The Dragon' Son (2 page)

The dragon roared and instinctively flew to the right and then down to avoid another harsh jab. This, however, brought the rope out and up to Bowen on the left side. He caught and tied the rope fast around the dragon's neck, much to the beast’s dismay. He took a firm hold of the loose end of the rope with his left hand, drew his sword with his right hand, and stood, bending his knees slightly to help steady himself on the gliding dragon.

The dragon looked back at Bowen with a warning growl. Black smoke rose from its nostrils as its deep eyes sinisterly studied the man that stood on its back. But when it saw the raised sword in Bowen's hand, it let out a roar of surprise and fear and dove for the ground in panic.

Bowen braced himself with the rope as the dragon sped for the ground. He blinked the water from his eyes and raised his silvery sword high for the fatal blow to the dragon’s spine. He tightened his arm muscles and glanced briefly up at the green stone that was on the pommel of his sword. He then closed his eyes tightly and plunged the blade forward. As he brought his sword down with all of his might, the dragon swerved, throwing Bowen off balance and driving his sword into the side of the dragon’s neck.

The dragon let out a roar and turned on its side as hot blood sprayed across Bowen's face. Bowen turned his sword loose and grasped the rope with both arms as he began to fall through the air. He hit the end of the rope, and a dreadful crack from his left shoulder made him cry out in pain and turn the rope loose. He hit the leaf-covered ground with his feet then rolled to a stop.

The dragon landed not far from him with an irritated hiss, knocking down trees and creating a rain of golden leaves from the impact of his land. Bowen slowly stood up from the ground and cringed as his shoulder throbbed. He watched as the dragon reached back to dislodge the sword from its neck.

The beast grabbed the sword hilt carefully with its teeth and pulled with a growl. There was a crack from his scales as he drew the sword out. A long rend in his flesh grew as he pulled the sword free from his body. The dragon dropped the sword on the ground and raised its head, howling in pain. Dark blood slowly oozed from its cracked ruby scales, soaking the rope that was tied about its neck. The beast glared at Bowen with certain death held in its piercing yellow eyes and let out a sharp hiss. Its tail twitched viciously as it began to dig its claws into the earth below—a cat and mouse game but on a much larger scale.

An arrow whizzed by Bowen and bounced off the dragon’s scales, then another and another. Bowen dropped to the ground and covered his head while the dragon spun in circles and hissed at the trees that hid his attackers. The beast spread mighty, scarlet wings and leaped skyward, propelling its huge body into the air. It circled the treetops once then flew away, blowing fire, with the rope still trailing from its neck.

“Bowen! King Bowen, are you all right?” a man’s voice rang out. Several men emerged from the trees and helped Bowen to his feet.

“I am well. I can make it,” Bowen said with effort as he again stood to his feet. “We must move everyone away from that mountain as quickly as possible.”

One of the men tore off Bowen’s bloody left sleeve and began to examine his wound and shoulder. “Your shoulder has been pulled out,” he stated gravely then looked closely at the bloody wound. “This is a knife wound!” he exclaimed and looked up at Bowen. “Who has stabbed you?” he demanded.

Bowen shook his head and pushed the man’s hands down. “I cannot be worried about that now. There are others who will be consumed if we do not vacate the mountain now.”

“But King Sloan has taken the army and has ordered that we stand our ground,” another man said.

Bowen raised both eyebrows in alarm. “That dragon is too old to be conquered by arrows and steal. He will slay all of you. We must vacate.” He stared down at the ground sadly. “Sloan is not in his right mind. All of what is happening was a prediction of wise Master Felnost,” he said, looking up at the men. “We can do nothing to stop it. Our sins have set our fate in stone.”

All of the men were quiet for a moment until the man that had examined Bowen’s shoulder rubbed his chin with a sigh. “It was Sloan’s knife that pierced you, was it not?” he asked.

Bowen nodded his head slowly.

