The serpentine dragon groaned and ripped a broken tooth out of his mouth.
“You all right, Moss?” Dark asked.
Moss wriggled his mouth and spit out a glob of blood. “All in good stride.”
Dark gave Moss a friendly tap to show his appreciation for the spell. The serpentine dragon tensed as he watched Fenroot land and bark orders to the villagers to bow.
The elves immediately dropped to the sand, all two hundred of them—men, women and children. They had pointed ears, bronzed skin, and their eyes were like precious stones that gleamed against the fire.
Dark descended upon the beach. “My children, you have betrayed me. You have turned the magic of this world into poison, and you would dare use that poison against me. I should dispose of you all. But I will spare this village under two conditions.”
He wasn’t going to spare them, but it made for good theatrics.
He landed in the sand, and the thick, coarse grain lodged between his claws. He stomped toward the crowd as Norwyn and Moss flanked him.
“First, I demand any magic you have stolen from our aquifer.”
Two of his dragons overturned a hut. They rifled through the straw and pulled out a handful of jars with bright pink liquid inside. The dragons tore through the other huts, throwing bottles into a pile on the sand.
“That’s what I thought,” Dark said. “Consider the first condition satisfied. Next: one of your own attacked me tonight.” He paced the sand in front of the villagers. “I do not know his name, but he is dead so it’s no consequence to me. I found this village’s rune on a bracelet on his arm.” Dark held out the bracelet. “So here is what we will do.”
Silence. Dark let the suspense sink in as he let the bracelet drop to the sand.
“Will the village elder step forward?”
The line of elves parted. A bald man in a simple cloth shirt and pants stepped forward. He had a sad, wrinkled face, and tufts of white hair stuck out from the sides of his almost bald head. He was tall, but the top of his head barely reached the top of Dark’s chest.
“I am the elder,” the man said. “What is it you require of us, Lord Dark?”
“I know how you elves work. Everything you do is a family affair, is it not? Well, I intend to keep it that way. I ask that the family of the criminal step forward so that I may recognize them, interrogate them, and destroy them. If you reveal yourselves, I will spare the rest of the village. If you do not reveal yourselves, everyone will die.”
The elder’s eyes widened with fear.
“Do you have knowledge of the events tonight, elder?” Dark asked.
“No.”
“You lie.”
“Then why did you ask the question?”
Moss grabbed the man and squeezed him between his claws. “You’re being insubordinate.”
“You’re going to kill us anyway,” the man said, straining. “Just do it.”
“I’m not done with him yet, Moss,” Dark said.
Moss threw the elder across the sand. The man rolled several times, and two women helped him up.
“The dragon lord wants an answer,” the elder said, straining. “Let us sing again for our dear old Lord Dark.”
The elves looked at the man, then at Dark, then back at the man. Then they began to sing slowly.
Smile for us, old dragon lord...
Something grated against Dark’s ears.
They were singing out of tune.
All of them.
Softly, then louder until their chanting was the only thing Dark could hear.
He shook with fury at the defiance.
The elder smirked as he led the chorus. “How do you like our tribute, My Lord?”
Dark swiped at the crowd, snagging several elves in his claws.
Blood splashed across his face. Bodies collapsed into the sand.
He roared at the elves as they ran frantically across the beach. His dragons stomped after them, crushing them in their jaws, engulfing them in flames, and grabbing them in their talons before flying high into the sky and then dropping them to their deaths.
The carnage invigorated him. The flames. The fallen.
He lashed his tail and caught elves in his jaws, cracking their spines and throwing them into the tide like trash.
“This is how I reward defiance!” he screamed.
Dark scanned the madness and found the elder lying in the sand. In a single leap, Dark landed on the man’s body, crushing bones.
He blew fire on the body. Then he spread the flames across the beach, burning everything in his line of sight. He walked through the wall of fire and harrumphed.
No mercy.
Not for defiance.
A shimmering sound ripped across the beach. Dark heard the ocean waves again, washing up against the shore.
“Moss!” Dark cried. “What did you do to the sound block?”
Moss circled overhead and called back, “I did nothing!”
Fear gripped Dark’s heart as he watched a group of elves dash into the woods.
The woods. They weren’t supposed to reach the woods!
The sound block had vanished and the protection wall had fallen.
“After them!” Dark screamed.
He started for the woods, but Norwyn stopped him. “Stay back, My Lord.”
Fenroot tore after the elves, and Dark cheered him on as the gray dragon ran into the woods.
Dark heard a low growl and a crack as a tree slammed against the ground. A cloud of dust rose over the treetops.
A terrible yell. Elven.
Then Fenroot roared.
But this roar was not victorious. It was pained and blood-curdling.
All the dragons on the beach stopped and turned toward the forest.
Dark knew the roar of defeat from hundreds of years of war. You couldn’t stand by and listen to a roar like that without rushing to your comrade’s side.
He sped past Norwyn.
“Stop!” Norwyn cried.
Dark ignored him, trampling a family of elves as he ripped into the forest.
“Fenroot,” he yelled. “Fenroot!”
