The Dragon Guard (15 page)

“Forgive me if I do not quite get the history right, but isn't that rather like what the pilgrims thought when they came to the New World? All that land, and theirs for use as a Haven?”

Jason nodded.

“But let us not forget that continent was previously occupied, shall we?”

“Well. Um, yeah.”

The dragon kneaded his claw a bit, pleased with himself, echoing the catlike image in Jason's thoughts. “So what threatens you?”

“The Dark Hand, for one.”

“Sorcerers of opposing ideals?”

“In a nutshell, I guess that describes them.”

“A balance of the Universes, Jason, my lad. For every up, a down. For every Light, a Dark. And so forth.”

“Does that mean we have to tolerate them? Accept the fact they want to drain us dry even if it kills us?”

“Did I say that?”

“Well, no.” Jason felt for a moment as if he sat on a slippery hillside and was trying unsuccessfully to keep from sliding down.

“Your own lands cannot stop this?”

“My own lands.” He paused, then took a deep breath. “My own lands would probably crack us open like an eggshell so they could see inside to find out what Magick is.”

“My.” The dragon's forehead moved, as a scaly eyebrow rose. “You're sure?”

“Fairly sure. Nothing like Magick exists, except in dreams and fairy tales and wishes, for most people. Getting discovered is one of our biggest worries, I guess.”

“I see.” The dragon lifted its snout, and looked back to the pass where Jason came down from the Gate he had secured there. “Anyone follow you?”

Jason laughed. “No. Of course not.” Then his laughter died in his throat, as he realized that was an honest question, not a dry remark from the beast. “No,” he repeated quietly. “No one can follow.” He left
yet
unsaid.

“You are a warrior?”

“Me?” Jason glanced down and then saw that he still wore his grass-and-mud-smeared soccer uniform, stained and sweat-marked from the day's practice for the big game the following day. He grinned. “Not exactly.”

“Explain, then.”

And for long moments, Jason tried to explain to the dragon the game of soccer, and for that matter, football and baseball, and sports in general. The dragon rumbled his questions back and forth. It knew about golf, to Jason's surprise, but the games had little comparison and so the two of them did not find much of a common ground. The dragon insisted that the sports Jason described was stylized warfare, with winning and losing sides and hostage taking (and sacrifices), and followers and alliances and so forth until Jason felt like surrendering himself.

“Maybe,” Jason finally agreed, and sat back.

“Then,” the dragon said firmly, “you are a warrior.”

“Maybe.”

“But for justice, not mayhem. There will be dark times ahead, Jason, when justice may be all that separates you from the very forces you think you are fighting. Very, very dark . . . perhaps even fatal times.”

“But justice will stand?”

“One hopes.”

That sounded better than he'd expected, so Jason let the argument drop at that. He lay back on the grass, staring at a fluffy cloud that seemed to be wandering overhead, and felt the tension go out of his body. A warrior for justice. Yeah, he could accept that, both in soccer and against the Dark Hand. It might call for a lot from him, but he thought he was prepared.

“It is time,” the dragon said. “You must go. I hunger, and for you, your world turns.”

He sat, then stood. “Did I miss much?” Anxious, then, having forgotten how different time could be from one place to the next.

The dragon tilted its great head. “Lunchtime,” it said thoughtfully. “And perhaps an afternoon snack.” Its stomach growled in confirmation.

“Not food!”

“Is there anything else?” The dragon gave him a wide, sharp-toothed grin.

He supposed that there were times when even a great intellect gave way to a great hunger . . . and so should he!

The dragon got to its feet, and shook itself, scales rattling, as if loose armor plating, its body shaking with a tremendous clanking and clattering. “A game,” it suggested. “Why don't you run as fast as you can back to Iron Gate and see if you make it before I . . .”

“Before you what?”

The dragon's eyes glinted sharply. “Get hungrier!”

Jason sprinted across the grass and up the slope to Iron Gate. He could feel the ground tremble and the heat wave across his back as the dragon chased him, and its laughter, as he dove headfirst through the Gate.

