The Dragon-Child (5 page)

Gruum and Therian stood upon the beach for the better part of an hour before anyone made an appearance. Then the last eight sailors came up the beach, running with frequent terrified looks over their shoulders. They were ragged, sweating and exhausted.

Gruum and Therian stood fast. They held their ground as the knot of men approached. Their cloaks fluttered around them in the beach winds.

The crewmen slowed, approaching warily. Their swords were bared. They halted fifty paces away. Bolo stepped forward. His lips curled back into a snarl. “You brought this monster upon us, didn’t you?”

“The creature followed our vessels,” Therian shouted back.

“You tricked us. You knew it was in the smoking lake, and you commanded it to devour my crew.”

“I do not command the monster. I am as much trapped here by it as you are.”

“Trapped here?”

Therian lifted a long arm. Succor gleamed in his hand, and he pointed with the sword’s tip out to the cresting waves. “The creature is from the sea. If we try to leave this island, it will follow us and finish what it has begun.”

“You knew it was out there!” cried another crewman, a man with few teeth in his head and a bare scalp that displayed a dozen thick scars. “You freed the spirits from our sails and expected us to be devoured by it!”

Therian shrugged, bored by their accusations. “The question now is what we are going to do about it.”

“We?” demanded Bolo. He took several paces forward, as if too angry to contain himself.

“We have crossed blades before, men of the
Innsmouth
,” said Therian. “You are now too few and too weary to defeat me. I shall send the first who comes near to slumber with the Dragons. With his strength, I shall quickly best the rest of you.”

The men stepped about uncertainly on the beach. None appeared to want to be the first to test Therian’s words. Gruum looked among them for crossbows, but saw none. It seemed likely they had dropped them in their mad rush through the forests—or perhaps the creature had targeted and devoured those men first, irritated by their stinging, feathered bolts.

The beast, wherever it was, loosed a rumbling, howling sound in the distance. Gruum and the other men cringed and cast their eyes in every direction. Was it about to lunge up upon them from the waves? Did it ramble down the slopes in the forest, snapping trunks of trees as a man’s boots snapped away dry sticks?

Only Therian seemed unperturbed. He stared flatly at the gang of crewmen on the beach. His black hair flew about him in the gusts that came up from the sea. His eyes were narrow, calculating. “There is a way,” he shouted after watching them for a moment longer. “There is a way some of us might yet live.”

They stopped staring at the trees and straightened their backs. “How so?” Bolo asked. He took several mores steps closer. His men shuffled after him.

“We cannot run away over land, for this is a small island. We cannot flee over the waves, for the creature is too swift in the water.”

“We must kill it, then,” Bolo said.

“Yes,” agreed Therian. “But I am too weak to face the monster. Men I could slay—perhaps a dozen men. But this creature is more terrible than a regiment of guardsmen.”

“What then? You don’t—” suddenly, Bolo broke off. His face displayed anger and shock. “You are too weak, but you could become stronger, is that it? A soul? You want one of us to give up our soul? You want another of my crew to slumber with your Dragons?”

Therian nodded grimly. His lips were drawn into a tight line. He stared flatly at them. To Gruum, his visage was reminiscent of a hunting snake.

Bolo shook his head. “No. A pox on all your kind and your foul beasts and magicks. No more souls will I see fed to a Dragon this day! You ask too much!”

 Therian shrugged. “Very well. May we all die well, and may the beast sup upon us quickly.”

The men argued amongst themselves. Therian turned to Gruum. Their eyes met.

“Will they agree, milord?” asked Gruum.

“Of course they will. A chance at survival is far better than none at all. Especially to the mind of a sea-rat.”

Therian stooped and grabbed up a handful of stones in his hands. He picked through them, some he kept, while others he discarded. Gruum looked on, wondering what his lord was doing. He knew from long experience it was best not to ask such questions.

“Sorcerer,” Bolo called out after a time. “We will do this thing. How is it to be done?”

