Masters & Slayers

by Bryan Davis

“They are still alive in one sense. Their brains continue to coordinate their normal functions, but they have no awareness, no sentient thoughts. Even when the drug wears off, they act as if they are still under its influence. Then, while I am flying their spirits to the Northlands, their bodies are led to a banquet with Magnar as the host.”

  “A banquet? Why would they be invited to a banquet? I don’t understand.”

  “I am glad to hear that. In this case, Cassabrie’s influence over you is beneficial.”

  Adrian squinted at him. Cassabrie’s influence? She was still within, but he had resisted her. He was in his right mind now. Everything was crystal clear.

  “So,” Arxad continued, “the promoted slaves will have to witness your execution along with other humans who are ordered to watch your suffering, which is unfortunate, because I will have to give them a stronger dose of the drug in order to allay their fears.”

  “That much I can understand.”

  With a quick beat of his wings, Arxad drew closer and set his head directly in front of Adrian’s. The normal rumble in his voice smoothed to an almost humanlike softness. “Now that I have told you about the process of removing your spirit, have you decided what you want to do?”

  Adrian closed his eyes. Again Marcelle came to mind, an image of her battling dragons and leading slaves out of this world, but as quickly as it entered, a sense of warmth pulsed and washed it away. It felt so good, so soothing. All was well. There was no reason to try to escape. How could he possibly battle multiple dragons without a weapon? It was impossible. And Marcelle was strong and brave. She could survive without him.

  He took in a deep breath and nodded as he exhaled slowly. “Draw my spirit out and send me with Cassabrie. Nothing else makes any sense.”

  “Then so be it. You will find chains and padlocks near the stake. If you would be so kind, allow me to wrap the chains around your body and the stake. My hands are not equipped to do it if you struggle. The padlock will engage without need of a key, so I can manage that.”

  Adrian spread out his hands. “Why chains? I am going willingly.”

  “Magnar will not be pleased to see a condemned prisoner free of chains. Not only that, intense pain might influence you to alter your willingness. Once the sphere glows, you will understand. Its heat will scald your brain, and no lie you tell will darken it. You are not powerful enough.”

  “Do you plan to drug me?”

  “There is no need. You are already fully drugged.”

  Adrian narrowed his eyes. “What?”

  “Never mind. Let us proceed. The promoted humans will be here at any moment.”

  Adrian walked up to the sphere, the crystalline orb atop the cooking stake. Behind it lay a pile of chains he hadn’t seen the day before. Perhaps Arxad put them there earlier in the night.

  He set his back against the stake, and his head against the sphere. As Arxad wrapped the chains around him and the stake, Cassabrie whispered, “All will be well, Adrian. I withstood thirteen days of suffering before my spirit entered the sphere. That was before Arxad knew about Trisarian’s power or even that a spirit could be captured. But I will save that story for another day. Just be comforted in the fact that someone else has endured much more than you will have to endure. You are brave and strong. There is nothing to fear.”

  After Arxad tightened the chains, he fastened the two ends together with the padlock. When it snapped in place, he looked at Adrian and spoke softly. “I tried to show you, but your eyes were blind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are not in a state that will allow you to comprehend, but perhaps pain will clear your mind, albeit too late to make a difference.” Arxad turned away and began shuffling toward a double doorway. The rising moon peering through the hole above had brightened the room, allowing Adrian a good view of the dragon’s progress. When he reached the door, he stopped and looked back. “Magnar is now entering with the promoted ones. Prepare for suffering.”

  As a huge moon rose toward the top of one of the Zodiac’s spires, Marcelle stood at the front of a crowd of about fifty humans—restless humans, shifting, shuffling, mumbling humans. What were they expecting to see? Death? Pain? Why would the dragons put their cruelty on display? To incite fear? Didn’t they also risk planting the seeds of rebellion, or had the threat of murdered children drained courage from even the most stouthearted men in the land?

