Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 52915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Today, Mythos rears and unseats me, tossing me to the ground nearly before I realize what has happened. I hit the dirt hard enough to knock the wind from me and rise after a few pained moments, coughing and spluttering.
Misfortune has a nasty way of compounding itself, I discover. When I stand, I see that the smoke and screams are both being created by the same creature, a great scaled beast that is rampaging through the relatively small village. It cares not for the wholesome scene it is destroying. The sky above its head swirls with black clouds and lightning.
I do not know what to make of such a scene, for I have never beheld anything like it before. My youth has been filled with cows leaping interplanetary bodies, dishes absconding with cutlery, owls and cats navigating oceans. I have never seen what I see now, death most base and foul.
The creature has a wingspan greater than the village, and a head the size of a keep. It is a force of nature greater than any I could imagine. It is like coming face to face with a sentient sun, or moon, or perhaps volcano. It is old, and it is famished, and it does not care about right or wrong, life or death. It is the eater of all things, and it is in the middle of the village, burning thatched roofs and reaching in with its fire-scaled head to feast on the charred innards of the houses our people call home.
“Ho there! Stop, infernal beast!”
To my surprise, the dragon does indeed stop. He swings his great head around and I find myself beheld by slitted pupils of obsidian evil.
“My father banished you long ago! He slayed you! He destroyed you!”
“There is always a dragon.” The dragon laughs at me, pieces of villager falling from between its sharp teeth. A shoe. A hat. An arm. “And your father is no more.”
“I saw him this very morning at the breakfast table!”
“It does not take long,” the dragon laughs. “An instant and anybody can be gone.”
His words destroy me, but I cannot give into the misery he is attempting to instill. This is a mind game, a cruel one to be sure, but what else is there to expect from a creature of pure evil?
“If it is true, then I am king, and you must leave my lands this instant, or be destroyed!”
The dragon bellows fire and laughter at the same time, forcing me to take refuge behind the charred carcass of an old cow.
“You don’t have the sword,” it laughs. “You are not a king. You are not even a knight. You are an itty bitty baby prince and you are powerless against me. Run home, little prince.”
“You will not slay me, dragon!”
“I will not,” he agrees. “Killing you would be merciful, and I intend to make you suffer, as my lineage has always made arrogant royals suffer.”
The dragon rushes at me, his form twisting and his body warping. I try my best to use my sword against him, but it does nothing, because the dragon no longer has form. Instead, the dragon is spirit and mist, a shade of destiny seeking a new abode. It enters me, knocking me back and depriving me of consciousness.
When I awake, the villagers are all dead. My parents are gone to their Forever Ever After, and I am left in the midst of too many bodies to count.
It is then that he comes to me, a tall man with a wizened, long beard and eyes that glimmer deep in his head, almost as though they’re not really eyes at all, but two deep jewels.
It is Balthazar, court wizard, and he has somehow avoided the fate which befell everybody else.
“Poor Prince Charming,” he says, his voice raspy with years of pipe smoking. “What will you do now?”
I wipe the tear that has appeared on my cheek, and I answer him with determination.
“I will fix this.”
And I do. I set about doing my immature, limited best to mend what has been broken. Body by body, I put everyone back together again, a grim task involving all the magic I have. Our faithful butler lies beheaded on the stairs. To his weeping neck I press the head of a mouse. It swells and grows, fur creeping down over his wounds and his body until finally he appears to be a very large mouse man. When he is fully mouse, including a curling pink tail, his eyes open. They are the eyes of a mouse, but when he opens his mouth, it is Whiskerton’s voice that comes out.
“My prince,” he says.
“No,” I reply. “Your king.”
7
Emmaline
Charming sleeps very deeply. He prefers for me not to leave the safety of the bedchamber without him, but sitting around watching a man sleep while the entire world is being terrorized by a dragon seems silly to me. I’m used to making my way in dangerous places. I’ve lived in a big city with limited supervision all my life.