The Dreaddrac Onslaught (Book 4) (40 page)

“I’ll sends for the captain.”

“Indeed you will, and you’d better be quick about it, or the king will make short work of you.” The orc disappeared into the tunnel. Earwig motioned to Dreg they should sit on a nearby rock to await the king’s personal invitation to enter the Munattahensenhov.

“No doubt, the king will come himself to greet me.” Earwig began to hum. When Dreg looked at her, surprised, she just smiled at him triumphantly.

Shortly, the captain of the guard appeared with the orc in tow. He bowed slightly.

“We’s sorry we won’t here at the gate to receive such a spec…unique guest.”

“There, you see,” Earwig said, turning to Dreg. “I’m the king’s honored guest. I told you the king couldn’t manage without me.” She noted the captain’s chuckle but disregarded it.

“Follow me,” the captain said. He turned and went back into the musty tunnel followed by Earwig and Dreg. The orc remained at the entrance along with a replacement for the one the griffin ate. Dreg moved slowly, constantly looking around and falling behind.

“Come along, Dreg,” the witch scolded. “We don’t want to keep his majesty waiting.”

The captain and two visitors walked for what seemed hours down into the mountain. They passed unspeakable horrors that only got worse as they descended into the acrid, smoky depths of the cursed, congested mountain. Finally, the captain stopped at the elaborately carved entrance to a great hall. He motioned the visitors to remain at the entrance as he continued inside. The captain whispered to the chamberlain, who whispered to the chatra.

Earwig moved forward, craning her neck, straining to hear what was said. She peered into the great hall as the guards thrust spears across the entrance, signaling the two should not go further unless summoned. Earwig and hints were mutually exclusive. The witch tried to push aside one of the spears. The guard looked down at the mottled freak and at the other guard. Without either speaking, the guards reached inside and pulled the doors shut in Earwig’s face. She snatched back her gnarled finger just as the great iron doors shut. She stuck her finger in her mouth to sooth it, glaring at the guards and her broken claw, stuck between the doors.

When the doors again opened, Earwig was allowed to stand at the entrance, staring down the grand aisle. There, on the massive stone and iron throne at the far end of the audience hall, sat the Dark Lord of Dreaddrac. He was studying a scroll as the petitioner groveled on the floor before him. The scattered courtiers moved slowly and silently in the dark recesses of the side aisles, clearly careful not to break the king’s concentration.

“Impressive, this king, don’t you think?” Earwig whispered to Dreg, but Dreg didn’t respond or move forward to see the sight. Annoyed at Dreg’s reticence and lack of enthusiasm, Earwig turned her nose up at her assistant and turned back to gaze on the king and court.

The chatra shuffled forward, hesitant to disturb his master. He looked back at the chamberlain. The chamberlain nodded, and the chatra stepped lightly up the dais to the throne. Getting the king’s attention, he whispered something into his ear. The king tossed the petition aside. The petitioner crawled across the floor to retrieve it and disappeared off to the left of the hall. The king mumbled something to the chatra, who then motioned to the chamberlain.

The chamberlain motioned for Earwig to enter the hall. She and Dreg, with his hat in hand, strode forward behind the chamberlain up the long aisle, past the monstrous carved columns, to the dais. The chamberlain motioned for Earwig to fall prostrate on her face before the king. He then announced to the court, “The Witch Earwig of Neuyokkasin, and servant Dreg.”

Earwig was indignant. She refused to fall to the floor with Dreg but stood with a slight bow. The chamberlain knocked her feet out from under her, and she plunged to the floor. She attempted to rise but was held down by the chamberlain’s boot. She struggled and managed to unbalance the man, who stumbled backward. The witch huffed and puffed rising to her knees and then stood up before the king, whose brows were raised at the witch’s audacity. Earwig saw the chatra shaking, but the king broke out laughing.

“Well, I see you’ve lost none of your fight and tenacity, Witch Earwig.”

“Your Majesty, we’ve traveled so far and through so much to get here. We beseech your help in crushing the usurper, King Saxthor of Neuyokkasin, and restoring me, the rightful Queen of Neuyokkasin, to my throne.”