Therian stepped forward. Both sides watched the other warily. The last living mortals on the island approached one another. Therian held out his closed fist. He opened his black-gloved palm. Upon it rested eight stones. Seven were a milky-white, but one was a black, shiny lump of ebony.

“Each of you will draw a stone. The matter may thus be decided.”

“Must the chosen man die unarmed, trussed and gutted by your foul swords like a pig?” demanded Bolo.

Therian made a dismissive gesture. “Hold onto your arms. Stand with eyes closed—or fight for your life, if you wish. It makes no difference to me.”

The crewmen, with many suspicious glances, placed the stones in Bolo’s steel cap. They drew them, one at a time. Their Captain left his stone in the steel cap, unrevealed. Slowly, each man turned his palm upward and showed his stone.

The first three showed milky-white. One of these men, a coxswain who was a fleshy fellow with fat, red cheeks, dropped to his knees with relief, laughing and shaking his head.

The men who had not yet revealed their stones stood with watchful eyes and baleful expressions. The fourth and fifth men decided to get it over with quickly and showed their stones. They were both milk-white. Sighs of relief were puffed out.

In the distance, another odd, warbling howl rose up.

“A hunting cry,” said Therian, with the attitude of idle interest. “It comes this way. It has picked up our scent. I believe it has entered the waters now and will make much faster progress circling around the island in the sea.”

“Show the last stones,” ordered Bolo grimly.

The sixth and the seventh showed their stones. All were white. Slowly, everyone looked toward Bolo, their Captain. With his lips drawn into a firm line, Bolo drew out the ebony stone and revealed it to all.

“I have been chosen,” he said.

“Are you ready?” asked Therian, eyeing the group.

“Wait!” cried the fat-cheeked coxswain. “This is not right. Bolo held back the black stone in his hand. He’s sacrificed himself.”

“The choice has been made,” Bolo said.

“Should not one of us trade with him?” pleaded the coxswain. “Do any of us possess the honor?”

None met his gaze.

“What of yourself, coxswain?” asked Therian in sudden interest.

The coxswain eyed Therian’s blades, and then the black stone, which Bolo still held out in the palm of his hand. He licked his lips. His eyes narrowed to slits. They slid back again to the silvery blades in Therian’s hands. Finally, he shook his head and hung it low in shame.

“Very well,” said Therian. “The stones have been distributed.”

“I choose to defend myself,” Bolo said, drawing his notched cutlass slowly. He took a firm grip on the sharkskin-wrapped hilt. The rest of the men drew back and formed a circle around them.

Therian’s eyebrows rose, but he made no comment. He stepped forward, unconcernedly. There was a predatory grace to his walk. His twin blades twitched upward as he came near, as might the ears of a great, stalking cat.

Bolo lifted his cutlass and took a deep breath.

Therian spoke words that injured the mind of all there who heard them. Succor and Seeker ran with eldritch lights. White flames sparked and twisted unnaturally over both blades, but no heat issued from these manifestations.

Therian lunged suddenly, unexpectedly. His blade pierced the coxswain’s round belly. Seeker twisted and thrust upward. The man’s heart was instantly stilled by the tip of the sword.

The coxswain fell to his knees. His lips worked silently. His eyes popped wide, but it was clear to all present that those eyes did not see the same world the rest saw. White lights played in those dying eyes, and his expression was one of shock and infinite horror.

“Treachery!” shouted Bolo, stepping forward. His raised his cutlass.

Gruum stepped forward to meet him. “It is not treachery,” he said, speaking up for the first time. “Think man! One soul is not enough to face such a monster!”

“One is not enough? Why didn’t you tell us?” Bolo asked, dismayed.

Therian snorted. “I thought it was abundantly clear.”

From somewhere behind the trees there came a laborious splashing—a
slopping
sound, like that which great hogs might make heaving themselves out of a pool of thick mud.

“But I drew the black stone!” Bolo cried.

