The Pitchfork of Destiny (16 page)

 

CHAPTER 9

THE MAGICAL MYSTICAL TOUR

I
n fairy tales, no two prisoners have the same story, either as to their treatment or the reasons for their imprisonment. Beauty is held prisoner because the Beast wants her to love him, and she is treated like a princess. Hansel and Gretel are held prisoner because the witch, after so many sweets, craves something savory, and they are treated like livestock.

Unlike most other fairy-­tale damsels, Liz was being held prisoner because she
wanted
to be held prisoner. She and Tomas had plenty of opportunities to escape. The Dracomancer's trusted confidants, whom he called the Dracoviziers, weren't the best watchmen, and they didn't seem to think she could or would go very far. For her part, Liz needed time to get over whatever illness was afflicting her. She also felt it was important to stay close to the Dracomancer in the hopes that she might be able to reason with him or at least gain an understanding of the bizarre sway the man held over his followers, and how she, or more preferably Will, might break it.

But if Liz's motives were clear, at least to herself, the Dracomancer's reasons for keeping her with him were a mystery. She made, or at least took every effort to make his life a misery. If she wasn't interrogating him, she was ribbing him about the absurd and amateurish nature of his “act,” as she called it. Her aggressive combination of sarcasm and curiosity clearly nettled the Dracomancer, and Liz reflected that had she been the Dracomancer, she would have exiled herself, or put herself in stocks, or done something, anything to get rid of herself, and yet the more she criticized and questioned him, the closer he drew her to his side. By the end of her second day with the Dracolytes, Liz wasn't allowed out of the Dracomancer's sight. It was a mystery.

In fact, everything the Dracomancer did was a mystery to her. The first few days Liz spent in the Dracomancer's company were at his bedside in the back room of his tavern headquarters, where he was recuperating from his “battle” with the dragon. There the Dracomancer received a constant stream of select followers—­selectness being determined exclusively by the person's generosity to the Dracomancer and his cause. She saw instantly that he was swindling them, and she, or at least her title, was being used to lend him extra credibility. Then news arrived that the dragon had been spotted flying to the dark tower south of Prosper, and the Dracomancer made the announcement that the time had come for him to rid the kingdom of this new terror.

To say that Liz was surprised would be like saying that there are a few trees in a forest, or that trolls have a slight odor about them, or that the ale at the Cooked Goose has an interesting flavor. More accurately, she was utterly gobsmacked. Liz had never had a high opinion of the Dracomancer, and her time in Two Trees had only reinforced her belief that the man was nothing more than a charlatan and a crook. She had come to the conclusion that the Dracomancer's sole aim was to milk his followers for every free meal and tankard of ale and copper he could manage, and that one day he would slip away into the night before the tar could get heated and the feathers plucked. Indeed, she had become increasingly convinced that even his reputation as a scholar of dragons was an exaggeration if not an outright fabrication.

So great was her cynicism about the Dracomancer that she was initially convinced that the announcement of his departure must be part of some larger con, or perhaps its culmination.
This is the moment,
she thought,
where he convinces Jack to sell his cow for three magic beans, or the emperor to walk naked in the streets.

But the next morning, the Dracomancer donned his black cloak, took up his carved black staff, and mounted his black mare, and with Liz and Tomas on his left and a few of his closest Dracolyte supporters on his right, he rode up the street toward the town square.

Liz had only ever seen so many ­people in one place once in her entire life, and that was at Gwendolyn and Will's almost wedding at Castle White. While she and the Dracomancer had been cloistered in his rooms at the back of the tavern, outside, the town had continued to swell as new followers flowed into Two Trees, lured by tales of the sorcerer's brilliant defeat of the dragon. The hundreds had grown to thousands. It looked to Liz as though someone had draped all of Two Trees in a patchwork quilt of humanity. They were seated on the ground and crouched in the trees. They had clambered atop wagons and horses. They rose in ranks up the sides of the hills and sat perched like birds atop the roofs of the buildings.

