Chapter 33—Of Blood and Bone

Arthur moaned as he pressed his arms against the damp stone, attempting to push himself up. A heavy timber rolled off his back as the world tilted on a wave of nausea. Blood flowed from a deep cut in the back of his head, adorning a large, goose-egg-sized lump. The blood streamed forward to join a cut across his forehead. His left hand reached up to soothe it, but a spike of pain rode his right arm and he tilted back to the ground with a scream. It was only then that he realized that the hand he had tried to support himself on was broken. It hung limp, the bones straining against his flesh, in danger of bursting through the flimsy cover. His wrist was unrecognizable, swallowed in the destroyed tangle of the sleeve of his coat, bulging past the cuff’s termination. A shadow fell across his face. Arthur squinted through his blood matted, cornsilk hair at the offending limb. Another limb swam in the background, within his vision. This one ended in several curled claws. Blinking to clear his vision, his head rose to face the truth.

Fierce saffron eyes—conjured from what he did not know—glared at him, caged within the bony carapace that was the head of the bone dragon. It dipped its head closer to Arthur, the great maw opening wide. The odour of sulphur mixed with the sour smell of rotting flesh washed over him. “So, Arthur Pendragon. How the mighty have fallen,” the dragon hissed, around teeth as sharp as any spear.

The voice is distinctly female, Arthur thought, his mind hazy with shock. Why would a female dragon be so cruel? Why does it want me? Arthur thought he knew the answer, and the truth did not please him.

Arthur watched in amazement as a conjured, forked tongue flickered out to taste the air. It appeared to be made of thick sinew embedded with barbs, and it flung droplets of sizzling saliva as it moved. The tongue dipped to scrape across the pool of Arthur’s blood then curled back into its mouth.

“Ah, the taste of victory,” the dragon rumbled, her voice echoing off the walls of the empty barn. Smoke rolled from its nostrils, the bony hollows reminiscent of twin chimneys of a blacksmith’s forge. The dragon smacked the plates of its bony jaw together in satisfaction. “Not so long ago,” she said, “your father decreed that those of us who lived in peace would be slain for practicing heresy. We, who paid our taxes, who toiled for Camelot’s benefit, were outcasts. While Camelot grew fat on the profits of our labour, they denied us the Druid credo and hunted us for our beliefs, targeting our lives and our very souls.”

Arthur watched the dragon’s head weave from side to side, unwilling to move more than his eyes. It swung out of his line of sight. A pained glance to the right revealed a pile of broken timber and thatch, the remains of the roof above through which the dragon had crashed before losing its grip on him. Arthur rolled his head slowly to the left. His eyes fell on the creaking door of the barn. Lightning flashed, throwing into relief the empty stalls and shuttered windows. He was the only living thing in the barn, and it was questionable how long that fact would hold true. The dragon’s head swung back into view, the saffron eye growing in size as it bent toward him. He felt as though he was being swallowed by the dragon, although such an event would no doubt flash him to ash. The dragon huffed and withdrew, scraping its tail against the wooden floorboards. Strangely, the dragon sat down beside him.

“You do not comment. What do you have to say for yourself? Do you not wish to defend your actions? Beg for mercy? Answer me. Come, you are not that hurt. Yet.” This close, he could see the dragon’s saffron eye had a golden sunburst around the iris. It blinked at him.

“What would you have me say?” Arthur rasped. “I do not control my father or the church, any more than you do.” Arthur gritted his teeth and pushed himself to a sitting position with his good arm, resting the useless broken one in his lap. Pain lanced through his body, taking his breath away. He swayed on the verge of passing out. He focused on breathing in and out, in and out, controlling his pain. He would not give the dragon the satisfaction of seeing how badly he was hurt.

Simone flicked a claw through the air. “Entertain me. Ask me who I am. Ask my story. Give me a reason to not incinerate you right this moment.” She raised her claw and examined the path of bone that ended in the missing talon.

The tips of the remaining claws were stained dark—with what, Arthur didn’t want to know. “I don’t need to ask. I already know.” The saffron eyes narrowed. “You are Simone, daughter of Nimue. Merlin told me.”

