The Author's Blood (5 page)

Glass flew everywhere as Owen threw up his hands and ducked. Nicodemus pushed him hard behind the circulation desk, a wooden monstrosity near the front. Owen fell in a heap as glass tinkled around him and something wild screeched above. He looked back just in time to see a suddenly visible Nicodemus trying to fend off the swooping attackers.

Nicodemus flew backward, tumbling over the computers and catapulting into the first row of stacks, knocking the shelves into each other like dominoes and sending them to the floor. Books flew everywhere as Nicodemus crashed to the floor.

Owen froze when the revellors shot past him and hovered over Nicodemus, their enormous wings showering water droplets throughout the room. They were much like the one he had faced at Mrs. Rothem's building, though these two looked scrawnier and didn't have quite the same evil aura. However, when they shot sizzling saliva at Nicodemus, Owen could tell they were out for blood.

No matter how comical a foe looks at a glance, the truth is that if they have sworn their allegiance to the enemy, we must not laugh at them or do anything but pity their foolish choices.

Owen could have stayed hidden or even crawled away, but as we have said, when the heart of a lion beats inside the chest of what otherwise looks like an average young man, he cannot help but spring forth in heroic fashion.

Owen leaped to his feet and brandished the Sword of the Wormling.

Four eyes flashed fire, and the winged creatures abandoned the motionless Nicodemus and shot their venom toward Owen.

He deftly avoided the streams and jumped to his right, a stack of books breaking his fall and propelling him. He dodged another volley of acid and retreated (or so the beasts had to believe) behind a large metal bookcase.

“You take that side. I'll take this,” one said with a hiss. Owen understood because of his sword.

“But what about the nestor?” the other said. “I could let you take care of this while I go—”

“Forget the nestor for now and concentrate! That must be the Sword of the Wormling.”

Catlike, Owen climbed the shelves and perched on top as the slower revellor peeked around the side. Owen jumped, his sword in front of him, and plunged it deep into the back of the creature. A geyser spurted and there came a screech so demonic and otherworldly that Owen nearly covered his ears. Had he done so, he wouldn't have had time to extract the sword and plunge it into the belly of the second beast that flew from the other end of the bookshelf and nearly devoured him. But that final thrust into the heart of the revellor killed it instantly, and Owen fell back, the beast's long neck and left wing covering him.

Owen struggled to escape from between the heavy creatures without the liquid scorching him. The one below made a final, desperate lunge at Owen, but he drove the sword into the top of the creature's head and down through its mouth until it finally stopped squirming. Venom seeped from the wounds and consumed the bodies as they shrank, hissing, into the wooden floor.

Owen ran to Nicodemus, whose robe no longer glowed. Owen clawed at the books strewn over his body and pushed them away. His old friend and protector stared straight ahead, eyes fixed.

“Nicodemus,” Owen whispered, lifting him, “don't leave me. I need you.”

Though Nicodemus's lips didn't move, Owen heard him clearly. “You haven't needed me since the moment I met you.”

“I needed you the night I almost fell into that hole in the street.”

A smile appeared on the being's face. “You have come a long way since that night. You are strong, Owen. But your strength comes from inside. From your heart.”

Owen pulled out his sword and placed it against Nicodemus's chest, but nothing happened. “I thought you would live forever.”

“Only one is eternal, and all life springs from him.”

“What has become of my father? Will I ever see him again?”

Nicodemus struggled. “You are not alone, young prince. Keep the book close until every word is fulfilled. And remember what I have said. No matter what you find—or what finds you.”

“Remember?” Owen said, leaning close, straining to hear. “Remember what?”

Nicodemus lay back, and his words were as faint as a passing breeze. “The enemy will know when those two don't return. Make haste. Fulfill your destiny.”

“They spoke of a nestor,” Owen said. “Do you know what that is?”

“Queen of the minions,” Nicodemus said, choking. “Very dangerous. It is death to you but also a weapon. . . .”

“Please,” Owen said. “Don't leave.”

