Title: Seed of Darkness
Rating: T
Summary: A new threat descends upon Cloister and Jack must use the Crown of Erik to summon some unlikely allies.
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor make any profit from, the characters in this story.
Snicket Warning Label: This chapter contains violence, blood, and the death of a major character. If such things are upsetting to you, then, boy, are you reading the wrong fanfiction!
Chapter 3: Lizards
It fell out of the sky like a hammer, landing with a solid, ground-shaking thump that sent up a murky tornado of dirt, grass, and bits of stony debris. Smells of loam and blood burst into the air as damp chunks of displaced earth settled all around them. Shouts went up, accompanied by the muffled beats of stamping horses. Jack wiped at his eyes with the back of one shaking, grime-streaked hand and was almost thrown from his mount as it reared up, tossing its sleek head and neighing frantically along with a confused mess of panicked animals and cursing Guardians. When the dust cleared, every man grew silent, staring in slack-jawed amazement.
A winged lizard, easily as long as ten men from snout to tail-tip, crouched over the pile of wet meat that used to be a cow. It uncoiled itself slowly as Jack's stunned brain picked out details. It's toothy snout tapered down into a wicked curved beak, and a memory streaked across his consciousness of the first time he'd been introduced to the king's hunting falcons. Cruel, nasty things made for killing, he'd thought. But this creature put those little birds to shame. Its hide was the dark, mottled-green of old pine forests, covered in scaly armor that glinted like enamel. A fringe of gleaming-black spikes curved backwards along it's jowls, and the top of its triangle-shaped head was crowned by two sharp, obsidian horns. Below the surface oiled muscles rippled and bulged smoothly when it moved. It lifted up one foreleg and laid a pebble-rough foot on the haunch of the dead cow, thin skeins of webbing stretched between the toes as it splayed out four lacquered black claws, then buried them into the meat with a sound like a butcher's blade sinking into a side of beef. There was a flash of bright red tongue as its mouth opened, the head twisted as it tore off a slice of ragged, blood-wet cowflesh that was swiftly gulped down.
"Easy, men." Elmont's hoarse whisper carried well in the near total silence. The only sounds were the stamping of snorting, frightened horses, bridles jangling, and the heavy breathing of terrified men. The knight caught Jack's eye, nodded as if to say Be ready. A cold finger slid down Jack's spine when he noticed even the birds had stopped singing. That's never a good sign. "Hold your fire! We don't want to provoke it!" Elmont snapped. "Fall back to-"
A bow twanged. An arrow zipped past Jack's ear with only inches to spare, struck the dragon right on the bony ridges covering its forehead and bounced off. harmless as a mayfly.
"Didn't I just say don't shoot?" Elmont yelled, and Jack had a half-second in which to mentally curse himself for not thinking to grab a fireproof shield from the armory before setting out this morning.
The dragon's head came up, gore dripping from its jaws. Oval-shaped yellow eyes regarded them with a slow, reptilian blink. Black pupils thinned down to slits as the mouth opened, and leathery folds of skin on its neck expanded as air was sucked down in one huge gulp.
"RUN!" Jack was already wheeling his horse out of the way when the blast hit. A cloud of red-orange flame erupted behind him as heated wind gusted around him, ripping at the sleeves of his coat and crisping few strands of loose hair. The world became a blur of shouts, screams, and galloping horses. Jack glanced over his shoulder to see a horse and rider, both of them engulfed in flames, running madly alongside him. The poor horse missed a step and toppled over, flames eating away its flesh, turning the bones to black , brittle cinders. Sparks rained down around him, setting small patches of grass ablaze. He held on grimly as his poor horse plowed through smoking brushfires, its terror so great that any thoughts of slowing down or stopping never crossed its mind. Jack whispered a silent prayer of relief when he broke through a wall of smoke to see Elmont ahead of him, galloping on his black charger and shouting orders.
"Fall back! Get out of range!"
You don't need to tell me, friend. Smoke mixed with the sick-sweet stench of roasting human meat almost made him gag as he kicked his horse's sides, heading for the knot of Guardians forming a disciplined line around the Captain. The archers had their bows drawn and, as soon as he barreled in among them, let the first volley fly. His horse stamped and neighed as he made it turn to face the dragon, whose green snout was half-buried in the charred remains of one of the fallen soldiers, the pits of its nostrils flared wide. The arrows struck its chest, legs, and head only to bounce off like acorns, their shafts bent and points broken.