The man spat on the ground and hissed, as did the other men. “Curse Sloan! He is the one that has brought this dragon’s curse upon us! It is punishment from above!” one of the men said.

“There is still hope for Sloan!” Bowen protested. “But we must not be bothered with this argument now. We must remove the innocent lives that will be slain if we do not act.”

The men all became silent and nodded their heads in agreement, gripping their weapons more tightly in readiness.

One of the young men brought Bowen his sword, stained with dragon's blood, and presented it to him. “Your sword, Masgaroth, sire,” he said.

“Bowen, my lord, you are wounded. Are you able to wield Masgaroth?” the first man asked as Bowen reached out to take his sword.

Bowen gripped the sword. He raised it for all to see the long, silvery blade engraved with ancient runes and two gold dragons caressing a glowing egg-shaped green stone on its pommel. “It is my left arm that is wounded, not my sword arm,” he said.

Suddenly, a large group of men on horseback burst through the trees, drawing all of the attention. The leader of the cavalry halted his horse and turned to Bowen.

“Bowen, the dragon is attacking the village below the mountain!” the horseman said as he halted his horse before Bowen. “What are your orders?”

“Doan, take your men, go to the edge of the city, and try to stall the beast. I will send my men to get the women and children out!” Bowen ordered.

“Aye, sir!” The horseman blew on a trumpet to order his men to form a charge line. “What of our older brother, Wolfspar?” the horseman asked with concern etched on his face. “He is still in the mountain with our families.”

Bowen looked toward the Great Mountain then back at his younger brother on horseback. “I will go after them. If I do not return when the village is empty, go on without us.” He raised Masgaroth higher. “You understand this completely? Go on without us.” He then turned to the man beside him. “Gavin, take command of my company in my absence and get all of the people out of the village and out of the forest.” He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “And Dayspring will spare whom He sees fit.” He waited until the man nodded, and then he turned and charged through the trees toward the great stone mountain that he used to call home. As he surged past the trees, Master Felnost's prophetic words rang through his mind, perhaps for the last time:

“You cannot change what has been divinely declared. Those you hold dear not all of them can you save, and the events set in motion you cannot stop. Defeat the dragon you will not, but Dayspring will send one who can. One of your descendants will reunite your people. He will fight dragon with dragon and slay them both. He, a dragon slayer's son, will become a Dragon's Son. And because you will not live to see that day, I will tell you his name; his name will be Keegan.”

Chapter 1: To Begin

A strong-framed boy of eleven and with bright blue eyes, paced impatiently before a small wooden house with a grass thatched roof. He ran his fingers through his shaggy brown hair and looked at the little house. “He should be done by now,” he huffed quietly to himself.

He paused his pacing to stare at a crooked gray twig on the ground by his feet. He knelt down, picked it up, and began to draw curious lines in the moist dirt before him. When he finished drawing, a “W” with arrowheads on its ends and a crown in the center was etched in the dark earth, just as it was on his shoulder.

All of his family had the same mark. His friends had the “W” mark, too, but without the crown in the center. They were all forced to have it. Its purpose was to keep cities safe from barbarians, but the definition of “barbarian” had spread to an entire group of people, good and bad, known as the Wovlens. Keegan rubbed his right shoulder where his mark was. Every Wovlen he had ever met had the same mark, and, for every Wovlen, the mark was a curse.

Keegan's parents and friends had tried to live a simple, normal life, but everything normal changed when a law passed that separated the Wovlen people from the rest of the world. The law was originally created for madmen that had come from the Wovlen people. It was supposed to keep them out of the cities. But now, because of the madmen, every Wovlen had a “W” on his right shoulder, and none of them could live a peaceful life in society. Every person without the mark hated them.

Keegan stood and kicked his drawing into oblivion. Then he leaned against a wood post and crossed his arms across his chest. The post smelled strongly of sweaty horses, but Keegan didn't mind. He had been a nomad most of his life and had grown up with that smell.