“‘No good thing is ever easy,'” Nicodemus whispered. And then he faded from Owen's sight, leaving only books where he had lain.

His heart breaking, Owen ran through the murky half-light of day and made his way back to the shack where he had left Clara and the old woman.

When last they had talked, the old woman had seemed to know him. And something in her eyes reminded him of someone he had met before—but who?

A passage from
The Book of the King
flashed through his mind. The point was that if you truly wanted to hide something from someone, you should put it right in front of them until it became so familiar they didn't see it for what it really is.

Perhaps that was the plan of the enemy in regards to Owen's bride. Perhaps the very thing he would treasure, had he known her true identity, was a person who seemed to him a nuisance, and the drum of her life had beaten in the background until it became so common that he didn't hear it any longer.

Owen found the shack dark, not even a candle burning inside, and the place was still. “Clara?” he whispered.

A chill ran up Owen's back. He had been in enough of these situations to know that silence was not good. He peeked inside the bedroom. Was someone in the bed? Would the Dragon jump out at him?

He pulled the covers back to reveal a couple of old pillows. A piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He remade the bed, making sure it was lumpy like before, and took the paper back to the front room. In the muted light coming through the window he read:

Owen,

Clara is writing for me, as I have very little strength left. By now you know who I am and what the future holds. I can't imagine you would want to marry a little chattering girl like me—who has become an old chattering woman. Perhaps there is some mistake, but Clara says your father does not make mistakes and that we should trust his plan. I don't understand much of this, but I do know that you are without equal—in this world and whatever other world is out there. I don't know the future, but I do know who holds it, and I believe he will help you achieve the ends he has purposed for you.

I knew from the moment I met you that you were special. Little did I know how special.

I cannot say more, except that Clara is taking me to a safe place where I will be able to rest and recuperate. Perhaps it will help me become young again so that you will not look at me with pity but with hope and love.

I will wait for you, Owen Reeder. I will wait for the Son. And I will pray that your father's strength will bring you back to me. I can't wait to see you again.

With all my love,

Connie

Owen fell, his knees hitting the floor with a thud. He read the note again and again, then folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. Out in the woods the fog was lifting, as if some unseen hand were preparing a way through the chilly morning.

“Connie,” he whispered. “Onora. I will find you. Hold on until I do.”

RHM flitted nervously about the castle meeting room, variously rearranging chairs, biting the ends of his talons and spitting them in the corner, and staring out the window. Though the Dragon seemed quite happy with himself and the progress in the Lowlands, RHM knew one bad report could bring the wrath of the old beast down on him.

Unfortunately for RHM, the return of Slugspike and a gaggle of his hangers-on coincided with the Dragon's descent down the wide spiral staircase. The Dragon had spent the night eating and drinking and blowing fire so that people even miles from the castle could see flames shooting from the upstairs windows. Anyone close enough could hear the screams of the victims as well.

RHM had fretted all through the night and into the morning waiting for news from Slugspike, and now that he had returned, the Dragon just
happened
to waltz downstairs.

“And where have you been, my overgrown friend?” the Dragon said to Slugspike. “You should have been here for the revelry last night.”

Slugspike glanced at RHM as if to say, “He didn't know where I was?”

RHM responded with a smirk that could not be translated.

Slugspike bowed low. “I was on an errand for you, O great one, in the Highlands—”

“Yes, we wanted to surprise you with the good news,” RHM interrupted from behind. “It
is
good news, is it not?”

“If the absence of minions is good news,” Slugspike groaned. He was such an evil presence that the general reaction of everyone was to back away. “We found evidence of their demise and also evidence of the havoc they wreaked.”

“Demise?” the Dragon said.

“A hole in the earth near the resting place of the nestor. The cage was empty. It looked like it had escaped from inside and led the whole company down after something.”

“Then we have nothing to fear from them,” the Dragon said with a smile. “We can attack the survivors or bring them here.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Slugspike said. He gave RHM another glance. “But I must report a slightly disappointing situation.”

The Dragon was idly picking through scorched food on the table, apparently unconcerned. “Yes, go on.”