“The brewer turned wizard,” she hissed. Her head swung toward the hole in the roof. Rain fell from the fractured framing, dripping onto the floor. A small rivulet ran along the rough boards and swirled into the puddle of Arthur’s blood. “He thought himself magical, but he is nothing. Compared to me, he was a child playing at magic.” Her features took on a cruel twist. “You will find no rescue there. I have already dealt with that pesky irritant. I swatted him like the annoying fly he was. Merlin is long gone. You are quite alone, you know.” The bony jaw stretched in a travesty of a smile.

Arthur’s heart lurched. Is Merlin truly dead? Or is she toying with me? I must not let her see fear in my eyes. Think, Arthur. Think!

“I know more than that,” Arthur said. He set his features with a haughty, imperial expression born into royalty, yet his voice was soft. “I know all about your cousin. I am sorry for your loss, Simone,” said Arthur in a not unkind voice. “It should not have been that way.”

“Sorry? Sorry! You think I seek an apology?” She reared onto her hind legs, roaring her fury to the heavens. Flames shot into the air catching the straw thatch. Smoke rose from the glowing edges, racing along the dry fracture, to curl into the sky. A gust of wet wind swept into the vacancy splattering rain onto Arthur, but it did nothing to douse the burning embers. Instead, it fanned the glow into a full crackling roar. Simone ignored the burning roof, her eyes twin glowing embers of hatred. “The time for apologies is long past, Arthur Pendragon. Only revenge will satisfy. When the house of Pendragon is no more, then and only then will I accept your apology.”

Arthur swallowed. He was going to die those pitiless sockets said. A drop of rain fell onto Simone’s head as she screamed, fury mixed with pain to match his own. She shifted back under the relative shelter of the broken roof, casting a murderous glare at Arthur as though he had tricked her somehow. Steam drifted from the spot where the rain had struck her. Something was odd there, but the thought slipped away as Arthur sagged wearily on his one good arm. Dimly, he realized he had lost a lot of blood. He knew he had a head wound. How bad, he couldn’t tell but he had seen men on the battlefield suffer a blow to the head and knew how it addled a man’s thoughts. As quickly as his fogging brain would allow, he cataloged the rest of his various injuries. His favoured sword hand was useless. But it did not mean he could not fight with his left. He could feel the press of the hilt against his thigh. If he could just get to his feet without passing out.

With his strength ebbing, Arthur sought his own core of deep anger. He thought of Lancelot, surely dead. His heart thudded heavily at the thought, bands of fear tightening painfully around his chest. Ruthlessly, he shoved the thought away. He could not give into despair. It was not the time to grieve. Only anger would keep him alive. Arthur gritted his teeth and stoked his anger with his fear, heating that furnace as he forced himself to his feet. He pushed past the wave of nausea that tugged him toward unconsciousness. He walled up both the physical and the emotional pain in a corner of his mind that fed his anger, locked the door and threw away the key. He forced himself to straighten and face the dragon.

Arthur could feel Simone’s hot gaze as she watched him stagger to his feet, turning to face her. Only the rain falling through the wrecked ceiling stood between man and sorceress. Unbidden, his fuzzy head presented a memory of another hot gaze. Lancelot. The agony that speared through his gut took him by surprise. He gasped at the loss of his true love. Ruthlessly he squashed the surge of remorse, once again feeding it to the flame of his anger, which blossomed into a desire for revenge, to match that of Simone’s.

“Are you vain enough to think that you are the only one who experiences loss? That you are the only person possible of losing a loved one? The anguish you have brought to others for your actions, names you a murderer. You will pay for your crimes, Simone, as will your mother. What have you done to my knights? To Merlin?” he growled. “If you have left them unharmed, I will allow you clemency. But if you have hurt them in anyway, your life is forfeit.” Arthur drew his long sword with his left hand and pointed it at the dragon. His grip was steady.