He closed his eyes as unwelcome memories flooded his mind of his short life as a nomad, a reject, a Wovlen hated by “normal” people. He remembered the sting of a switch across his back, the jolt of a mud clot striking his face, and the pain of rejection in his heart. The rejection was what hurt him most of all. He had always known rejection, just as he had known the smell of horses, but he had never grown used to rejection. He never wanted to get used to it. He didn't believe it was something a human should get used to.

Keegan opened his eyes and shook himself, trying to forget the painful memories. He pushed off the wooden post and began pacing again. After a moment, he paused and huffed impatiently with a roll of his eyes. “Come, Torry!” he yelled loudly. “Aren't you done with your chores yet? I want to go play with you in the meadow!”

After a moment of silence, another boy near the same age as Keegan with cropped, auburn hair came out from behind the humble hut that Keegan had been pacing in front of.

“No, Keegan, I am not done with my chores,” Torry answered with a grin on his face. “I am afraid that I shall never be done with my chores, for I shall have to do them again tomorrow.” Keegan slapped his knee as both boys chuckled. “Well, that is expected. But are you done with them for today?” Keegan asked.

“Yes, my lord,” Torry replied with a twinkle in his eye.

“Torry, I have told you not to call me that!” Keegan scolded. The two friends began to walk down the narrow street toward the meadow that lay just outside of the village.

“Get over it,” Torry answered. “You are a popular dragon slayer’s son. You are the son of our leader’s second-in-command, and if I have anything to say about your future, you will become an even more popular dragon slayer than your father,” he said and poked Keegan in the ribs.

Keegan punched Torry on the shoulder and shook his head at his friend's persistence in annoying him, but he was grateful for it. Keegan often looked at life negatively, and Torry was always there to remind him of the bright side of life.

Keegan’s father was Barden, a well-known dragon slayer. Barden and Keegan's uncle, Boyden, were the leaders of a small group of Wovlens living in the wilds. Their people had become so rejected by others that they could no longer buy, sell, or trade. So, Keegan’s father and uncle decided to risk starting their own settlement in the wilds where no king owned land. They chose to settle in the Dragon’s Plains near the Dragon’s Forest. This ancient forest and the plains connected to it demanded fear from outsiders because demonic beasts dwelt in these lands. Dragons. Few people or armies that ventured into these lands were ever seen or heard from again. No king wanted the land or the forest, so it was left to the dragons… and now to the Wovlens.

Making the plains their home was not without peril. The people had encountered one dragon since they had settled there, and, thankfully, Barden had killed it. Keegan shuddered as he remembered the dragon. The sight of the enormous creature had stabbed fear into his heart. The beast had been so large and powerful. Giant, roaring bonfires erupted from its nostrils and mouth. It had fangs that were as large as swords, talons that were sharp as knives, and a tail that could have destroyed a stone wall. It had been a gallant and beautiful creature. So beautiful and powerful that it had also filled Keegan with an awe that made him love the beast and regret its demise. He secretly decided that the creature had somehow bewitched him before it died. But he wished to keep that bit of information to himself, for fear that his people might think him a
Valad Drakoan
: a dragon’s son.

“Thinking about the dragon?” Torry's question snapped Keegan out of thought.

“Hey, now. You promised you wouldn't mention that again,” Keegan said.

Torry smiled. “Sorry. I couldn't help myself. I can just tell what you are thinking.” He winked at Keegan.

“You can always tell what I’m thinking,” Keegan grinned.

“It’s because of my lineage,” Torry said proudly. “I'm supposed to know what one is thinking, just like you are supposed to hate dragons. You will be a great dragon hunter someday, just like your grandfather.”

“Ho, ho! Why so sure?” Keegan asked. “Remember that dragons terrify me.”

“I am sure you will be a great dragon hunter, because I am demanding it of you,” Torry said. “Dragon hunting is exciting, and I like to be where the excitement is. And it is no secret, my friend, that you and I are inseparable. So, all my problems will be solved when you become a dragon slayer, and I will have a fulfilling life of excitement.”