“Well greetings to you, too, Witch.” The king said. There was no smile, only narrowed eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Your Majesty. Greetings to your majesty and may you have a thousand years of health and prosperity.” Suddenly realizing her lack of respect for the king or protocol, Earwig sank back to the floor, prostrating herself.

“You may retire.” The king said. He motioned for the frowning chamberlain, who stepped forward. “Take the witch and servant to her quarters. We will recall her when we’ve decided how she may best serve us.”

The chamberlain tapped the groveling Earwig with his staff and turned to lead the two petitioners back out of the hall.

Earwig jerked her head up. She looked back at the king. The chamberlain stopped abruptly, hearing the witch behind him daring to speak to the king after having been dismissed.

“Your Majesty,” Earwig said, “surely you have already known of my plight and have formulated a plan to restore me to my throne.”

The king had turned to the chatra and was speaking to him when he heard this outburst. The low mumbling in the hall ceased instantly. All eyes went to the king. He looked at the witch with all facial features frozen. Without a word in response, he nodded to the chamberlain. The chamberlain reached down, grabbed Earwig by the arm, tugging her up on her plump, knobby-kneed legs. Straining again, but unable to raise her further, he tried dragging her back toward the exit.

Earwig’s shock turned to rage; heat rushed through her flushing face. When she started to protest, Dreg grabbed the other arm, and the two men pulled Earwig, half stumbling, back down the aisle. Regaining her composure, she looked at the condescending frowns on the faces in the shadows as she passed. She jerked her arm free from Dreg, but the chamberlain dug his boney clawed fingers deeper into her flabby arm and continued to drag the witch to the great iron doors.

“They’ll pay for this indignity,” Earwig mumbled as she looked from side to side at the courtiers, who had dismissed their scorn for her and looked back at the throne.

Earwig and Dreg were given quarters in a filthy, cobweb infested section of the mountain, where they waited for two weeks before again being summoned by the king.

*

“I tell you, Dreg, this has all been a mistake,” Earwig insisted. She tried to comb her scraggly hair into some sort of order. “The king does not know they’ve given us these rags and that disgusting food.” She tore the whole scraggly mess on her head back out with her fingers and started over again, trying to get the tangled mass under control. She jerked her hand up, struggling to get her finger out of a knot of hair. A button on the rippled and stretched hides she wore flew off and smashed into the orc guard sent to summon her to an audience with the king. “Oh never mind,” she said, standing up straight from hovering in front of the piece of shiny metal Dreg had polished for her to see herself in. She pulled down the rancid hides over her ample midriff rolls, and motioning Dreg to follow, they trailed the orc to the audience hall.

“It’s our wish that you should use your considerable talents with our dragons, Witch Earwig,” the king said. “We remember your good work with Magnosious, though he was most undisciplined when he arrived here. Smegdor here has made all the arrangements.”

Earwig stared aghast. “But, Your Majesty, I can assist you with your more important work. I’m quite an accomplished witch and very talented with magic.”

The king looked at the chatra and Smegdor. Earwig realized she’d spoken without being asked to open her mouth, again.

“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but what can I do with a nasty stable of unruly dragons?”

The king didn’t respond but motioned for Smegdor to remove the annoying pair.

“Come along, Madam and Mr...,” Smegdor said.

“Dreg,” the embarrassed, trembling servant blurted out to the implied question.

Smegdor stepped down from the dais and lifted Earwig’s arm. “Come along now, Madam.” He looked back again at Dreg. “And you, too, Dreg.”

Earwig snatched her rippling arm back. “It’s Majesty, to you. I was Queen of Neuyokkasin.” She glared at Smegdor.

“You’re a dragon keeper now, Witch,” The chamberlain said. Snickering rippled through the hall.

Earwig slumped, her head sank, and she stumbled out of the audience hall restraining tears. Smegdor held one arm and Dreg followed.

Later that day, Smegdor appeared at their stark rooms.

“We have new quarters for you,” the king’s aide said.

Earwig wiped her tears and runny nose with her sleeve. “There now, Dreg, you see this has all been a mistake.”

Dreg continued to sit silently on a stool, his head downcast and shaking from side to side. Earwig rose and Dreg came after, collecting their few hides and rags and the polished metal for Earwig’s preening.