“We have searched for the girl Onora as well as Gwenolyn. We cannot find them or the boy who had the device inserted in his heel.”

“That was cut out and tossed away long ago,” the Dragon said, grinding his teeth. “Perhaps they were stung and have crawled off into some hovel to die. They could be dead already.”

“True, sire,” Slugspike said. “However, we have located the ones charged with watching those two and have brought them.”

“Really? Here?” the Dragon said, rising to peer out the window.

RHM sidled close and sneered at the sight of the humans. One was tall with a long nose and white hair. His name in the Highlands was Mr. Reeder. The other was a squat woman with equally white hair who looked to be in pain.

“What of the two who were watching Gwenolyn?” RHM said. “I gave you specific instructions to—”

Slugspike gave RHM a look that stopped him, as if all the motivation he needed to kill RHM was to hear one more word. “Those two were sputtering some gibberish, out of their minds from their stings, advancing in age by the second. We put them out of their misery.”

“Bring the live ones to me,” the Dragon said.

* * *

Mr. Reeder trembled at the sight of the Dragon and stared at the floor. Mrs. Reeder (who had simply been known to Owen as the woman who cleaned up after them and Connie's mother) could not even stand in the Dragon's sight and fainted. Mr. Reeder knelt to tend to her.

The Dragon sniffed at the two like a dog who smells another animal on a person's clothes. He dribbled green liquid on them but finally backed away and gazed at Mr. Reeder. “What has become of the boy put in your charge?”

Mr. Reeder's chin quivered, and his legs, thin as matchsticks, knocked against each other like a metronome in a hurricane. With a stammer he managed, “He left the bookstore.”

“When?”

“Shortly after the strange man showed up. I tried to keep the man from him, but—”

“And who do you think that man was?” the Dragon said.

“Just a beggar. He wore old clothes. He had an odd look in his eyes. But he also had a magical book with him that enchanted the boy.”

“Where is he now?”

“I haven't seen the old man—”

“Not the man, the boy. His Son!”

“Son?” Mr. Reeder said. “That was the boy's real father?”

The Dragon snarled and looked at the woman, who began to awaken. “Would you like me to dispatch your wife now or wait until you tell me the truth?”

“I am telling the truth!” Mr. Reeder said, and had Owen been there, he would have been surprised at the man's passion and sudden bravado. “I tried my best to do everything I was told.”

“But you allowed the boy to meet the Wormling!” the Dragon said.

“I did no such thing. He left the store only to go to school or on an errand. I swear it.”

“He met this Wormling sometime after he discovered the book,” the Dragon said. “That must be where he is now. Hiding. Waiting. Hoping.”

“I know nothing of what you are saying.”

“Really?” the Dragon said. And with a turn of his shoulder and an intake of breath so subtle the man barely heard it, the Dragon shot flame with great precision at Mr. Reeder's wife.

The woman barely whimpered before her life was over.

But we shall focus on Mr. Reeder's face, for there was something unnatural there—something we have not seen before. From the moment we first met him, he appeared a man mastered by other forces, who has allowed life to bully him. But as he looked at the charred remains of what was once a living, breathing woman with a load of fears and difficulties of her own, something changed.

Muscles tight, his teeth clenched, he turned to the enemy of the King and his Son. “All right. I'll tell you. But I want assurances.”

“You are in no position to bargain, my friend,” the Dragon said.

“You do not know what I know.”

The Dragon stared at him as if admiring the man's backbone, especially after having just seen his wife struck down. “Very well. If you have solid information about the one I am after, I am in a position to make it worth your while.”

“I have given up much to be loyal to you, and you repay me with the death of my wife. I want a place at your side. A place of prominence.”

“You must have something juicy for me.” The Dragon turned to RHM. “We have a place in the kingdom box at the coliseum, do we not?”

“Yes, sire, but—”

“If you give me truly helpful information,” the Dragon said, “you will enjoy a seat where every spectator and combatant in the coliseum will see you. You will be envied.”

“Then listen carefully,” Mr. Reeder said, whispering in the Dragon's ear.