The Pitchfork of Destiny (27 page)

At a signal from the Dracomancer, two of the robed Dracolytes began to unchain Charming. In another moment, he was free. He rubbed his arms and looked around, still uncertain what the Dracomancer intended for him to do. The Dracomancer waved him to his side with the back of his hand.

Charming stepped forward. At the same time, the Dracolyte whom the Dracomancer had sent off returned, carrying a terribly mangled pitchfork. The haft was burnt, and the tines were bent and looked as though they'd been melted. Charming shuddered to think of Will's last moments. If the pitchfork's condition was any sign, it had been a terrible battle.

“How did you get that?” Charming asked suspiciously.

“Yeah,” said a woman in the crowd. “And it looks different. It's all beat-­up.”

“Th . . . th . . . this morning, the Dragon Spirit brought the Pitchfork of Destiny back to me!” the Dracomancer stuttered, and Charming could see beads of sweat on the man's forehead. “The damage you see is the result of King William's battle with the dragon. The King may have failed, but the pitchfork still retains its power, and in the right hands, the hands of a hero, the hands of the one I prophesied would slay the dragon, in the hands of Prince Charming, it will bring victory!”

With that, the Dracomancer extended the pitchfork to Charming. Charming grasped the handle. He knew there was more to the story of how the pitchfork came to be in the Dracomancer's hands than he was telling, but the dragon was here. First, he would save these ­people and avenge himself on the dragon for Will's death. After that, he would be able to collect on the Dracomancer's many debts.

Beside him, the Dracomancer once again spread his arms and addressed the crowd. “Let the prophecy be fulfilled! Everyone, find shelter where you can, but you will want to bear witness to these events!”

With that, the Dracoviziers, the Dracolytes, and everyone else in the crowd dispersed. Charming was alone with the Dracomancer. The man led him back over to the shadowy wall of the tavern. “Hide here. The shadows combined with the heat of the afternoon should blind the Dragon to your presence. If even half of what the wolf tells me is true, then Volthraxus will attack him first. You will have the element of surprise. Run under the dragon, pierce him in the heart, and he dies. The prophecy will be fulfilled, and you will once more be the hero, and perhaps the king you were always meant to be.”

The Dracomancer turned to leave, but Charming caught his arm. “I know that you bear more blame for what happened to King William than you are saying. That you have this”—­he hefted the pitchfork and put the sharp tines against the man's chest—­“speaks volumes. When this is over, you and I will have words, Delbert.”

The Dracomancer grimaced at Charming's use of his name, but rallied and responded with a threat of his own. “Remember, I have Gwendolyn and that squire of yours, Tomas. I also still have an army of Dracolytes at my command. Do we understand each other?”

Charming nodded. “I understand. Do you understand that I will not rest until I see that justice is served?”

Sneering, the Dracomancer pulled his arm free and ran into the tavern, his billowing cloak flapping behind him. Charming waited, watching the dragon grow larger and larger. This wasn't how he had ever expected to meet a dragon. He had always imagined a field of green. He would be atop his noble steed, with his armor glittering in the sun and the pennon on his lance flowing in the breeze. He imagined the charge and the dragon's fire curling about his shield. In his mind, the moment had always been glorious, but here he was, hiding in the shadows like a thief, dressed in peasant rags, a mangled pitchfork in his hand.

It went against everything in his nature.

Having said that, surprisingly, the circumstances fitted his emotions perfectly. He was not filled with the thrill of battle, but rather, his heart was empty. His friend, Will Pickett, was dead, and it seemed likely that Lady Rapunzel was also gone. He had no idea what had become of Liz. All he wanted was the dragon dead so he could mourn his losses, seek his wife, and exact the necessary measure of revenge against the Dracomancer. It was the height of irony that the Dracomancer's plan was the best means to all of those ends.

The low, steady, beating sound of the Dragon's wings striking the air reached him. Charming could feel a wind rise as the beast made its way closer. Volthraxus was on the outskirts of town. Charming braced himself against the wall, but, as he watched, the Great Dragon of the North suddenly dove and disappeared outside Prosper's town wall. Had Charming been seen? Volthraxus was known for his intelligence.