  As the image of Thad burning in agony came to mind, Marcelle winced. Yes, that had to be the case. Men who hoped to defend the innocent would surely pause when scorched and blackened children haunted their nightmares. Witnessing an execution likely reminded them of the horrors the dragons were willing to inflict. The slavers were calculating, brutal, cold. A human child meant little more to them than a piglet that could be replaced by choosing from the next litter in the breeding rooms.

  She blew out a sigh. So what were the slaves feeling now as they waited for the next brutal act? Perhaps they hoped for a miracle, the victim’s escape from bonds that would foreshadow their prophesied liberation. Then again, maybe they had no expectations at all. The dragons said they had to come, so they obeyed, and even now a dragon paced in front of the Zodiac, Penelope’s master, Hyborn. As the dragon in charge of one of the promoted slaves, he had been assigned to lead them into the Zodiac, but, as some of the slaves whispered, with the added dimension of a pending execution, maybe plans would change.

  A breeze tossed Marcelle’s altered hair, reminding her once again of the danger. She was an impostor, an infiltrator who would soon walk into a den of dragons and battle impossible odds. Death seemed certain, but death was better than leaving a friend to suffer alone.

  She scuffed her too-tight sandals against the pebbly outer courtyard. Penelope’s feet had to be at least two sizes smaller than her own, but they couldn’t afford to overlook any detail. From the sheet and nightshirt, still wrapped around the viper and cradled in front of her, to the pigtails in her hair, to the crimping corset that pinched her into a prepubescent frame, she not only had to look like Penelope. She had to be Penelope.

  A preteen boy stood next to her, Bron, she had learned earlier. He clutched his own bundle tightly against his chest as he rocked back and forth on his feet. His face expressionless, he appeared to be the model for promoted slaves. Maybe he had seen this procession before. It would be a good idea to copy his manner.

  Behind her, a variety of opinions buzzed. Some said the execution victim was a laborer who blew up mine number two. Apparently, an explosion had occurred there earlier in the day. Others believed him to be a murderer or a kidnapper. Some children had died at mine number one, and others were missing. A few believed that he was guilty of both. It was hard enough to believe that one person would be so stupid, but two? Out of the question.

  All spoke with contempt. How dare this human stir up such trouble? His crimes would cause every dragon master to crack down on his slaves and add heavy labors with harsh penalties. Surely he deserves to die.

  Trying to keep her head still, Marcelle glanced to her other side. Shellinda stood in the second row of people. She had draped her body with one of the sheets, and the excess material dragged the ground behind her. Somewhere underneath the loose garment, she had hidden Adrian’s sword.

  Marcelle looked away. Good girl. Now she just had to remember her instructions not to reveal the sword until Adrian was set free. Otherwise, it might be used as a weapon against the humans. She rotated slightly and scanned everyone in her field of vision. Scott and Vanna were nowhere in sight. No use looking for them now.

  Refocusing straight ahead, Marcelle tried to take in a painless breath but to no avail. With shuffling steps, Hyborn blocked her view of the building as he passed. Then, he stopped and eyed her. Smoke trickled from his nostrils and drifted slowly upward.

  “Penelope,” he said. “You look … different.”

  Marcelle froze. What could she say? He hadn’t even asked a question. She cleared her throat, hoping to
mimic Penelope’s higher voice. “My countenance is fallen. Leaving my home brings sorrow, even in a time of joy for myself.”

  “Well spoken.” The dragon’s head drew closer. “Where is Daphne?”

  “She’s …” Marcelle swallowed. “She’s unable to come. She didn’t say why.”

  “Very well. I will ask her myself later.” Without another word, Hyborn drew back and continued his pacing.

  Marcelle exhaled. That was close. But she passed the test. Hyborn thought she was the real Penelope.

  Ahead, a massive pair of doors swung inward. A huge dragon flew from within and landed gracefully between the building and the people.

  As if guided by a conductor, the slaves bowed. Marcelle quickly did the same. As she kept her torso bent, she looked around, waiting for the others to pop back up. Had anyone noticed her hesitation? A few whispers of “Magnar” floated about, some surprised in tone, some reverent.

  “You may rise,” Magnar said.