"This is not good," Elmont said.
Breathing hard, hearing his own blood pounding in his ears, Jack watched the dragon shudder like a dog shaking off water. It spread its wings - ribbed, translucent-green membranes wide enough to fill the entirety of the king's throne room - whipped back its head and screeched a single, piercing note like a hawk's cry dragged out and amplified tenfold. A few breathless seconds ticked by. The dragon became utterly still, folded its wings close to its sides, and glared at them with snake-slit, golden yellow eyes.
"It's just sitting there." Jack drew up alongside Elmont, who held the reins of his charger in a white- knuckled grip. Smoldering bits of leaves along with drifts of white powder crumbled from his armor when he moved. Jack tasted bile in his mouth when he realized the white stuff was human ash.
"I've got a bad feeling about this." Weary resignation colored every word as the Guard Captain met his eyes.
Cold wind buffeted Jack's face, reddening his cheeks and icing the sweat on his brow as the morning chill deepened. The light around them dimmed as though an enormous hand was blocking out the sun. Everyone looked up.
Dragons dropping out of the sky like rain, their wings folded close in a huge, synchronized dive.
Jack's horse reacted faster than he did. It bolted, hooves tearing furrows in the soft dirt, and there was nothing for him to do except hold on with a deathgrip as wind whipped his hair back and scoured his face. Around him the Guardians were doing the same, the rolling field offering very little cover and no defensible positions. Jack watched, helpless, as dragons swooped out of the sky with an eerie grace, their hind legs extending and claws flexing. Men were plucked from their saddles and carried screaming up into the clouds. Amid the cacophony of rushing wind, screams, and galloping hooves Jack could barely hear Elmont shouting. Or maybe it was him; his throat felt as raw as if he'd swallowed sand. The air trembled as a shadow fell across him and his numb fingers yanked hard on the reins, his horse just barely cantering to the left in time to avoid the curved claws. They snapped shut on the air he'd previously occupied with a loud click. Whoever was behind him wasn't so lucky. Jack heard the dry-paper rustle of enormous wings, then a scream that dwindled away as the winged lizard carried its victim off.
"They're heading for Cloister!" Elmont's shout. Coming from right net to him. And Jack - forcing himself to slow down and think through the haze of fear and gut-churning nausea clouding his mind - realized he was right. Nothing was coming out of the sky now except body parts - arms and legs and an occasional torso, all chewed-up and plopping to the ground with moist little smacks.
The dragons were flying in loose formation ahead of them, angling slightly to the east, having caught the tantalizing scent of large quantities of human flesh.
Jack's hands shook as he jerked the reins, bringing his exhausted mount to a halt long enough to take stock. Of the twenty men who'd rode out this morning, only eight were left. Eight haggard men, all streaked in black soot, sweat, and blood. Soon Elmont was beside him, white-faced and clutching his right shoulder - the armor there was marred by a very jagged, deep claw mark - and together they watched, horrified, as the plague of dragons arced through the clouds, becoming dark, dangerous specks in the sky above their home.
"This is definitely not good." Elmont said, and Jack wholeheartedly agreed.
{O}
Isabelle had to escape again.
It wasn't that she didn't enjoy the company of Anastasa and the other maids. It wasn't that she was trying to spite her father with yet another show of disobedience. It wasn't even that she'd stopped by the palace kitchen for a loaf of bread and stumbled upon the skinny senior cook whistling tunelessly while chopping vegetables. He'd wished her good morning, to which she'd stammered a hasty reply, then made a quick exit. The poor man doesn't even know why I avoid him now, she thought, giving the inside of her cheek a good nip as penance, but I was in a kitchen like his once before, and not as a guest either.
She'd been on the menu.
But it wasn't any of those things. It was simply that the stone walls were once again turning as stifling as mud clogging her throat, so dense that just sipping air took an act of will. Even the library, her place of refuge, was becoming too small a space. She needed to feel blue sky above her and the bustling of common folk around her, every shoddy-shoed, hard-knuckled one of them weighted with their own individual burden, dealing with it in their own unique way that still left room for dignity and hopefulness. She needed to understand them. To know them.
