The Author's Blood (14 page)

Owen kept his head down and the queen of the west's hood pulled low as he carried the empty dung baskets through the gate, his sword and scabbard hidden down his back.

“Wonderful recovery, Your Majesty,” a vaxor crooned. “Thought we'd seen the last of you.”

Another laughed, but Owen just kept moving. Once inside he was surprised to see brightly colored apartments with balconies that overlooked stone streets. The Dragon had brought gloom and doom to the countryside, but these places looked at least livable. Unfortunately they were occupied by vaxors and other followers of the Dragon, and Owen knew it wouldn't be long before they made a mess of the city.

Horse-drawn carriages were plentiful, and small animals ran here and there. Judging from the number of rats, Owen figured cats were scarce.

He followed the other dung haulers as those in the streets gave way and held their noses. Little vaxors mocked them, reciting poems about the stench and throwing rotten fruit at them. Someone threw a bucket of foul-smelling liquid on them from a balcony.

The streets all ran the same direction, pointing to a white-pillared structure—the coliseum.

Owen's group was led to a side entrance that went down several flights until it became dark.

“Keep moving, vermin!” a vaxor yelled.

Down they went, through iron gates that slammed and locked behind them. In the bowels of the structure Owen could hear the roar of tigren and the clang of metal against metal. He glanced at people in cells as he passed and recognized a few of them.
Why are they being held?

“Inside and stack your baskets,” a vaxor shouted. “You know the drill.”

They were herded farther down to yet another entrance, where they were locked away. People coughed and wheezed, collapsing from exhaustion. Many looked as if they hadn't eaten in days.

“My lady, you took a terrible fall,” a man said, approaching Owen. “Are you all right?”

His hood still covering his head, Owen nodded and quickly moved to a corner, where he leaned against the wall.

But the man followed. “Sorry to bother you, Your Majesty, but I've news of your husband.”

Owen recognized Dalphus, the king of the west's armor bearer.

The man's already pale face blanched at the sight of Owen, his mouth dropping. “What have you done with her?”

Owen grabbed the man and pulled him to the wall. “Keep your voice down. Your queen is free.”

“But how?” Dalphus whined. “We are watched every moment.”

“My friends have her,” Owen said. “Now what do you know of the king of the west?”

“He is jailed with the group to be led out first tomorrow for the opening ceremonies.”

“Ceremonies?”

“Celebrating the Dragon's triumph over his enemies. The vaxors say the king is to be eaten by the tigren. His wife is to be spared until she sees the blood of her daughter spilled on the Dragon's throne.”

“They have captured Onora?”

“So the vaxors say. Of course, who knows if—?”

Owen turned toward the wall, whispering, “Everything is coming to pass just as it was written.”

“What are you saying? This is part of some plan?”

“Exactly. And though it may seem otherwise, it's working perfectly.”

“Ach! Who would come up with a plan that has the Dragon on the throne, killing the king and queen of the west and their daughter as well as the King, his wife, and his children?”

“Children?”

“I overheard a vaxor say the Dragon's right-hand man returned with not only Onora but also with Gwenolyn, the King's daughter.”

“She stayed with her to the end,” Owen said, tears coming. “What does he believe about the King's Son?”

Dalphus winced. “The Dragon believes he is either dead or cowers somewhere in the Highlands.”

Owen drew closer to Dalphus. “Know this. The Son does not cower. Nor is he dead. And the King's plans will be completed in spite of the Dragon's plot.”

“You are the Son?”

“You were there when I told the king and queen of the west my identity.”

“But how can you know this?”

“The same way I know the sun will rise and dispel the darkness each morning. The way I know beyond doubt that we have all been put here for a purpose. The way I know that with each heartbeat a destiny of greatness calls, telling us we are part of a much bigger story, with a secure future.”

Dalphus stared, mouth agape.

“Tell your friends to be ready to fight,” Owen said. “Spread the word that the return of the Son is near. Do we have weapons of any kind?”

“Just the sticks they gave us to gather dung and the poles to carry the baskets across our shoulders.”

Owen nodded. “Sharpen them.”

Connie lay under a canopy on a soft bed in the corner of a huge room. A vase of flowers and a basket of fresh fruit sat beside her. The trip from the Highlands had all but taken her last breath. She had lost track of Clara and wanted to ask where she was, but the creatures that tended her were not friendly-looking and had not even spoken.

When the beast that had captured her entered, she tried to sit up, but she was light-headed and fell back.

The beast cleared his throat. “His Majesty, the king of all lands, wishes a word with you.”

Both doors opened, and a creature ducked to get through and once inside seemed to gain stature as he puffed out his chest. At once she recognized the Dragon who had tried to kill Owen and her at the B and B, the one who breathed fire and terrorized them the day Mr. Page had first left.

“My dear Onora,” the Dragon purred, “how lovely you look . . . for your age.”

Connie remained silent, looking the Dragon in the eye, which, she could tell by his reaction, rarely happened. The beast was used to victims cowering and whimpering and pleading for their lives.

“Did you have a nice trip from your world? I hope my friend here wasn't too rough with you.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

The Dragon chuckled. “I think you know. You are needed.”

“For what?”

“Why, to marry your true love, your intended. Unless, of course, your intended doesn't show up.”

“I'm not stupid,” Connie said, her voice as strong as she could make it. “You have no intention of seeing me—”

“I read it in the book,” the Dragon said. “Lots of wonderful things about new worlds, blue skies, blah, blah, blah. You must be terribly excited.”

“I'm terribly old.”

“You are. But the effects of the minions of time can lessen. You could still enjoy a long, productive life
if
you swear allegiance to me and my kingdom.”

“Why would I do that?”