“We won’t need this trash now, Dreg,” Earwig said. She slapped them out of his hands and looked at Smegdor, who watched Dreg. “We’ll have much finer attire in our new apartments.”

“It might be advisable to bring along your things, Madam,” Smegdor said. Without a word Dreg began to collect the trash again. When he’d recovered most of the few possessions they had, they followed Smegdor up the tunnels, past the entrance gate, and on to the dragon stables below the mountain’s crest.

“Does your leg hurt much, Mr. Smegdor?” Dreg asked the king’s limping aide.

”Not too much, but thank you for asking.” Smegdor turned to Dreg with an appreciative smile. Earwig sneered.

“This must be a terrible mistake,” Earwig whined. She looked around her at the cold, dirty ice as conditions worsened the higher they climbed. She tried to pull the already stretched hides tighter around her. They climbed higher, and the stench of rotting flesh and dragon dung intensified. Her face pinched at the smell. Just then she tripped and stepped in a fresh steaming mound of dragon dung that rose well above her ankle. “Oh crap!”

“Yes, well there’s quite a bit of that up here,” Smegdor said to the witch, who was trying to shake the rank feces off her boot and leg.

Nothing more was said until they reached the gate to the dragon stable. They stopped in front of an orc, speckled all over with dung. He was dumping an orc corpse onto a heap of six or eight other bodies by the entrance.

“Open the gate,” Smegdor ordered. The orc, knowing the king’s aide, bowed and unlocked it, grinning at Earwig. “This is your new mistress, Witch Earwig, and her assistant, Dreg. They will be quartered here and in charge of the dragons’ care and training.”

“What? Quartered in this dung heap? Dragon keeper!”

“Now, Miss Earwig,” Smegdor said, putting his hand on her tense shoulder.

Earwig smashed his hand off her and stood back from the aide, hands on her hips. She looked wild-eyed at each of them and then into the smoky, fly infested darkness of the dragon stables.

“I’ll see the king at once,” she bellowed and started off down the mountainside.

Smegdor looked at Dreg, who shrugged his shoulders.

“That wouldn’t be advisable,” Smegdor said, rushing, grimacing as he limped, trying to overtake the determined marching witch. Smegdor and Dreg managed to get in front of Earwig and stop her.

“This can’t be what the king meant for me. His majesty doesn’t realize how you and those other men about him are abusing me.”

“Your quarters and assignment are the specific instructions from the king’s own mouth, Madam. You heard him yourself. I’m his personal aide and can assure you these are his own orders.”

Earwig gaped at Smegdor for a moment. The full realization of her position and status, or rather the lack of them, hit her in full force. All her delusions evaporated in the cold reality of her situation. She felt the blood drain from her face. Nausea welled up; she felt faint. Her knees weakened, and she started to slump. 

“Are you all right?” Dreg asked, grabbing her and pulling her arm around his shoulder to support her. “You look so pale.”

Earwig recovered and pushed him away.

Smegdor pointed back up to the dragon stable. “Shall we go have a look at your new rooms?” He glanced at Dreg.

Smegdor led the way, and this time Earwig stumbled along, climbing the rocky path to the stables like a criminal going to gallows. She heard Dreg behind her but wouldn’t turn around and face him. They passed the orc, hefting bodies into a barrow, and went into the dark, moldy recesses inside on the right. Smegdor lit a torch. Several hundred bats exploded in a whirl before flying out. The moldy, dung-covered straw on the floor gave off a cloud of dust as they stepped inside. Roaches made tiny crinkling sounds scurrying around in the straw.

“I’m sure you can fix things up in here,” Smegdor said. In the torchlight, his face was red; his apologetic smile twitched. She noted he couldn’t look at her but looked around the cavern, then at the gnawed door, hanging at an angle on one rusty hinge. He held a cloth to his nose. Apparently the constant ammonia smell was getting to him. “I’ll leave you to get adjusted. Someone will come soon to give you instructions on the details of your new assignment.” He put his hand on Dreg’s shoulder, patted it, looked at him for a moment, then promptly left the two alone in the dragon keeper’s quarters.