It was a gray day, full of dark, heavy clouds that spoke of rain to come. As the group reached the edge of the square, the Dracomancer made a signal for them to halt. A strong breeze whipped and swirled across the dirt market square, kicking up clouds of dust. The Dracomancer waited a heartbeat or two, then rode out to the center of the open space. Dressed all in black, with his long, twisted staff, and his face hidden within the folds of the deeply cowled hood, he looked arcane and otherworldly, an effect that was only heightened by the strong winds, which pulled and tugged at his horse's mane and tail, and at the cloth of his robes, so that he was a flowing, undulating silhouette of black.

“I was led here to this place to await a sign,” he began with no preamble. “That sign has come. The dragon has returned to Dragon Tower, there to fulfill the draconic cycle long prophesied.” He raised his staff in dramatic emphasis. “Now it is
my
time to take leave of this place and fulfill my role. To face the dragon. To fight the dragon. To slay the dragon. I go with no regrets and with no fear. I go only with happiness that I may serve you, my friends and ­people, and that we may rid the Kingdom of Royaume once and for all of this scourge. Know that whatever the outcome, my friends, I shall remain with you all in my spirit.”

Liz did not know what she expected. Perhaps that he would get a rousing cheer or a plaintive protest for him to remain, but the crowd remained eerily quiet throughout his speech. They made no response of any kind. They did not shuffle impatiently. There was not a cough or a sneeze. Instead, as the Dracomancer turned his horse back onto the road out of Two Trees, the host of his black-­clad followers, without any debate or question, simply fell into step behind him. She turned about and saw that at least a hundred men and women were on the march.

Liz felt again that quiver of doubt that she had felt watching the Dracomancer face down the dragon on her first night in Two Trees. She leaned over to Tomas, and asked, “What do you think of the Dracomancer now?”

Tomas looked at her grimly. He had been made to work during his captivity, clearing away the burnt remains of tents, caravans, and wagons left behind in the wake of the dragon's attack. He was dirty and haggard. “I still think he's a madman, Your Ladyship, but his is the most dangerous kind of madness . . . madness with potential.”

“Perhaps,” she said with a frown as she studied the retreating figure. “Or, perhaps he is not as mad as he would like us to believe. I think I see in these machinations a distinct plan. A plan with a crown at the end.”

O
n a good horse with fair weather, it was only a day's ride from Two Trees down the mountains and across the River Running to the South Valley and Prosper. The Dracomancer had a good horse, but many of his followers didn't even have shoes. The going was slow, taking them two full days to reach the river basin.

As they descended from the hills, they devoured everything in their path. Fields were stripped bare of crops and livestock. Whole houses, barns and miles of fencerow were torn down to burn in their campfires. And every man, woman, and child they met was conscripted into servants for the Dracomancer's army. Pleas for mercy were only met by the wrath of the Dracolyte mob.

Around noon on the third day of their journey, they came out of the woods. The sun was playing peekaboo with the few wispy white clouds that remained, casting huge flying shadows down across the gold-­and-­green fields. The road turned sharply to the west and struck off through the grassy hills toward the River Running, which sparkled and flashed in the distance.

The Dracomancer reined in his horse to take in the sight. His attendant Dracoviziers protectively flanked him. It almost seemed to Liz as if the Dracomancer was trying to pose, and for a brief moment, her thoughts turned to Charming. She wasn't worried about him as such, but she did hope that he was keeping Will safe. Some part of her felt guilty that she did not worry about Charming more. Some part of her knew that the aura of invincibility that surrounded him was just that, an aura, an illusion. Still, she was glad that those parts were, for now, being quiet because she also knew in her heart that once she did start worrying about him and fearing for him, she might never be able to stop.

“Where is Lady Elizabeth?” the Dracomancer asked. The Dracoviziers silently parted to indicate where she had been riding, immediately behind them. The Dracomancer eyed them all suspiciously.

“Oh, go away, all of you!” he barked, sharply waving his hands at the Dracoviziers as though shooing flies. The Dracoviziers turned their horses and shuffled slowly back toward the following masses.