H
ENRY stood by the washing machine, feeding in pairs of jeans, checking the pockets as he went and finding loose coins and even a dollar bill as he did. He piled up the booty on top of the dryer as he added detergent and softener, then started his wash. Not that he'd ever admit it to the guys, but he felt pretty good that he could do his own laundry. It was a big help around his busy house, where everyone had to pitch in or they'd all be buried inside of a week, he figured. With any luck, and if his toddler sister went down for a nap when she was finished with lunch, he could find a corner and read a bit or work on his D & D strategy for the next session with Trent and Jason.

And, with any luck, he'd stop hearing voices.

Henry leaned against the washing machine, letting its cheerful noisy intake of water and its chugging about fill his mind, instead of that whisper . . . that sly, cold whisper, he heard so often.

He felt tired. He felt like . . . was it Bilbo Baggins in the books and movies who said, he felt thin . . . stretched out? He felt like that. It was not a good feeling, and he'd tried to tell others about it who might understand, but there was no one who could help. How many people could he tell that he felt like a hobbit, huh?

Henry rubbed his eyes at that one, laughing at himself, then replacing his glasses carefully. That made him feel a bit better. He couldn't laugh at himself if he was going crazy now, could he? Could he?

He gripped the edge of the washing machine. It was scientific. It didn't use Magick, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but mechanically churn and swish away. It didn't use crystals to work, and move through air, and light up dials . . . or hiss cold thoughts through his mind. Oh, no!

His blood felt icy. Why would he ever think that?

“Who are you?” he muttered fiercely. “What do you want from me?” He grabbed his glasses off his face again, the weight suddenly too heavy on the bridge of his nose.

A weakness hit him, as if something had ripped him open and was draining everything out of him. He felt it flowing out and grabbed at his stomach, crushing his glasses. Barely standing, he leaned against the laundry room wall and felt everything begin to spin around him.

“What are you? Who are you?” he cried out desperately.

He couldn't be crazy. Because he remembered feeling like this before . . . at Camp Ravenwyng. Before, when Jonnard sucked all the Magick out of him and left him . . . almost like this!

He unclenched his fists. His glasses fell to the floor. He frantically dug his hands into his pockets, searching for his crystal. Gavan, someone, had to help him.

No crystal. Henry searched himself frantically even as his movements got more and more feeble. He could barely stand. Then, desperately and with blurred eyes, he spotted his crystal sitting atop a pile of loose change and crumpled bills on the dryer. He stabbed his fingers at it, and caught it up, sharp quartz edges digging into his fingers. Afternoon sunlight streaming through the laundry room lit it up like a fiery prism as he curled his hand about it tightly. Strength surged through him. He felt warm again suddenly.

For a moment he felt safe. Then he knew he wasn't, as the strength and weakness warred inside him, a tug-of-war, moving back and forth until he could hardly think. He wasn't going to lose this time . . . he couldn't! The crystal alone would not save him.

No, not worthless, it couldn't be. Henry shot his mind through his gemstone, calling to anyone who could hear him for help. He sensed Gavan slipping past him, as though too far away to reach, and Tomaz became a black yawning canyon in his mind, but there was Bailey, and then Jason, and he reached eagerly for them. He found them both, and Trent, too, in that place he knew as the Iron Gate Haven. Then he lost Bailey and Trent and had only Jason to try to anchor on, but his attacker wrapped around his thoughts tightly.
Speak of this and they will take your Magick again. Stay silent, my little Squibb. Silent.
Helplessly, Henry gave up. He sank back, unshed tears in his eyes, his fists clenched.