The woods flew by in a blur, the moonlight shining through the branches above. His senses were on high alert as he tracked the trail with both sight and smell, until finally he came to a patch of felled trees.
Fenroot lay on the ground with a sword in his chest.
Dark glanced around the forest. Whoever attacked Fenroot was probably nearby. He turned his back to the dragon, circling his gaze around the area.
No one.
“My Lord,” Fenroot groaned. “The sword. Will you remove it?”
Dark gripped the sword and pulled. A rush of red spilled from Fenroot’s chest.
“The sword felt stronger than it should have,” Fenroot said. “Does it seem strange to you?”
Dark examined the bloody sword. It looked like a normal sword with a flowered hilt, made of metal from the mountains.
“No.”
“How does it taste?”
Dark licked the sword, tasting the iron of Fenroot’s blood.
The sword exploded in a pink blast, blowing Dark through a patch of trees. He landed on his back, a large gash across his face.
Dark stilled as he heard footsteps stalking slowly through the undergrowth. Soon, Fenroot’s head hovered above him. A group of elves joined him, staring at Dark incredulously.
“Did the curse work?” one of the elves asked.
“Will he die?” another asked.
“Wasn’t he supposed to be dead by now? It didn’t work!”
“Quiet,” Fenroot said. “This wouldn’t have happened if you damned elves had gotten the ratios right like I told you.”
Dragons and elves working together? Buzzing filled Dark’s head, and the raw wound on his face blinded him with pain.
“I’m sorry it had to come to this, My Lord,” Fenroot said. “But this will be the last time I call you My Lord.”
Fenroot’s claws
glowed as he cast a spell that healed his sword wound.
Dark’s mind reeled. He tried to move, but one of his legs was broken. He tried to flap his wings, but the elves surrounded him and drove metal stakes through them, pinning him to the dirt. Dark roared as they drove each stake in.
“You betrayed me,” Dark said. “For what? Power?”
Fenroot laughed. “This has been in the making for a hundred years.”
“A hundred—you would be nothing without me. I favored you—”
Fenroot’s face was blank.
Dark stopped. No more talking. He had to figure out a plan.
His bones constricted, as if someone were tying a rope around his body and pulling it with all their might. His jaws buckled as he braced against the pain. His entire body was shaking.
“A little longer yet,” Fenroot said.
A shape emerged from the forest and slammed into Fenroot, knocking the dragon across the clearing.
Norwyn.
The white dragon stood in front of Dark, and the elven men retreated.
“I would have never suspected you of treason, Fenroot,” Norwyn said.
The elves drew their swords at the white dragon, but Norwyn cast a wave of plasma from his claws that ripped them in half. Then he landed on Fenroot and tore into his leg, drawing blood.
Dark watched them fight. He struggled to rise, but the magic holding him down was too powerful.
Fenroot slashed Norwyn with his tail, but Norwyn dodged and sank his teeth into Fenroot’s shoulder.
Moss flew out of the forest and circled them.
“Moss, help Norwyn,” Dark said. His voice was surprisingly weak, and he hated himself for it.
Moss watched the two dragons duel, not moving.
“Moss, strike!” Dark screamed.
But Moss slashed his tail and struck Norwyn in the back. The force knocked the white dragon to the side, stunned. Moss coiled around him, then launched Norwyn into the air, sending him into the woods.
The ground shook when Norwyn landed. Dark heard footsteps through the brush as Norwyn tried to run back to the fight, then a thump. And silence.
“You okay, Fenroot?” Moss asked.
“Let’s finish him,” Fenroot said. The two dragons approached Dark. “The spell might not have worked as intended, but we’ll end this.”
Dark struggled, but he couldn’t break free from the stakes. He was shaking so violently that he couldn’t see straight.
Fenroot and Moss laughed. They raised their claws to slash.
A weary fatigue spread through Dark’s body and his eyelids felt heavy, heavier than they’d ever felt before.
Was this how it felt to die? Was this how his father and mother would feel when it was their time, that moment he had always been so terrified of?
He fought the urge to close his eyes, but he couldn’t fight it for long.
He sank into the dirt, resigned himself to the earth. The last thing he saw was the two dragons backing away from him, fearful looks on their faces.
They hadn’t struck him. They were far, far away now.
The ground shook again, as if someone was running toward them. The rocking vibrations made Dark drift closer toward sleep.
That’s a curious turn of events, Dark thought as his eyelids slid over his eyes.
Intermezzo
It was a moment between two ages, a gasp in history when the world didn’t know what to do next.
One moment was the reign of the dragon lord; the next, a dawn that had no name. Yet the sun still rose all the same on the coast of the fishing village, the huts charred by dragon fire, the lines of fish laid out like beads of a broken necklace. The waters still ebbed and flowed over the bodies lying facedown in the sand, their hands clutched around rocks and swords and what was left of their children. The wind still blew through the forest and rustled the leaves where Old Dark lay, swollen with sleep.
One moment it was darkness, an age where you couldn’t trust your shadow for fear it would betray your secrets, for there were ears everywhere—and the next, infinite silence.
Uncertainty.
Trepidation.