Simone laughed, puffs of smoke curling from the twin orifices where her nostrils should have been, on a flesh dragon. “Your knights offered little in the way of resistance. One sweep of my tail and they were tossed into the river, horse, rider and all. Last I saw, they were sinking to the bottom under hundreds of pounds of metal armour.” She tilted her head, quizzically. “You really should invent something lighter you know. Bad design, that. As for the boy, Merlin, let’s just say that the web I cast around him should keep him rooted in spot until he is a grand old age. He looks better as a tree, than he did as a human. I have planted him where I can keep an eye on him. That one has caused too much trouble.”

“You turned Merlin into a tree?” said Arthur, incredulously.

“Be grateful it was an oak tree and not a pine. I prefer oaks. He will live a long time. I might even speak with him from time to time. Who knows? He might even become wise.” Simone moved through the shadows, claws splintering the boards and crushing the fallen roof timber beneath her weight. “So, are you ready to die, Arthur Pendragon? Once I have dealt with you, I can move on to easier pickings, like your father.” From the shadows, the hollow sockets glowed saffron, growing in size as the dragon stepped toward Arthur. “I promise, this will hurt.”

Arthur involuntarily stepped back, seeking to keep his sword between himself and the dragon, poor defense that it was. He could see no way to protect himself from the attack that was moments away. Arthur looked up past the dragon to the rain falling through the roof. I want to feel the rain on my face, one last time, he thought. Arthur limped into the space where the rain poured through, turning his head up to feel the soft touch of the storm. Water coursed over his body, washing away his blood, his grief, and his sorrow. He sucked in a breath of smoke free air. The pain still lingered, but his courage strengthened. Lightning flashed, illuminating the interior of the barn, as he turned to face Simone. “I am ready, dragon. Let’s end this.” Feet planted, he raised his sword again.

Simone laughed, her great maw opening wide. An inferno built behind the jagged teeth as the flames built, a comet growing in size and intensity. Smoke rose to meet that descending from the burning thatch.

“For the love of Camelot!” Arthur roared.

“For the love of Camelot!” a voice answered.

Spinning, Simone’s tongue shot out, tasting the air. “So, a pesky knight escaped the river. No matter. You will make a tasty snack before I devour this one.”

“Not if I have my way about it.” From a shattered doorway stepped Lancelot. Drenched from head to foot, he limped over the threshold, but his sword arm was steady, and pointed directly at Simone. “Arthur, stay in the rain. She cannot harm you there.”

Simone’s head snaked back and forth between the two dripping men. “What lies he speaks. He thinks that a little rain can defeat my flame?” She threw back her head and barked a laugh that sent a new gout of flame racing across the ceiling. More thatch caught fire, adding its trail of smoke to the billowing cloud obscuring the ceiling.

Lancelot took another step into the interior. Arthur squinted at the apparition, disbelieving his eyes. Under his left arm, Lancelot was holding what looked to be his water skin, swollen and bloated to the point of bursting.

“She cannot harm you, Arthur, unless you move out of the rain. Let us fight for you.” He moved out of the doorframe completely, to reveal five more figures who fanned out around the walls with swords drawn, their figures slinking shadows in the smoky haze.

Simone growled and shot a gout of flame at the nearest knight, who dived aside just in time. Her wing sliced through the falling rain. Arthur ducked under the bludgeon of bone as it whistled over his head. Rain splattered the wing and where the drops contacted bone, steam hissed and bubbled. Simone screamed, roaring with pain. She flung out her tail, sweeping it in a low semicircle. Too slow to react, it collided with Sir Percival and Sir Lucan, both of whom were knocked aside like grain sheafs before death’s sickle scythe.

Arthur could not spare a glance for the fallen knights. Simone’s eyes had swung once more in his direction, flaring with anger and hatred.

“I do not need to reach you to kill you, Arthur Pendragon.” The bony ridges of her mouth stretched wide as she reared on her back feet, wings spread wide. Magic coalesced, pulled from the sparkling air around the bone dragon. Streaking toward the open maw, it danced and brightened the glowing sphere of flame lodged in its chest, growing in size as Arthur watched, transfixed as the bone dragon rose to its full height, blocking out everything and everyone.

Arthur raised his sword with an arm that shook and with a roar of his own, launched himself at the dragon.