The Dreaddrac Onslaught (Book 4) (12 page)

“Well, I’m sure you know Nonee and I have written frequently in the subsequent months,” the beaming king said.

Saxthor put his arm around Grekenbach’s shoulder and shook his hand with the other. “I’ll consult with Princess Nonee, but I believe I’ve already seen a certain inclination on her part to accept your proposal.” Saxthor’s grin must have reassured Grekenbach, who exhaled, smiling back at Saxthor. Saxthor felt the Grekenbach’s tense shoulders relax. “If it’s to her liking, I’ve no objections and indeed welcome the deepening alliance of our kingdoms through the marriage.”

“I’ll go at once to ask for her hand, if your majesty will excuse me,” Grekenbach said. He bowed slightly as one king’s acknowledgement to another; his huge grin radiating from beneath his great mustache.

“I believe you’ll find Nonee walking in the gardens,” Saxthor said. He tilted his head toward the window, and then led them over to see her strolling slowly, occasionally plucking leaves from the shrubbery, deep in thought. “At least that’s where we told her she should be this afternoon, just in case.” Saxthor winked and walked Grekenbach to the door. “We’ve liked each other from our first meeting in Graushdemheimer. Now I think we shall be brothers.”

The marriage at Helshian Court Palace drew royals and nobility from across the peninsula. At the ceremony, Saxthor stole glances at Dagmar, as she did at him. Neither saw the other’s repeated attention, though the court followed every glance.

* * *

Having cast aside his crumpled ogre body, General Tarquak’s vapor sped north on the night wind to the Munattahensenhov after his expulsion from Sengenwhapolis. His arrival was both unexpected and unwelcome. The general snatched the first unlucky orc he came to for a shell and rushed to the king. He approached the Dark Lord at his work table deep in the mountain’s core.

“You stupid fool!” the Dark Lord screamed. “Did you think we created you and spent so much of our essence on you to have you crawl back a failure? Do you think we should spare you the Well of Souls, when you’ve wasted the gains already made and slinked back here for sympathy?”

The specter drew back, trembling in his orc shell. The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes, beaming a warning of fiery bolts barely restrained. He rose slowly, tense, feeling like a coiled snake. Tarquak stumbled further backward.

“We’ve little control over our temper at such failure. We’re used to having our orders obeyed. Success and oblivion are our minions’ two choices.” The king momentarily restrained his rage. Yet, he made no effort to hide the spittle at the corner of his mouth and the hiss in his tone. He slowly stepped around the desk toward the shaking failure. “What else can you offer to save yourself from eternal incarceration in the Well of Souls?”

“Your Majesty, I beg your forgiveness,” the wraith said, through the now groveling orc.

A wizard-fire bolt shot across the room blasting stone from the wall. The king moved closer, standing over the orc.

“If you’ll grant me three legions of orcs and a goblin cohort, I believe I can retake the city.”

The Dark Lord slammed his fist down on a table. The stone cap cracked and the counter collapsed in a cloud of stone dust.

“You had a good two legions in the city in addition to our holding it in the first place.”

“But Your Majesty...”

“Shut up, you fool! You’ll return immediately, collect your troops from the areas surrounding Sengenwhapolis, and retake the city. Hakbar will assist you in the attack on the city,” the Evil One said. He was toying with the petrified wraith quaking before him. “The cowardice that caused you to scurry back to the Ice Mountains will pale in significance to the eternal pain you’ll know if you fail to retake Sengenwhapolis. Your fate will be far worse than death.”

“Your Majesty, I beg mercy!” the general whimpered, dropping his forehead to the floor.

“Mercy? We’ve discussed that. There’ll be no more of that. You will retake Sengenwhapolis.”

“The Dragon Hakbar is dead, Your Majesty,” mumbled the trembling form.

In the silence that followed, the sorcerer let the wraith shudder in the sweating orc, cringing on the floor.

“You fool; you should’ve known we knew the great dragon was dead. The massive energy pulse and disappearance told us that. We expected your worthless self to admit it. You failed to volunteer the information initially. You’ll pay for the loss of my dragon.”

