floor. Something whistled overhead. The ground lurched below him as the forest exploded with a deafening roar. His helmet was pelted with rocks and mud and pieces of wood.

  “Jeez, Millsy,” Jackson shouted over his ringing ears. “What are you thinking about? You’ve been in Nam long enough to know when to get out of the way of their little presents.”

  Mills frowned. He had never been in Vietnam. It had been Korea, when he was in the army. But he was in the hospital corps, stationed in Germany. There had been rumors of a transfer, once or twice, but the orders to ship out never came.

  “No casualties, Sergeant!” Harold Dafoe stood close behind them. His uniform seemed three sizes too big for him. He stood at attention, but his eyes darted back and forth as if he wanted to watch every inch of the jungle.

  “We’ve got our orders!” Jackson shouted. The ringing in Mills’ ears had subsided enough for him to hear distant mac
hine-gun fire. He slapped Mills on the shoulder. “You’re going to take the point!”

  “Nobody’s going to take anything,” a woman’s voice interrupted. Constance Smith stood beside them. She looked strange dressed in army fatigues. “Can’t you remember?”

  She paused, as if she couldn’t remember herself.

  “Remember that we should all be on our best behavior,” she continued. Somehow she had managed to change from her uniform into a pink dress with a lacy front and sleeves. And who had given Mills a cup of tea?

  “After all,” Constance continued politely, “I think it was very generous of my mother to allow us to have this party, one with both boys and girls. Thank you so much, Mother!”

  “Oh, good,” another of the girls whispered a moment later. It was Joan Blake. Evan thought Joan was pretty. He smiled at her when he could in school, but he could never think of much to say. “She’s gone. Now we can have some fun!”

  “Fun?” Constance frowned. “What kind of fun?” She shook her head sharply, as if trying to get rid of some bad thoughts. “I don’t think my mother would allow dancing.”

  “I’m not talking about dancing.” Joan giggled.

  “Dancing?” Margaret made the word into a groan. “I’m not dancing with Leo!”

  Joan’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m talking about kissing games!”

  “Wait a moment,” Constance said sharply. “It seemed so much like my childhood.” She shook her head again. “Don’t you see—” Her voice was cut off by a great wind.

  Mills felt himself pushed away from the others by the gale. “Fight it!” Constance called. “This is no more real than the school, or the jungle, or my tea party!”

  Things were flying through the storm: great black birds, whose slowly flapping wings seemed to cut through the gale. Their calls were very much like human screams. Their beaks, when they opened them, were lined with razor teeth. They were flying straight toward Mills.

  Maybe the wind could carry him faster than those birds could fly.

  A hand grabbed his. It startled him even more than the sight of the birds. He had thought he was all alone.

  “Listen to me.” He looked over at the face of Constance Smith. “This is the work of Nunn. I think he wants us to fight, to panic, maybe somehow betray ourselves. Somehow I can see this is all wrong. We are still in the clearing, behind the table. Let us all join hands. Maybe there is some way I can get us to safety.” Mills blinked. He could see the others now, quite close, as if Mrs. Smith’s words had broken the spell. He reached for Carl Jackson.

  “I’m not taking your hand!” Jackson screamed, as if still shouting over the storm. He grabbed his wife, Rebecca, by the shoulder. “I have all the help I need right here!”

  “I’ll take your hand,” Rose Dafoe announced firmly. She smiled. Her hair, no longer windblown by the storm, was once again perfectly in place. Mills felt her strong grip on his fingers.

  “Harold?” Rose added, more an order than a question. Her husband took her hand in turn.

  “Why are they doing this to us?” he cried in a voice near hysteria. “What have we done to them?”

  “Calm down, Harold,” Margaret Furlong said as she took his hand. “The wind is going away. Leo? Take my hand, too.”

  “Snakes!” Jackson screamed, pointing at the ground before him. “Dozens of snakes!”

  Mills couldn’t see any snakes, or any great black birds anymore. The windswept, featureless plain that they stood on did not seem so vast as before. He could see dark, still shapes in the distance, but, unlike the howling wind and the fanged birds, these shapes held no menace. Mills guessed they were the trees at the edge of the clearing.

  “Why is this happening?” Jackson howled. “We don’t want to hurt you! Maybe we can make a deal!”

  “I don’t see any snakes,” Harold Dafoe said in a much more reasonable voice. He smiled a bit sheepishly. “Thank you, Constance, whatever you did.”

  “Rebecca!” Joan Blake called from where she held onto Mrs. Smith’s other hand. “Come join the circle now! It’s the only way to fight it!”

  “I’m not—” Carl Jackson began. “I’m nobody’s—”

  Rebecca broke free of his grip and ran to Joan’s side. She smiled ever so slightly as she joined the circle.

  “No!” Jackson screamed. “You can’t have her! You won’t get me!”

  “Carl Jackson!” Rebecca called. “If you ever loved me, take my hand!”