 

Jonnard sat back and felt Henry's despair as he tried to elude the bond between them. He braided and unbraided a tiny coil of golden rope he held in his fingers, his strong but slender hands busy as he tied Henry ever closer to his wishes. It was only a Focus, but an apt one. He had Henry tied forever to his powers and there was nothing the other could do, no matter how he twisted and turned. Jon had never thought when he first bonded with Henry to take his power from him, that there could ever be more to it, but he'd discovered that they were still synchronized, and that Henry's slowly returning Magick was just as vulnerable and easy for him to drain as ever. It gave him potential that even his father did not have.
That's it, little Squibb, go and find Jason for me. Find him because now is the hour of my first attack. . . .

With that, he stood, and a shadowy figure behind him stood as well, radiating the icy coldness as a Leucator will do. Jonnard smiled thinly. He had Jason now, had him at the Iron Gate, and he should have known his rival would be there, probably trying yet again to find the third gate he needed to anchor that tiny Haven. Just as Jonnard obsessed about Jason, Jason obsessed about the Gates.

Jonnard's mouth twisted in a shallow smile. He crooked a finger at the Leucator. “It's time,” he said.

The other looked at him with eyes that might as well be dead. It reacted little as Jonnard pocketed his golden rope and took the Leucator by the wrist as he summoned his crystal.

A door opened at the end of his rooms. Brennard's aura filled the room with power and anger before he himself appeared. Jon looked up.

“What are you doing?” Brennard's face looked like a storm cloud, his eyes dark with fury.

“I am, Father dear, doing what you need done. Jason Adrian will be mine, one way or another.” He felt his crystal warm to his summoning and the channeling of his energies through it.

“We're not ready yet.”

Jon felt his father's unspoken anger rumbling through the room, his aura spiking. So much more powerful than Henry or a Leucator, Jon mused. If only he could bottle it. Or tap it himself. Very quietly, very carefully, he reached a thought toward it and savored the pulse of it. His father neither noticed nor stopped him as he drank of it. The action both fed Jonnard and seemed to calm Brennard.

“Perhaps you are not, but I am. And with Jason out of the way, don't you think our paths will be much easier?”

“Fool! Destroy him, and you destroy my options.”

“I don't intend to do that. I merely intend to . . . how do they say it today? I intend to own him.”

“Stop.”

A tingle spread through Jonnard's body. He melted into transport even as he answered his father, “Too late.”

 

Jason tumbled headfirst through the Iron Gate, body surfing thin air, driven by the heat and laughter of the dragon behind him. The ground and grass and dirt brought him to a skidding stop, out of breath and laughing himself. He sat up, looking back, but there was nothing to see beyond the Iron Gate. It looked like a rusted, old metal gate hanging between two derelict posts, at the far edge of the Ravenwyng campgrounds. Except, of course, Jason knew that if he stood and opened it with Magick, he would see a dragon with flames dancing about its merrily opened jaws laughing back at him.

He stood up to dust himself off. His stomach growled slightly, reminding him that lunchtime, wherever he was, had been missed. His left hand let out a tiny throb, and Jason spun around. He saw nothing odd, yet—

He rubbed the pesky scar on his hand. It was rarely wrong. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been attacked at Ravenwyng, by the Dark Hand or wolfjackals.

Without word or other sound, with nothing more than an uncanny feeling, Jason suddenly knew he was no longer alone at the edge of the campgrounds. The skin on his hand prickled, as did the fine hairs at the back of his neck, and he turned around very very slowly . . . to find himself staring at . . . himself.

A rushing filled his ears. For a moment, he felt himself back at summer camp, with the hot sun overhead tempered by a slight breeze off the lake, as they sat on the ground and various benches, log stumps, what-have-yous, as Tomaz paced in front of them. “Magick,” he said in his slow, deliberate voice, “has many shapes, and many shapes can hold Magick. And Magick can shift shapes. Of all those who can and do, shapeshifters, skinwalkers . . . the one you never want to face is yourself. We call those Leucators and they are splinters of your soul. They have but one dark desire, and that is to become one with you again, but because they are evil, corrupt, you must never allow that.”

Bailey's hand had shot up, waving. Tomaz had looked to her, a slight smile tugging at the deep etchings in his weathered Navajo face. “What is it, Miss Landau?”