The Dark Lord enjoyed torturing the wraith for his loses. The wraiths energies were alternately sucked out and jolted back, slamming the orc’s pain through the wraith’s essence. The specter imagined his existence being hurled back down into The Well. When the Evil One released them, the orc body smoked in a crumpled heap on the floor.

“You’ll go again to Sengenwhapolis, and you’ll ride there on the silver-scaled dragon, Ozrin. Silver-scaled dragons are celestial creatures that ride the backsides of storm clouds, their energy being extreme. You’ll do as Ozrin commands you to do, is that clear?”

“But Your Majesty, a general should command and not...” Tarquak began.

The Dark Lord’s arm whipped backwards smashing the orc against the stone wall. His gnarled, clawed finger pointed at the general. “Shut up, you sniveling incompetent! You dare to tell me, who should command? It’s the king who decides who commands the armies.”

The wraith-orc dropped to the floor quivering, dragging a broken leg.

“Yes, Your Majesty, please forgive my impertinence. I beg your forgiveness! I’ll leave at once with Ozrin.”

“You will indeed!” the Evil One screamed. Again, he thrust his hand at the general and shot a bolt of wizard-fire that sent General Tarquak bouncing across the rough stone floor. A wave of blue fire pulsed through the wraith-orc. “Smegdor!”

“Your wish is my command,” the assistant said, from just beyond the doorway. Smegdor hunched over and held his arms tightly against his body in a useless and pitiful show of submission and defense. The poor servant stepped over the stunned body, containing the short-circuited general, and shuffled quickly to the Dark Lord.

“Drag that useless thing of my sight. Then go tell Ozrin he’s to commence with the plan we devised earlier.”

“Yes, Great King,” Smegdor said. He quickly backed out of the Evil One’s presence, stopping only to grab the moaning wraith-orc’s foot and drug it out the door with him.

* * *

The colossal silver dragon, Ozrin was in the stables high on the Munattahensenhov. As he approached cautiously, Smegdor heard dragons chomping meals of dead soldiers. He looked down at a body mound, dumped unceremoniously at the stable’s entrance, by those that found them within the mountain. He grimaced at the sight.

Ozrin has heard me coming, Smegdor thought. He stepped over an arm, approaching the cave’s entrance that reeked of decay, urine, and dung. From the stable’s darkness, Smegdor heard all chewing stop save one. There was a slow, deliberate crunching. A leg bone, most likely, it’s meant to intimidate me. The terrified man stood up straight, thrust out his weak chest, and stared straight into the darkness.

“Ozrin,” Smegdor called, trying unsuccessfully to keep his voice from wavering as he approached. He stepped first in puddles of urine then in piles of dung. Taking a burning breath of ammonia laden air, he advanced further into the darkness. It’s fatal to startle a dragon, he thought. Giving advance warning gives you at least a moment to explain your interruption, before they vaporize or snap you up.

“Crunch! Crunch!” echoed again from the stable’s dark grotto.

Smegdor saw pale light flashing from two eyes when Ozrin looked up. A flicker of flame curled up from his nostrils. The huge beast stepped to the stall gate, staring at Smegdor.

“What do you want, little man? Why do you disturb me when I’m eating?” A few more crunches and the silver-scaled dragon spat a large bone tip at Smegdor’s feet.

Shivering, Smegdor sucked up his nerve with his chest. “Master commands you to begin the plan the two of you decided on earlier. He thinks it best you include General Tarquak in it,” Smegdor said.

Hot sulfurous breath swirled around past Smegdor, blowing his thin hair.

“General Tarquak, yes, to be sure,” the dragon said. Ozrin looked at the bone fragment and curled a little smirk. He lowered his enormous head. His eighteen inch eyes stared into Smegdor’s face.

Smegdor nearly fainted, seeing his reflection. He trembled, but he held his stance upright. Ozrin puffed a smoke circle that rolled over and down around Smegdor. If I pass out, I’ll never be seen or heard from again, he thought.

“Well then, those are the master’s orders,” Smegdor said, his voice breaking and trailing off. The little man released the gate’s restraint, turned, and hurried out and back along the ledge. I can feel that eye still behind me. The receding sound of bones crunching behind him finally convinced him Ozrin had gone back to his grizzly meal. Smegdor retreated back down into the mountain without looking back.