The news spread with the rising sun. Down the golden coasts of the western continent, where elves gathered in the forests to debate whether it was really true. Across the plains where human farmers leaned against fence posts, wondering if they no longer had to make tributes. To the four corners of the world, the snowy tundras, the searing deserts, the roiling, jewel-dark seas.
Trade routes faltered, then flourished. The hills filled with fat cattle and farmers grew rich from not having to slaughter them without pay.
For dragons, it was a sad day and the end of an era. Keeper dragons wept inside their caves, and Crafter dragons keened louder than the wind.
The dragon lord was dead.
No, not dead. Asleep. But for the world who had never known any different, it was the same as dead.
How the world rejoiced! How elves and humans danced in celebrations while the dragons retreated to their homes, brooding...
The dragon lord was dead.
But the world didn’t know the whole story. No one saw Toad springing out of the shadows at the last minute, slamming into Fenroot, breaking the dragon’s face. Moss escaping into the brush. Norwyn and Toad running to the great dragon, sleeping as lifeless as a stone.
The vigil outside the palace walls was a sham. The thousands of chanters with their offerings of jewels, beef, and gold were also carrying swords and axes at the bottom of the carts. They stormed the castle walls easily, for the dragons were in mourning.
The mob searched for Alsatius and Smirnagond, burning every room in the palace as they did so. They found the old dragons in the gardens, and they burned them alive.
Dark’s parents died with his name on their lips.
The palace fell, spilling its rock and bones across the valley.
It was all over. Centuries of power gone in the time it took for the palace to crumble.
And as the world exhaled, it had to figure out what to do, now that the House of Dark had fallen.
ACT II
VII
Ancestral Bogs, Western Continent
Year 2020, One Thousand Years Later
Lucan Grimoire brushed sharp branches from his eyes as he journeyed deeper into the bog. Flies nipped at his face and mosquitos infiltrated his long sleeves.
He’d picked the wrong day to wear a suit. He had loosened his tie minutes earlier, wrapping it around his neck so he wouldn’t lose it. His light blue button-up shirt was stuck to his skin from sweat, and he was sure the ivory buttons would leave marks by now.
An incessant buzzing floated around his ear and he smacked at it. Two flies lay pulsing in his palm. He made a face of disgust and shook them away. He tasted bug spray in his mouth and spit it out.
“How much longer?” he asked.
“A little further, sir.”
A few paces ahead, a university student stopped and gave him a look of pity. He parted a clump of tangled branches and motioned Lucan through.
“Do you want me to use my machete?” Tony Dyer asked. “I know you aren’t used to the bogs, Mr. Grimoire.”
Lucan didn’t answer.
“I figured you’d be against it, with your platform on the environment and such.”
What does he know about my platform? Lucan thought. I’m running a campaign, and here I am in this bog, all because I believed some backwater university kid.
Tony had a backpack on, and his shirt was tied around his waist. He was young, limber, and of elven blood—high cheekbones and bronzed skin, probably from living outdoors in the sultry bog, and ears that were only slightly pointed from centuries of racial mixing.
Lucan had pure elven blood—as pure blooded as one could get given the historical circumstances—and that meant something. At least to him.
“If it’s just a little farther, then leave your machete alone,” Lucan said.
Tony started through
more brush, but Lucan grabbed him. “I’m sticking my neck out for you. I don’t traipse after every starry-eyed person who gives me a pitch, you know.”
“I know your business background,” Tony said. “I’m not lookin’ for money, sir.”
Lucan wanted to laugh in his face. Not looking for money! That was exactly what all the snot-nosed startups said. We’re not selling you anything, Mr. Grimoire. And then they’d turn around and ask for a hundred thousand spiras.
This kid was full of crap. Money was the only language anyone understood anymore, even with the end of the world looming. It was the vowels. It was the consonants. It was the forge around which everyone understood the sparks.
“Then what are you looking for?” Lucan asked.
“I want to make a difference.”
“Aren’t you a little do-gooder? I thought you kids lost your optimism before you went to college.”
Tony picked up his pace, and a branch smacked Lucan in the face.
His cheek stung. “Gah! Ah, alright, I guess I deserved that.”
He jogged after Tony, more aware of his sweat and body odor than ever before. The purple trees whispered in the breeze and the murky depths of the water nearby bubbled and popped.
They moved into a constellation of cicada songs as Tony spoke.
“I’m a student of Professor Charmwell’s.”
“What?” Lucan said, cupping his hand to his ear. He couldn’t hear the boy over the cicadas.
“Professor Charmwell. You know her, right?”
The name sounded familiar. She was a stuck-up professor who had gotten a lot of news coverage for her stance against magicological drilling a few years ago. He had presented her an award at a banquet once. Or maybe that was someone else. Too many faces to remember them all.
“I know of her. If she’s your professor, why didn’t you go to her first?”
“Isn’t optimism your message?”
“You mean for my campaign? Yeah.”
“I was at your rally last week. At the university. And I believed.”
“Don’t make me feel bad now, kid.”
“You said the cornerstone of our age will be the people who act bigger than themselves. I agree with you. So no, I’m not doing it for the money.”
Old Dark (The Last Dragon Lord Book 1) Page 4