Perhaps it's a ploy.

Charming stayed motionless. It was time to be a hunter. He had immense patience when he needed it. He watched the wolf strain against its chain. The animal was panting and foaming at the mouth.

Beo was a villain, to be sure, but could he really be the reason for Volthraxus coming?

Charming continued to study the desperate wolf and think on the stories the wolf had told, but the longer he considered the subject, the harder he found it to believe that after Volthraxus had avenged Magdela, he would bother to go after a wolf, no matter what the beast's crimes had been. He adjusted his grip on the pitchfork, Will's pitchfork.

I will avenge you, Will.

As he thought this, there was a mighty rush of wind, and the Great Dragon of the North soared above the wall of Prosper and landed in the town square with his front claws on either side of the wolf. Silver-­gray scales rippled across powerful limbs, and he made a horrific roar that shook the buildings and set the bells of Prosper to ringing once more.

Charming was in motion before Volthraxus had his claws set. He threw himself forward, dove, and rolled underneath the Dragon, holding the Pitchfork of Destiny in both hands. He came to his feet directly beneath the Dragon's breast. He thrust the pitchfork upward at the Dragon's heart. The armor here was as thick as anywhere else on the dragon. There were no missing scales or convenient weaknesses, still the tines of the pitchfork pierced the Dragon's side just as the Dracomancer had predicted. Three drops of steaming blood flowed from the wounds, but instead of pushing further into the mighty creature's heart, Charming paused.

Volthraxus froze.

“Great Volthraxus,” said Charming, anger coloring his voice. “If you move, you will die. Should I hear the scales on your neck rustle, I will pierce you through the heart. You live only because I have three questions upon which your fate hangs. Do you understand?”

The dragon stayed perfectly still. “Yes, I understand. I have one question of my own if you would allow.”

“Ask,” Charming said, but tensed his arms in case this was some sort of rouse.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Volthraxus said. “Several actually. However, since you know who I am, may I ask who you are?”

“My name is Edward Charming.”

The dragon gave a sigh, it sounded almost of regret. “You may ask your questions, Edward Charming.”

Charming took a breath to prepare himself for what was to come. “Did you kill King William?”

“I did not.”

Charming almost flinched with surprise, but retightening his grip on the haft of the pitchfork asked, “What about Lady Rapunzel?”

“She also lives. I left her along with King William and Lady Charming outside the walls of the town so they would not come to accidental harm should any archers have been present. They were not happy with the arrangement, and I suspect that, though I asked them to stay away, they will be here soon.”

Charming had intended his last question to be about Liz, but to hear that not only were Will and Elle alive, but also Liz, brought him an overwhelming sense of relief, and it took a great deal of willpower not to relax.

Now that his principal concerns had been addressed, his last question seemed obvious. “Why are you here?”

“My actions have allowed that fool”—­there was a deep, angry rumbling from within Volthraxus although his body was still as stone—­“who calls himself the Dracomancer to nearly depose King William and take over this kingdom. Your future queen, Lady Rapunzel, has insisted that I put that to right. As I abducted her, postponed her wedding, and threatened to kill her husband, I felt that it was the least I could do to make my amends.”

Charming continued to hold the pitchfork in place, but he knew this standoff could not last indefinitely. If he removed the pitchfork from the dragon's breast, Volthraxus would be free to act. All it would take would be for the dragon to lower his body and Charming would be crushed. The thought also came to him that all it would take would be one thrust, and the dragon would die.

I would be a hero of the land, a true dragonslayer
.

Without consciously meaning to, he braced himself for the killing blow. Then another thought struck him.

If I do this, I will be the instrument that fulfills the Dracomancer's prophecy. I will only be doing what he always said I would.

A bitter bile rose up in his throat, and his grip on the pitchfork wavered.

“What are your intentions, Edward Charming?” the dragon asked calmly, perhaps sensing in Charming's silence his internal debate. “I acknowledge that you have every right to kill me, and would not think less of you if you did. I am, however, getting a little cramp in my right leg. So . . .”