“Exactly,” said Therian, his voice cool. “And I worship the Black Dragon. Her color is the color of good fortune. Thus, you are to be spared.”

“Seven souls?” Bolo asked in despair. “You need seven to face the sea monster?”

Therian made another lunge. This time the act was even faster and more suddenly done. A sailor who had strayed a step nearer fell stricken. His eyes mirrored the surprise and horror of the coxswain who lay crumpled in death upon the sands.

“I’ll not allow it!” Bolo roared. He made as if to charge Therian, but Gruum interceded and engaged him with his blade. The two traded strokes, slashing and parrying.

“Let me go after him, man!” Bolo shouted. “He’s a devil. None of us shall live to see another sunrise. Let’s at least die with honor.”

“You have no honor. You roasted a boy and celebrated the event last night.”

Bolo’s eyes narrowed. “I had wondered which of my men weakened and finished him off. It was you, then.”

“Yes it was, and I’ll enjoy watching your soul leave your body with the rest of us this day.”

Bolo lay into Gruum then, orange sparks flew from their blades as he cut high and low, seeking a way past Gruum’s determined guard.

The other crewmen ran for their lives and their immortal souls. Therian sprinted after them with unnatural speed. Like a panther leaping upon wounded gazelles, he rode down each man in turn. He slashed their legs from them and drank their souls. With each life he took, he grew faster, stronger and more feral of aspect. Gruum, witnessing this nightmare, had to wonder if Bolo spoke truthfully.

 Bolo and Gruum stepped back from their swordplay and circled one another.

 “A man has to keep discipline or a ship of pirates can’t function, Gruum, you should understand that,” said Bolo. “We have our own form of honor, harsh though it may be. Join us, and leave the foul stink of sorcery behind. At least our evil is that of flesh and blood.”

“Your words appeal to me, Bolo. But our quest is greater. We seek to relight the sun. We seek to bring warmth back to the north.”

“Then you are as deluded as your master!” Bolo cried.

Before they could speak further, everything about their tiny portion of the world changed. The monster set the treetops to the west thrashing about. A great, gray head rose up atop a long neck of thick flesh. A thousand teeth were revealed, each was curved, serrated and the length of a man’s dagger. A rumbling cry rolled out over the beach. The last trees between them and the beast cracked and flew twirling away. White wood showed beneath the dark bark. So great was its size that the monster’s flippers were in the waves on one side, and in the forest on the other. It was as wide as the entire beach itself.

Therian, bloated with the simmering power of seven fresh souls, stepped forward to meet the monster. The huge head turned to regard him with one black eye the size of a guardsman’s pot helm. Could the creature be surprised at Therian’s approach? Gruum wondered if any tiny mortal had ever dared to step up to it in such a confident manner in all its uncountable years of life.

Therian lifted his boot and stepped over the fallen body of a crewman. He stopped and raised his twin blades, pointing with them around the beach.

“Seven foul souls did I take here today,” he said to the sea monster. “I will demand now that you give me your name. I would know who you are, great Lady of the deep.”

The monster shambled forward. Ten feet closer. Twenty. She halted, as Therian did not retreat. A massive noise rolled from its open maw then, a sound that formed into bass words of inhuman volume. At first, Gruum had to shake his head. Then he thought he heard and understood the words, strange and foul though they might be.

Gruum and the Captain disengaged and stepped back away from one another, sides heaving. Somehow, their struggles seemed petty and pointless in the face of such a monstrosity. In truth, neither could tear his eyes from the sight of the sea monster, her head brushing the palm fronds—nor Therian, who stood nonchalantly before it.

 “You intrigue me,” said the cavernous voice, “although you are only a mortal insect that crawls upon these dry peaks of dirt. Too long have I stayed in the deeps. I see now I was mistaken in my disdain for the surface. It is unpleasant, but interesting. I thank you, morsel, for having awakened me to the tiny joys of your world.”