  When everyone had straightened, Magnar spoke again, this time with the fervor of a fiery prophet. “Hear this! You are about to witness the execution of a dragon killer. As you know, punishments for disobedience rarely rise to this level. We are merciful, limiting the severity of your penalties to lashes. Even their count and their ferocity are strictly measured. But when a human dares to murder a dragon, there can be no other consequence, and this public viewing will remind you of the value of a dragon’s life in comparison to your own.”

  Magnar looked directly at Marcelle and then at Bron. “Why do we have only two promoted slaves?”

  Hyborn glanced back and forth between Marcelle and Magnar. “Natalla has escaped. We assume she has fled to the wilderness.”

  “Yes, yes, I know that.” Magnar’s ears flattened. “Could we not find a replacement?”

  “Maximus killed the examiner. We do not know where the exam records are.”

  Magnar snorted. “Very well. Let us proceed. I will take the promoted humans first so they can be prepared. You fly a patrol around the village. With all that has happened lately, I want this area to be free of further trouble.”

  “As you wish,” Hyborn said, bowing.

  As Magnar led the way, Bron marched forward. Marcelle jumped into a similar gait, glancing at him to read his body language—shoulders back, head erect, eyes forward, lips firm. She copied every feature. She would be the image of the solemn, proud slave who yearned to travel to the Northlands to meet the King of the Dragons, yet found sadness in her departure from those she loved.

  When they passed into the cavernous building, Marcelle glanced around. The room, long and rectangular, like a huge hallway, lay very nearly empty. The floor reflected their sandals and legs as they walked over the polished surface. Murals decorated the walls at each side, and a line of lanterns mounted on protruding rods in front of each mural focused beams of light on certain portions as if highlighting an important scene.

  On the left wall, a dragon, larger than life, blasted a barrage of fire at a radiant sphere, as if attacking a moon. Maybe it was a moon. The dragon seemed to be flying across a dark background with stars behind him. Yet, the moon had no craters, no sign of flaws that most moons displayed. It just shone with an ivory glow, likely painted with a phosphorescent oil. In fact, flecks of shiny paint made the entire mural sparkle.

  A woman cowered behind the moon, as if hiding from the dragon’s fury. With long auburn hair and petite frame, she looked familiar somehow. The lantern cast a beam on a name etched underneath the moon, written in the human language. Laurel Blackstone.

  Marcelle let the name seep in. Uriel Blackstone’s wife? The legends say she died in childbirth while he was in captivity, and she had blonde hair, not auburn. And how would the dragons know anything about her, much less what she looked like?

  On the other wall, a redheaded girl in a long white dress spread out her arms, her head angled upward and her mouth open. A lantern focused on her green eyes, making them shine. A brilliant aura, much like the moon’s glow on the opposite wall, wrapped the girl in a halo, as if she were inside a semitransparent moon herself. A woman dressed in black approached her from behind, a dagger in her thin fingers. With a gaunt pale face and black eyes, she looked more phantom than human.

  Another set of double doors lay ahead. Magnar pushed them open and continued walking slowly. Marcelle and Bron followed him into a dim circular chamber with a domed ceiling. As the dragon’s wings stretched out to help him balance, he blocked most of the view in front. Something stood at the center of the floor. It moved slightly, making a clinking sound, but the dimness obscured any details.

  Magnar stopped, swung around, and faced Marcelle and Bron. “Halt,” he said in a low tone. “It is time for your preparation.”

  Marcelle tried to see around him, but his body still blocked her view of the center of the room. Another dragon walked toward them from the shadows on the right. As he approached, a grinding noise sounded from the ceiling. A hole grew in the center of the dome and continued expanding until the entire room became an open courtyard. The light from Trisarian washed over the area, revealing the other dragon’s identity—Arxad.

  Marcelle stiffened. If any dragon could recognize her, he would be the one. He seemed intelligent and attentive, but the moonlight might not be enough to reveal her identity. Maybe this promotion procedure was routine for him, and he wouldn’t pay much attention. She kept her head low, hoping to shade her face. The moment of truth had arrived.

  “Sit,” Arxad commanded.

