The Indigo King - James A. Owen [105]
Pellinor stood there, staring mutely at the dragons while his mind reeled. This was not the end to the quest he’d envisioned, nor had his grandfather, or his grandfather’s grandfather. Finally he let out a yell in frustration. “Which of you is it?” he shouted. “Which of you is the Questing Beast, appointed by destiny to be slain by the lineage of Pelles?”
The older dragons at the front almost looked as if they were grinning, John thought, if he really believed a dragon was capable of grinning. Then, in the back, a largish orange dragon with a short, stout body and a long, thick neck raised an arm and waved at Pellinor.
“Aha!” the old king exclaimed as he dropped his visor and drew his sword. “Have at thee, beast!”
Pellinor set off at a full run directly at the dragons, who moved aside to let him through to his target. Pellinor barely came up to the dragon’s knees—which did not deter him from stabbing the dragon directly in the shin. In response, the Orange Dragon reached out with a great clawed foot and stomped down on the blustering Pellinor with a crunch.
When the dragon lifted his foot, Pellinor’s right leg and left arm were twisted at sickeningly odd angles. Still, the old king persisted in stabbing at the dragon with his sword.
“This?” Pellinor bellowed, glancing at his ruined arm. “It’s just a flesh wound! I’ve had worse!”
“Your leg is also broken, you old fool,” the dragon noted.
“Making excuses not to fight me, eh, beast?” challenged Pellinor, and he attempted to chop at the dragon’s foot. “Coward! I’ll have your guts for garters!”
The Orange Dragon sighed and picked Pellinor up by the neck. He walked over to the tree line and deposited the raging king into a stout, hollow oak.
“Think you’ve won, eh?” shouted Pellinor with a now bark-muffled voice. “I can still see you, beast! I can still, uh …” There was a brief pause, as the ratty old king realized that not only was he halfcrippled, but he was also completely immobilized within the trunk.
“I can still curse you!” Pellinor yelled, looking through a knothole. “With my last breath, I shall curse at thee, from the very heart of … ah, well, this tree!”
The Orange Dragon shook his head and walked back to join the others.
“Any others, little king?” asked Samaranth.
“I think he was the last one who would have backed me,” Arthur said, embarrassed, “and he only did that much because my uncle asked him to.”
“Ah yes,” Samaranth mused. “Your uncle Mordred. He was a favorite of mine. A very good student. But he has always let his belief that events and creatures are unchangeable manipulate his choices. And that, above all, is a stupid way to live.”
“And his brother?” asked John. “Was he also your student, Samaranth?”
“He was mine,” said a smallish, lithe dragon, who stepped to the fore of the drive. “I was his teacher, and he, too, was an excellent student.”
“The Indigo Dragon speaks true,” said Samaranth. “The sons of Odysseus have always had great potential. But it has been warped, and misused, and they lost their way.”
There was a great, choking sob from behind the companions. Merlin, his eyes filled with tears, stepped forward, hands outstretched. The Indigo Dragon took him, pulled him close, and embraced him. “Ah, little boy-king.” The creature sighed. “I had hopes for you. I did. But now it seems another will have to serve in your stead as the Indigo King.”
“Was there no time I chose correctly?” Merlin asked. “No chance I had to redeem myself?”
“Almost,” said the Indigo Dragon. “Had you chosen—truly chosen—to step aside for the boy, it would have been you who was worthy to wear the Indigo Crown and sit on the Silver Throne.”
Merlin looked anguished, then nodded sadly and walked back to the companions.
“Thousands of years ago,” declared the Indigo Dragon, “as the world of men ceased believing in magic and