In the Shadow of the Dragon King (38 page)

“Wait.” Eric winced as he leaned forward, his mouth open. Understanding clicked in. “So when the paladin arrived, it triggered a trace to show up. Seyekrad saw it but he doesn’t have a clue who it belongs to?” He laughed. “What a dolt! He must be going insane!” Eric took a deep breath, giving his brain time to absorb everything. After a few moments he chuckled. “So much for the mages not interfering in the lives of men, eh?”

Trog pulled a sour face. “They interfere far more than they will admit.”

Silence fell over the cottage. Eric picked up his bowl and finished his dinner, the story of his life weaving around in his mind. There was still a piece that didn’t make sense.

“Sir.” Butterflies scurried in his belly. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t call Trog
Father
. “Why didn’t you raise me as your own?”

Trog scratched his nose and sat forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. “The night before I returned home from my skirmish with Maldorth, someone from Einar’s camp killed your mother and left a message carved in her arm.” He stared at the floor, his jaw tight, his hands clasped so hard his knuckles were white.

Eric gulped. “W-what did the message say?”

Trog’s lip twitched. “You killed my son. Yours will be next.” Trog stood, his chair scraping across the floor, and walked away. “Of course, Gildore did the only thing he could to keep you safe. He put you in the care of the blacksmith. When I discovered what had happened, I wanted to scoop you in my arms and whisk you away. But I was a knight. I couldn’t run. Even if I had, Einar would have hunted us down and killed you.” Trog pulled the rectangular table from the wall, and propped his foot on the rung of a chair. He withdrew his sword from his scabbard and examined it, running his fingertips along the sharp, double-edge. “It was the hardest thing I ever did, letting you go. I used to sit by the fountain and watch you play with the other boys. You know, you knew how to wield a stick better than anyone. When you were five, I took you as my page. The rest of the story you know.”

Eric smiled, memories of his childhood streaming in his mind. The years with Trog hadn’t been that bad. He’d never been beaten. Trog very seldom yelled at him. Of course being on the receiving end of
the look
was far worse than any lashing he could have received. Knowing what he knew now, it made sense for Trog to be hard on him. He expected more, wanted more, for his son. If only Eric had known sooner.

Thunder rolled closer. The wind whistled through the trees, neither one loud enough to conceal the sound of booted footsteps approaching the rear of the cabin.

Trog held a finger to his lips and approached the door, firelight glinting off his sword. “Stay put,” he said as he slid back the bolt and stepped into the night.

Eric tossed off the covers and flung his legs over the edge of the bed, his ribs on fire. Using the chair to steady himself, he took a deep breath and stood. Glancing around, he found his own sword on the shelf above his bed. He grasped the hilt, stifled the moan clogging his throat, and shuffled to the open door.

There was no movement. No sound. He peeked around the doorframe. No Trog. Looking both ways, he stepped onto the narrow porch, the cool night air sweeping over his goose-bumped skin. A rustle sounded in the brush to his left. His heart raced. A rough hand clamped over his mouth.

“I thought I told you to stay put!” Trog whispered in his ear. “Get inside—now!”

Dark figures moved from the shadows of the trees. Human. Their garments were as black as the masks concealing their faces.

Eric squirmed out of Trog’s grasp. His face hot, his hand gripped tight to the hilt of his sword. He sensed a presence behind him. He waited, held his breath, then spun and kicked at the intruder’s chest.

The assailant flew backwards and crashed to the ground. Behind Eric, swords clashed. He glanced over his shoulder as Trog brought down his weapon, splitting a man’s skull clear to his eyes.

Red droplets sprayed Eric’s arms and face. Vomit rose in his throat. He staggered back, leaned over the rail and hurled his dinner. More footsteps approached from behind. A glint of metal flashed out of the corner of his eye. Panic back-flipped in his stomach.
Who were these people
? He ducked as a sword cut the air above his head. Heart thumping, he whirled to his right, and sliced his assailant’s neck. Blood spattered across his face. He gagged, fell to his hands and knees, and retched.

Shadows swarmed. A few steps from the porch he could make out the sounds of a struggle, feet shuffling through dirt and brush. He heard agonizing moans, the clanging of swords. Eric lifted his chin as Trog twisted and elbowed a man in the face. Eric winced at the loud, meaty crack.

A foot connected with Eric’s side, and he yelled, clutching his ribs. Another blow bashed his chin, sending him sprawling. He coughed. Blood oozed from his mouth in a string of spit.

“Get him inside,” a voice said, “and bring that mongrel of a knight, too.”

Eric was hoisted to his feet and shoved inside the cabin. He caught himself on the rear wall, and pressed his head to the cold stone, trying to pretend he couldn’t feel the pain screaming in his chest. Trog stormed in the room seconds later, his hair wild, his face smeared with blood from a pulped nose and a gash across his forehead. He barged forward, lashing out at the men in his way, and positioned himself before Eric, his weapon raised.

“Step away from the boy!” ordered one of the men. “Drop your weapon! Now!”

Outside, booted footsteps clomped over the wooden planks of the porch. Eric looked up and gulped as a man with blond hair, dressed in black-and-red leathers, crossed the threshold. The men moved aside to let him pass.

“Bainesworth,” Trog growled. “I should have known.”

The knight smiled. “I always love seeing that stupefied expression on your face when I get the best of you. Now move aside before I order my men to kill you where you stand.”

“What?” Trog said. “Are you not man enough to do it yourself?”

Eric flinched and glanced around the room at the twenty or so warriors armed with swords, daggers, and an array of lethal weapons, that could rip their lives away in an instant. Was Trog crazy? What happened to
Don’t taunt your enemy?

Bainesworth shoved Trog. “Get out of my way.”

Trog pinned the tip of his sword on Bainesworth’s throat. “What is it you want?”

Eric pushed off the wall, his sword at his side.

Bainesworth’s gaze shifted from Trog to Eric. “I want your squire.”

“You can’t have him.”

Bainesworth’s eyes locked with Trog’s. “It wasn’t a request.”

“Then you will have to kill me first.” Trog lunged. Bainesworth twisted, his torso barely escaping Trog’s sword.

“Lower your weapons!” Bainesworth shouted to his men. “This miscreant is mine.” He drew his sword and brought it down in a sweeping arc, the blade glistening in the firelight.

Trog spun out of the way and kicked, dislodging the weapon from Bainesworth’s hands. He lunged and rammed his fist into the browbeater’s gut, his own sword clanging to the ground. The two men grappled on the floor like wildcats, rolling, flipping, grunting and growling.

Bainesworth punched Trog’s face. The sound reverberated off the walls. “Grab the boy!” he shouted to his men.

Trog grasped Bainesworth around the neck and flung him on the bed, the man’s weight shattering the frame. He plucked his sword from the floor and rushed Eric’s assailants, disarming them both. Others advanced. Trog picked up a fallen sword, and with a double –handed swing, robbed two men of their heads.

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.

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.