  Bron dropped to the floor cross-legged and set his bundle in his lap. Marcelle joined him but laid hers to her left, out of Arxad’s view. She risked a glance at him. He looked so different. Wounds covered his wings and face, and his expression seemed despairing, like that of a bereaved father. Something terrible must have happened.

  Arxad carried sheets of parchment in one clawed hand and a pair of quills in the other. He set the parchment down at Bron’s right and flipped a quill into each of their laps. “Write a letter to your closest relations,” he said without a hint of emotion. “Tell them you are happy in the Northlands and serving the King of the Dragons with contentment. Because of your duties there and your desire to keep them from heartache, this will be the only letter they will receive. When you are finished, I will read it and deliver it to the people you indicate.”

  Bron picked up the parchment and handed one sheet to Marcelle. He set the page on the floor in front of him and immediately began writing.

  Taking care not to look at Arxad, Marcelle leaned forward as well. Inside, she fumed. Obeying without question just wasn’t in her nature. How could anyone write a letter about something she hadn’t really experienced? Penning a lie was worse than speaking one. At least a verbal lie eventually withered on the vine. A written lie lasted forever.

  As she set the quill close to the paper, Arxad placed an inkwell between their letters. “Do be quick about it,” he said. “We have much to accomplish tonight.” He then turned and disappeared into the shadows.

  Magnar sat on his haunches, his huge body still blocking whatever stood at the center. With fiery red eyes rocking back and forth with his swaying head, he watched closely.

  Marcelle touched the parchment with the quill. She and her conspirators hadn’t discussed this part. To whom should she address it? What should she say? Did Penelope have a mother? A sister? Would writing to Vanna be believable? And since Penelope was one of the poorer students, might that mean that she also lacked good penmanship, spelling, and grammar? Not necessarily. Besides, faking mistakes would be harder than writing correctly.

  After taking a deep breath, she wrote in decent but inelegant script:

  Dear Vanna,

  As we thought, it is cold in the Northlands, but I am sufficiently warm here in the ivory palace. The King of the Dragons is a kind master, and I am pleased to be in his service. I hope someday that you, too, will be free so we can be together again.

  Because I am so busy here
, this is the only letter I will write to you, and I also wish to spare you the heartache of hearing from me.

  With much love, Penelope

  She laid down the quill and looked at Bron. He continued writing, dipping his quill in the well from time to time. His writing reflected a deliberate hand, perfectly formed letters and heartfelt words to a beloved mother.

  Arxad returned, this time carrying a mug. “Drink half of this,” he said, extending the mug toward Bron. “The journey to the Northlands is long and difficult. This elixir will allow you to endure the hardships. We will provide you with ceremonial clothing in a little while.”

  Bron took the mug with both hands, raised it to his lips, and tipped back his head. His throat muscles moved up and down twice before he passed the mug to Marcelle.

  While Arxad collected the letters, Marcelle took the mug, wrapping her fingers around the warm, glazed pottery. Inside, a thick liquid sent a sickly sweet aroma into her nostrils. A drug, no doubt, something to make victims powerless to resist the next step.

  Resisting the urge to glance at Arxad, she copied Bron’s motions and let the liquid pass around her upper lip without letting any drain into her mouth. After moving her throat up and down to mimic swallowing, she lowered the mug and passed it back to Bron who then set it on the floor.

  Holding Marcelle’s letter, Arxad looked at her over the edge of the page. “Who told you about an ivory palace?”

  Marcelle steeled her body. Another mistake, and a big one. “I heard rumors. Someone said a man journeyed from the Northlands only yesterday, and he described the palace.”

  “Interesting.” Arxad stretched out his neck and looked inside the mug. His brow scrunched for a moment. He cast a glance at Bron and then Marcelle before returning to Marcelle’s letter. “Who is Vanna?”

  She kept her head low. “My friend. We serve together with Daphne. She is like a sister to me.”

  “That will do.” Arxad turned toward Magnar. “Let us proceed with the murderer’s execution and conduct it quickly. I would like the human witnesses to be gone before midnight, so I can finish the preparation for these two in the usual way. By then, the elixir will have had time to take full effect.”