The Dracomancer beamed a crooked smile at Liz. He gestured for her to come forward. “Lady Elizabeth, let us ride together for a bit.”

She sighed wearily, but she spurred her horse to move up beside his. The prospect of riding the rest of the day in his company was not a welcome one. It was not so much that the Dracomancer was a cruel captor or that she felt her life was in danger. Indeed, if asked, she would have had to admit that she was being treated rather well. He had actually been very solicitous about her health after her fainting spell. Regardless, she simply could not stand to be around the man.

Why did he bother her so much?
She did not believe that he actually commanded magical powers or was possessed by the spirits of dead dragons. Tomas had said that the Dracomancer possessed the “unsettlin' weirdness of the true wackaloon,” but she didn't think that was it either. What she really felt when she was in his presence was used. He had a preternatural ability to manipulate ­people into doing what he wanted, and it made her feel dirty when he turned his attention on her.

The Dracomancer fixed her with his gaze. His eyes were such a deep brown that they were almost black, and illuminated by the midday sun, they gleamed like polished onyx. “Is it nice to be back?” he asked.

“Where? In Prosper?”

“Yes, Lady Elizabeth,” he said with a knowing smirk. “That is exactly what I mean. Have you been back to Prosper since leaving for the castle?”

“No.” She wondered what exactly he was getting at.

“Haven't you been curious about your old farm?” he asked with an exaggerated indifference. “Haven't you wanted to see the resting place of the Great Wyrm of the South?

A warning tingle raced across her scalp. “First, the farm is not my home any longer, and Edward and I have been busy building a life of our own. Second, I never want to see a dragon again or even the resting place of a dragon.”

“That's right, your farm, your brother—­”

“King William” she corrected.

He waved her interruption aside with the back of his hand. “Yes, yes, your brother,
King William
, he gave it to Gwendolyn Mostfair, didn't he?”

The warning tingle became a dull roar of alarm as her thoughts raced.
How could I have forgotten Gwendolyn? Is that why he was so eager to go to Prosper? What does he mean to do with her?
Afraid to say anything for fear that it would reveal her internal distress, she stiffly nodded.

“What interesting stories she must have,” he said, far too casually.

Liz made no response.

“I
know
King William keeps the dragon's golden key as a scepter when sitting judgment at court,” the Dracomancer said in a jarring shift of topic, “but what did he do with the other artifacts from the dragon? Like the pitchfork—­the Pitchfork of Destiny, the weapon that slew the creature? Did he keep it?”

“The pitchfork was destroyed, I think,” Liz answered absentmindedly. She couldn't actually remember what happened to the pitchfork, and her mind was distracted by thoughts of Gwendolyn. The princess had spent a lifetime in the company of the last dragon; did she know something about this dragon also?

They rode in silence for a time. She could see the line of old willow trees that marked the banks of the River Running less than a league ahead. The bridge would be in sight soon, and with any luck, they would be in Prosper by early evening. Behind her, the Dracolytes chanted a marching song. They had borrowed an old nursery tune, but some inventive member of the group had changed the words, and now floating over the road on the breeze came:

“Ding dong the King is gone,

The dragon stole his Lady Fair,

It flew her off

To who knows where?

DING DONG!

Ding dong the King is gone,

He abandoned us

Gave up his trust.

And where he is, we do not care.

DING DONG!”

A throaty roar that made Liz want to flinch, punctuated each “ding” and each “dong.” She glanced over at the Dracomancer. A half-­twisted smile spread across his face at the words “we don't care.” He was enjoying his rise, but more than that, he reveled in the fact that his rise was coming at the expense of Will. She wondered what injury Will had done to him. Was it merely that Will's rise had come at his own expense?

“Ding dong the King is gone,

We all went down on bended knee

To swear to the King our fealty

Now the dragon rules and we feel like fools.

DING DONG!”

They had made it to the edge of the River Running. Ahead lay the bridge that would lead them over the river and into the district of Prosper. Liz decided that she had to press the Dracomancer. She had to know what his intentions were with Will, with the dragon, and with Gwendolyn.