  Jackson shook his head, then looked to his wife as if he only now saw her. “You’re still—I thought—” He walked to her, his steps labored as if he was still fighting the wind.

  “Where?” he asked, as if suddenly woken from a deep sleep. “What happened to—”

  The last vestiges of the wind were gone. They were back in the clearing in the woods.

  “Interesting,” a deep voice remarked. Mills had no idea where it came from.

  Someone screamed. Maybe it was Constance Smith.

  The forest was gone again. Everything was dark and cold. And the others’ hands were gone.

  Mills was alone.

  Twenty

  Knife or no knife, Todd’s hands were sweating.

  He remembered this feeling. He used to get this way before he got into fights in junior high. He was the new kid then. His parents had moved into town right at the beginning of seventh grade. He was the outsider at school, and he had to get in. He was short, too, when he was thirteen. But he was fast.

  Most of the time, he won.

  All that stuff he couldn’t let out at his father came right out when he was fighting in the playground. He wasn’t much on technique. He just started swinging until the other kid was on the ground. One or two of the other kids called him nuts. That helped him, too.

  Most of the time, he won.

  That is, until he met Bruce the Mouse. Bruce was huge, especially by seventh-grade standards. The Mouse nickname was somebody’s idea of a joke, a joke that stuck.

  It had started with a pushing match in gym class, in one of those games of dodgeball they used to have on rainy days. Todd had tripped over the Mouse’s big feet. A few words had been exchanged, and a few more words after that. Todd called the big kid a stupid ox.

  Mouse had replied, “Get out of my face, you little faggot.” Fighting words. The gym teacher, Mr. Pinelli, broke it up for a minute. But only for a minute. Nobody called Todd a little faggot and got away with it.

  And then Mouse laughed at him. That was it. Todd could take anything but somebody laughing at him. A meeting was arranged in the locker room: the far side of the baseball diamond, out of sight of the school building, ten minutes after the end of classes.

  The Mouse was waiting for him, and a couple of the Mouse’s friends, two guys named George and Tony.

  Todd thought he’d better get this over with fast. He closed in on the other guy as soon as he got there.

  Hitting the Mouse was like banging your fists into a brick wall. The larger kid didn’t even seem to move. Bruce the Mouse swatted him casually. Todd found himself on the ground.

  Todd got back up. He wasn’t moving fast enough, wasn’t hitting hard enough. He kept punching, punching, punching. Bruce the Mouse took a half-step backward. A left hand swung in on Todd from nowhere.

  Todd was down again. The ground seemed a lot closer this time than it had before.

  He wanted to groan when he pushed himself up this time, but he kept silent. Better not to let them know what he was feeling, or if he felt anything at all. Mouse wasn’t laughing anymore. But his friends were.

  The Mouse’s fist knocked squarely into Todd’s jaw. Hey, Todd wasn’t even ready yet. His legs twisted under him as he went down this time. He saw tiny points of light when he opened his eyes.

  Somehow he was back on his feet. His pants were torn, his nose was bleeding, and he swayed when he stood. He made a noise every time he swung his fist. He couldn’t help it from coming out anymore. He’d land one good
punch on this guy yet.

  “Hey!” the Mouse yelled, opening his fists to flat palms. “You win, okay?”

  The Mouse laughed then, and Todd found himself laughing with him. God, but he hurt! He didn’t have an ounce of strength left in him.

  That was the start of his gang. George and Tony and Bruce the Mouse. They all hung out together and shared Todd’s brains. He was the idea man, they were the muscle. Not that anyone would ever think of getting in their way once they were upper grads in high school. They didn’t just win most of the time.

  They won all the time.

  Todd had grown after that, close to six feet by his senior year. Todd’s gym teacher had suggested he try out for the football team. But Todd had better things to do.

  He learned how to use the system. Todd the winner. High school was no different from any other place. Todd the boss. If you knew how to play it, you could have your very own kingdom. Todd, the guy who could figure out any angle, anywhere. He learned how to use his mouth rather than his hands. A simple threat was enough to get just what he wanted. He had it worked so he would never have to fight again. Or so he thought. But now he—or he and the Newton Volunteers—had to rescue Mary Lou.

  He looked up at the trees that seemed to close over him. There were new rules here, complete with talking ravens and wolves, and magicians who only told you half the truth—if there was any truth at all.

  Todd wished he had George and Tony and Bruce the Mouse with him now. He’d gotten too used to depending on others to slide through his difficulties.

  But he didn’t have anybody else anymore. He had to be ready for his own fights. He wiped his hands on his jeans.

  “Your Mary Lou would be this way,” said Wilbert as he pointed at a spot in the woods where there didn’t seem to be a path.

  “The wolves have gone this way, too,” Stanley added. “See their tracks down there?”

  Todd looked down at the place Stanley pointed to in the dirt. The smudge there could have been a pawprint, if it wasn’t a footprint or a mark made by a branch.