“I have no reason to kill you,” Charming replied. “You have spared my brother-­in-­law and King, his bride, and my own beloved wife. I don't believe that we have any quarrel remaining. You may think it would be justified, but killing you at this point, in my opinion, would be terribly bad form. May I propose instead . . . peace between us?”

Volthraxus made a deep, rumbling sound. It took a moment for Charming to realize that it was laughter. “Peace? The great Prince Charming, the man who was prophesied to slay my Magdela, wants peace between us? Why? Why not kill me and fulfill your destiny?”

“My studies of you indicate that you are a dragon of honor and would therefore hold to any accord we would set. As for that prophecy . . .” Charming sighed. He reflected on his life. Everything in his entire existence had centered around the prophecy. All the adoration, all the training, all of the expectations, everything had been about the prophecy. He was sick of it. “The Dracomancer created that prophecy.” The disdain he felt toward the man came out in his voice. “I find him repugnant and would do almost anything to thwart his designs. Will you accept my offer? Will there be peace between us?”

“Peace? Yes, I would have peace. I would rather not kill you,” Volthraxus said, and made another chuckling, rumbling sound. “I find you warriors of Royaume difficult to understand, though. I was all set on a glorious and violent revenge, and was certain that you would oblige, but instead I find myself making peace, first with your King and now with the most renowned swordsmen of the age. Strange.”

Charming withdrew the Pitchfork of Destiny and walked out from under the dragon. “I apologize for your injury.”

With a groan of relief, Volthraxus stretched himself, much as a cat might, and looked down at the pinpricks of red on his breast. “It's nothing,” he said. “Just a scratch. Although,” he added, eyeing the pitchfork, “that weapon, as inelegant as it appears, certainly lives up to its reputation.”

Charming grimaced at the pitchfork. “Sorry about that also. I am a little ashamed to have had to meet you in this manner. The ambush was ill done and, well”—­Charming hung his head and gestured to his clothes—­“I am a disgrace.”

“Please don't beat yourself up about it,” the dragon said gently. “We all have bad days.”

Charming regarded the enormous silver-­gray dragon. Volthraxus had a majesty and refinement about him, and there was something in his subtle bearing, in the way his eyebrows were so well manicured and his scales so shiny, that made Charming feel a kinship to him.

Charming felt another apology was in order. He squared his shoulders, and said grimly, “I feel the need to apologize to you. You should not have had to face me this way. I have been wearing these clothes for a week. There are rips and tears and stains all over them, my boots lack any sort of shine, and please don't get me started on the state of my hair . . .”

“Also,” the Dragon said seriously, “and I hate to mention it, but I wouldn't be doing you a ser­vice if I didn't also point out that your collar is last season. I think you may need a new tailor.”

Charming's face grew pale with shame.

“Forgive me,” Volthraxus said. “I shouldn't have said anything, but I find that these days there is a shocking lack of appreciation for the forms and fashion.”

“No,” Charming said sorrowfully. “You are in the right, but the blame is mine and not my tailor's. He is . . .” Charming's voice broke. “He is a good man.”

The dragon started to say something, but from inside the tavern came the Dracomancer's ragged scream, “Kill the monster!”

Charming planted the Pitchfork of Destiny in the ground and glared at the tavern. “Come and do it yourself.”

“Remember, Charming, I have your squire, Tomas and Lady Mostfair,” threatened the Dracomancer.

Volthraxus quietly said, “Lord Charming, I know we've just met, but in my seven hundred years, I've never met the man who would spare a dragon, or who had such well-­sculpted eyebrows. Would you mind if I responded to this ultimatum?”

Charming shrugged, curious as to what the dragon would do. “Be my guest.”

Volthraxus roared, and flames shot into the sky. “Bring us the Dracomancer, or all shall feel my wrath!”

The door to the tavern opened, and black-­robed hands shoved the Dracomancer out into the square. The door slammed behind him, and the clear sound of a latch's being thrown echoed across the green. Charming strode over and, grabbing the Dracomancer by the front of his robe, dragged him toward the center of the square and the waiting dragon.