*

Ozrin was sniffing for orc scraps when General Tarquak approached, thinking to take command of the dragon. The general as wraith was terrified of the Evil One, who could hurl his being back into the Well of Souls. Still, he knew the dragon’s fire and voracious appetite were no threat to him.

The dragon can burn and eat this orc shell, he thought, but he can’t destroy me. He repeated the thought to bolster his courage. Finally, he approached the dragon now in the moonlight on the ledge.

“Are you Ozrin, my dragon?” the general demanded to know. Tarquak puffed up to back his overbearing tone. I must dominate this beast so he’ll understand he’s my subordinate, he thought.

“Don’t take out your humiliation on me because you were whimpering at the master’s feet,” Ozrin said. He stopped chewing and stared at Tarquak. Without answering the question, the dragon extended the talon on his first finger and flicked a bone from between his teeth. It hit the general on the shoulder then tinkled on the rocky ledge and fell over.

“How dare you, you overgrown lizard!” the general said. He brushed off his now excessively decorated uniform and was about to say something else.

Ozrin placed his fingernail on the general’s orc head. Energy surged through the wraith-orc, frying the body and leaving the skeleton a mound of sparks. Ozrin broke out in a laugh so great, the Evil One must have heard it below in his lair.

“You will use a more respectful tone with me in the future, General,” the dragon said, his voice deep, smooth. The sparks fizzled out on the skeleton as it collapsed into ash and blew off the windy ledge. Ozrin reached out and grasped the general’s essence, clinging to the orc fragments still vibrating with electrical pulses. He squeezed it into a condensed ball, then thumped the ball with his claw. It shot it off the mountain to the valley below.

When the general reformed as a vapor, free of the bones and ash, he seized a new orc host and crawled back to the dragon’s lair.

“May I respectfully ask if I might know, when it would be convenient for you to depart on our mission to Sengenwha?” the wheezing body asked.

“Remove that,” Ozrin said. He pointed to fresh dragon dung with the giant finger that had just fried Tarquak’s former body.

Tarquak knew his face twisted at the smell, as without protest, he fell against the dragon poop larger than himself. His hands and feet slipped in the excrement. He strained to roll the feces over the ledge’s rim. The beast is insufferable, thought the wraith, still feeling drained electrically. A spark startled the specter and the orc body ran back down into the mountain.

* * *

         Earwig too short-circuited, emerging from the lake. The energy pulse startled the Dark Lord like scraping metal screeching suddenly in his ear.

“Smegdor!” the sorcerer said.

“What is it, Master?” the assistant asked, rushing into the room.

“She’s alive! That witch is alive!” the Dark Lord said. He clasped his head between his hands. “Anyone else would be dead! Why couldn’t she have been on their side?”

“She’s in Neuyokkasin, isn’t she?” Smegdor asked. “Why would she upset Your Magnificence?”

The Dark Lord turned slowly to his assistant, who stepped back in response. “What did you say?” the king asked, through a low threatening growl. He lowered his head and hunched in his shoulders like an animal poised to pounce.

“How stupid of me?” the assistant squeaked. 

The Evil One saw beads of perspiration forming on Smegdor’s face.

Smegdor cast a quick glance up at the Dark Lord then jerked his head away, staring at the floor. He froze, barely breathing. Finally, he swallowed.

The worm apparently fears even his chest movement might trigger an attack, the king observed. He instantly hurled a wizard-fire bolt that smashed into the door’s stone lintel. It just missed Smegdor as the little man’s last trace flashed out of sight around the corner.

“Smegdor!” the king yelled. No amount of coaxing will lure the pathetic man back, he thought. I’ll have to shout instructions to the terrified creature on the level below. “Send someone to find the witch. She’s somewhere in the eastern Lake Pundar area. If we leave her to stumble around on her own, she could destroy our whole army.”

*

I’ll send someone for the witch, but my heart isn’t in it, Smegdor sulked. That bolt was way too close; the king could’ve killed me. It was a terrible mistake to suggest that anything was significant enough to upset him.