“You have my word,” said the commander.
Zollin rushed back into the castle and levitated himself to the top of the watchtower. The guards there were terrified, but Zollin explained who he was.
“The dragon’s veered off,” said one of the lookouts.
Zollin let his magic flow out. It was as if he had unlocked a dam. The magic rushed out forcefully, and Zollin could feel the beast circling high over head.
“All right, it’s going to take me a while, but tell the King I’m working on the dragon problem.”
“Yes, sir,” said one of the lookouts, before running down through the trap door with the news.
There were already clouds high in the sky, blocking some of the starlight. There wasn’t enough that rain would be an issue, but Zollin didn’t care. He didn’t need rain, he needed electricity. He sent his magic into the clouds and began to focus on the tiny particles of water in the clouds. He pushed them with his magic and swirled them. It was like waving his hand through smoke, but he knew almost immediately that his plan was working.
The tiny water particles were made up of two different forms of gas that were stuck together to form the water. Each of those gas particles had an electrical charge. It was like rubbing his hair and then touching a metal spoon. As a kid he had loved to build up static electricity and give Todrek a shock by touching him. Now the cloud was charging up, and the amount of movement within the cloud’s trillions of particles was creating an electrical power that was stronger than Zollin could produce using magic. He knew that when the dragon came again, he could, if his theory was correct, at least drive the beast away. The dragon may have iron-like scales that most steel could not penetrate, and it might be impervious to fire, but lightning was a different matter.
“What the blazes are you doing?” King Felix said angrily.
“I’m brewing up a storm for the dragon,” Zollin said, trying to maintain his concentration.
“Where were you? I knew something like this was going to happen. Do you know how many people were killed because you shirked your duty?”
Zollin spun on the King then and stared at him angrily.
“This is not my fault,” he shouted. “Don’t blame me. I didn’t send the dragon. If you were afraid of this, why did you station men on those walls? I was seeing to my father, who was almost killed. Don’t you dare speak to me as if I’m your slave. I am here now. That is all that matters.”
“And what will you do if the dragon comes back?”
“I’m going to hit it with lightning,” Zollin said. “If you’ll leave me in peace long enough to prepare it.”
“Sire, there’s a messenger coming from the enemy,” came a voice from down below. “He’s coming to the city gates.”
“Are you sure you can deal with the dragon?” King Felix said to Zollin.
“Absolutely,” Zollin said, sounding more confident than he felt.
“Generals, with me,” King Felix said.
Zollin went back to stirring his storm cloud.
* * *
It took less than half an hour for the messenger to return. Offendorl was on top of his wagon, while King Belphan and King Zorlan waited anxiously below.
“Well?” King Belphan said when the messenger bowed before him.
“King Felix’s response to your demand for the boy wizard was, ‘Hell no.’”
“Good,” Offendorl said. “We can have some more fun.”
“Shall we send in troops?” Zorlan asked.
“No need for that,” Offendorl replied. “We’ll just continue to soften them up. By dawn they’ll be begging to surrender.”
He levitated the heavy, gold crown onto his head and felt the instant connection with the dragon. The beast was high in the night sky, circling just as Offendorl had instructed him to do. He sent the mental order to strike again, this time directly at the castle. Offendorl wanted King Felix to feel the heat personally.
He watched with the eagerness of a school boy waiting to see a shooting star. His hands were clasped in front of him, and his body was leaning forward. The dragon dropped, diving like a falcon toward its prey. Then suddenly, a bolt of white-hot lightning erupted from the night sky. It was there and gone in an instant, but Offendorl felt the shock of fear from the dragon. Then the thunder boomed. It wasn’t a rolling wall of sound, but a sharp crack, followed by a massive slap that shook the ground.
The dragon veered away from the city, but another bolt of lightning surged out toward it. Once again the beast felt fear, but this time the lightning was close enough that it shocked the dragon, burning its tail. Offendorl felt fear, then pain, then panic, as a thunderclap once more shook the ground.
The dragon disappeared into the night, and Offendorl was forced to remove the helmet to break the link he had with the beast’s mind, which was so crazed with fear it was scrambling the wizard’s own thoughts.
“What is happening?” cried Belphan.
“Zollin,” Offendorl said angrily. “The boy knows how to defeat a dragon.”
“What do we do now?” Zorlan said.
“Now we do what I should have done all along,” Offendorl said. “I’ll go after the boy myself.”
But not now, he thought, now I need rest. He raised himself from his chair, and for the first time in centuries he felt fear. He shook off the fear, angry with himself. This upstart boy had some skill, but no one could stand before Offendorl. For over two centuries he had been the most powerful wizard in the Five Kingdoms. Tomorrow he would prove that he still was.
“Ready your troops,” said Offendorl. “We attack at dawn.”
Chapter 33
Mansel was in his room. One of the wenches had been enlisted to tend his wounds. Mansel had removed all his clothes except for his undergarment which he had pulled down on one side. He had a deep cut on his hip, and the gash on his lower leg was even worse. The girl, not quite as old as Mansel himself, washed the hip wound with cool water. Her eyes kept darting up to his wide shoulders and the thick muscles in his chest. Then, she began to stitch the wound with practiced movements.
“You’re good at that,” he said through clenched teeth.
“My mother taught me to sew,” she said in a flirty tone that was completely lost on Mansel. “She took work as a seamstress but made me and my sisters do all the sewing once we learned how.”
It took half an hour to stitch up Mansel’s hip wound. When the wench turned to the leg, she frowned. The muscle was swelling and bulging out of the gash.
“I can’t stitch this one,” she said. “You need a healer.”
“Just sew it up,” Mansel said, taking a long drink of the innkeeper’s strongest wine.
“I can’t, the muscle is sticking through.”
“Daft girl!” Mansel shouted at her.
He raised his leg up, groaning with the pain, and poured wine over the wound. Then he used his fingers to push the swollen muscle back into the skin. Blood poured onto the floor.
“Start stitching,” he said, his voice straining from the pain.
The girl looked woozy, as if she might pass out at any moment, but she stitched up the wound as neatly as she could. The wound was bright red and looked hideous as it curved up his calf.
“That’s a damn ugly job,” he said in a hateful tone. “No wonder your mother sent you off to be a whore.”
The girl ran from the room, and Mansel took another long drink of wine. The alcohol didn’t numb the pain, but it dulled his senses enough that he didn’t notice it as much. He was about to curse that the girl had left the door open when a man stepped in. He was around the same age as Mansel, but not as big. He had long, curly, blonde hair that fell around his shoulders and a boyish-looking face. He had a neat mustache that he obviously trimmed and combed daily. His eyes were bright and he wore a military uniform.
“Are you Mansel?” the man asked.
“Yes, what’s it to you?”
“You’re wanted at the castle.”