The Dragon held out his arms, talons up. “I don't know, perhaps to avoid the prospect of being cut open and having your blood anoint my throne, then being burned alive? Doesn't that sound icky to you?”

“It does.”

The Dragon smiled. “I thought so.”

“You're wasting your cinder-stained breath,” Connie said. “Swear allegiance to you? With my dying breath I'd spit on your throne. But I don't plan to die, for the Son of the King and I are to marry, and our union will signal the end of your reign. Indeed, every word the
true
King wrote shall come to pass.”

A rattle sounded in the Dragon's throat. “I should consume you right now, but I wouldn't want to disappoint your parents. I promised they'd see you expire, and I always keep my word.” He turned and addressed his aide. “RHM, she believes the Son remains alive.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” RHM said. “But regardless, he is of no consequence. Hiding in the Highlands or dead, it doesn't matter. The enemy has lost.”

True evil is perilous if one gets too close, as it can taint the soul of even the onlooker. However, to understand true goodness and purity, we must view true wickedness. It would be much easier to turn away—and perhaps less painful—but as we have seen, easier is not always best. In fact, as
The Book of the King
states,
Nothing good is ever easy.

The day dawned bright and clear over Dragon City. Banners unfurled, marketplaces filled, and eager vaxors and the curious made their way to the coliseum for the bloodletting of the innocents.

The crowd made haste, not simply because they feared missing the opening ceremonies but because the Dragon had decreed that latecomers would face the same fate as the unfortunates waiting behind bars to provide the entertainment.

Beneath the floor of the arena, before the hot, cramped, nearly airless dungeons, the chief vaxor, Velvel—one of the few survivors of the attack on Yodom—strutted, pacing and staring in at the pitiful victims.

They warily looked back through lifeless eyes.

“I would flood these cages and be done with you,” he said. “Only one of your kind ever had the ability to entertain His Majesty, and he is long dead.

“The tigren await with teeth sharper than my sword. Their claws are like forged iron and can rip open a man's chest and pull out his heart in one thrust. Hunger and the scent of blood fuel their desire, and they can't get enough. One could kill a cell full of you in minutes. Imagine when two are released. Then four. Then six.”

Whimpers greeted Velvel and made him smile. “But the tigren are not your only enemies. The bites of the sand snakes are just as deadly, though they cause a slower death. And then there is the great croc, perhaps the most entertaining beast of all.

“The crowd would rather see you run, so do yourself a favor. Run
at
the tigren or the croc and it will be over swiftly. If you do happen to somehow survive all these creatures, you face an even surer foe—me and my company. My trained fighters will, at the Dragon's behest, torture you before we end your miserable lives.”

Velvel hesitated before a woman who pressed a child behind her. He tossed her a small vial and lowered his voice. “A single drop will end the suffering.”

When Velvel left, the people argued about what to do. Some wanted to fight, using their sharpened sticks. Others fought with the weeping mother over the vial. Finally fending them off, she pulled her son close and told him to open his mouth. A single drop fell toward the child's tongue as others pressed in to watch.

At the last second, Owen blocked the drop with his hand and snatched the vial. “No one will take your lives today.”

“You wasted that!” a man shouted.

“Yes, give it to us!”

“Better to die here than out there for the Dragon's amusement!”

Owen threw the vial against the wall, smashing it to bits, the liquid sizzling and smoking as it ran down the bricks.

With fire in their eyes, the crowd rushed Owen, and a single sound stopped them from tearing him limb from limb—the blow of a horn from high above. The roar of the crowd followed.

“Take courage,” Owen said. “The Dragon's reign will be short-lived.”

“How do you know?” someone said. “What makes you so great that you can order us?”

Others hollered their agreement, and again they rushed him.

But Owen flipped off his hood and reached down his back, drawing out the Sword of the Wormling, steel zinging against the scabbard.

The people shoved each other to get away.

Owen drove the sword into the sand. “You've heard it said: united we stand—divided we fall. Pull together and defy the Dragon.”

“Stand against the beasts? You're crazy.”

“When the vaxors come, carry your sharpened sticks behind you. And do not be concerned about the beasts.”

“He's mad.”

“A lunatic!”

The child Owen had saved stared up at him with big, round eyes. “No, he's the Wormling.”

Owen smiled and knelt. “‘From the mouths of children comes truth. Fulfilled and happy are those with pure hearts. You will see the truth. And you will be freed by it.'”

“Can't be,” someone said. “The Wormling is dead.”

“And he was much taller and stronger.”

Owen chuckled. “I'd like to meet that Wormling. But he does not exist. I am the Wormling, and despite all arrayed against us, we will be victorious today.”

“If you're the Wormling, tell us something from the book.”

“The book is safe, with friends.”

“Oh, sure! Then tell us what it says.”

Owen quickly recited difficult passages that spoke of hardship, heartbreak, loss, and failure. “All of these are part of our lives, but we are not identified by our circumstances.” He pointed to a woman in dirty clothes. “Are you merely a dung carrier? a slave on the way to your death?”

The woman looked around. “I don't know what I am, sir.”

Owen stepped toward her. “You are a precious creation. A noble woman. Not a slave to the Dragon—you are a daughter of the King.” He turned to the others. “As are you and you—all of you.”

“Then why are we here?”

“
The Book of the King
says no circumstance is wasted, that there is no experience the King cannot use to bring glory to himself. The King will use you today to prove to everyone that he is the sovereign. You are not here by chance.”

Heavy footsteps approached, and Owen knew the time had come. The people crowded toward him, and those in other cells pushed to get close enough to listen. “Do not go out with fear. Let the words of the King ring in your ears. What the Dragon means for evil, the King will use for good.”