She needed to see the world.
So she'd waited until the stable boys had finished feeding and watering the animals before insisting that Anastasa take time to finish her latest creation of pearls, topaz, and rose quartz strung together on silver thread. Her lady-in-waiting was being kept so busy between palace chores and following Isabelle around like a faithful lapdog that she was more than happy to have an hour to just sit and make jewelry. It reminds me of my father, she would say. Sometimes I think I feel his hands guiding me. With Ana happily occupied with several lengths of thread plus an assorted pile of sparkling polished gems, Isabelle declared that she was going out for some air and left the jewelry-maker to her beads.
It was warm in the stable, the exhaled breath, body heat and musk of horses in close proximity was like a familiar blanket thrown over her shoulders after sneaking past sleepy palace guards out into brittle morning air, being careful to keep a simple peasants cloak pulled over her face and her head down. She doubted the guards would've tried to stop her from leaving, but they would've certainly informed her father. And he would worry about her as only a man whose daughter came a hairsbreadth away from ugly death several times over knows how. She hated to make things hard for him, but hopefully she would be gone and back again without anyone ever knowing. Shaking out her long hair from beneath the cloak, she strode past rows of stalls to the shelves at the east end, where the horse tack was stored. A few horses nudged their muzzles over the wooden planks as she passed, chewing meditatively while following her with soft, liquid brown eyes.
Weak morning sun began filtering through gaps in the wooden walls by the time she finished brushing the last tangle out of Victoria's mane. The mare tossed her head and nickered in pleasure as Isabelle stroked its clean, white softness. "Ready to ride, my darling?" Isabelle asked while stowing the brushes away and fetching the saddle. Made of strong, oiled leather, her fingers slid over its surface as she buckled it on. Victoria stamped and tossed her head again.
She mounted up and had just pulled her left leg into the stirrup when she heard his voice.
"Isabelle?"
Oh no. A mad urge to throw the cloak over her shoulders and huddle inside its hood jolted through her, but she knew it was already too late. He couldn't possibly mistake her, clad in gray riding boots, white trousers and matching tunic, sitting astride a horse for good measure. Instead she ducked her head, letting long strands of chestnut hair cover her face, feeling as if she were a rambunctious nine-year old princess caught playing with straw dolls in the hayloft all over again.
King Brahmwell stood with the sun at his back, his arms crossed, blocking the dusty path leading through the wide-open stable doors like a mountain blocking the sea. Her fingers uncurled from Victoria's reins and busied themselves with picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of her tunic. "Father," she muttered. "I-"
"Isabelle. Look at me."
She did, and saw he too was dressed for riding, wearing stiff, rugged brown trousers and a heavy green and brown patterned cloak that fastened at his throat, hanging on him almost like a monk's robe.
"I saw your eyes at breakfast and they told me you'd find your way out here soon enough." A small smile crinkled the corners of his mouth. From her horseback viewpoint, she could see the streaks of gray in his dark hair. A few had turned stark white since last spring, around the time a beanstalk sprouted and she'd gone missing. Hot shame boiled up inside her, leaving a sour trace in the back of her throat.
"Father, I'm sorry."
"I won't forbid you to leave the palace, child." He approached the stalls. his booted heels scuffling through thick layers of dust and bits of grain. "If you're encounter with the Gantuans didn't scare the wanderlust out of you, I fear there's nothing an old man like myself can do to keep you in one place."
A small laugh escaped her, bursting out like a soapbubble. She swayed in the saddle as Victoria stamped restlessly beneath her. Leaning forward, she whispered in the mare's ears. "Be still." The horse whinnied and would've trotted forward if Isabelle hadn't jerked on the reins. Her father watched their little display, raising his bushy eyebrows in amusement. "Now you know how I feel."
"She's high-spirited, that's for sure." Isabelle could feel her face growing hot and spent a moment in intense contemplation of a robin's nest attached to a crossbeam above them. When she looked back her father was throwing a saddle over the back of a large bay. Possibly the most beautiful animal in the stable aside from her own sweet Victoria, Thunder was a sleek, living sculpture of well-defined muscle stretched beneath a smooth reddish-brown coat. The horse flicked its glossy black tail as the last strap was fastened. King Brahmwell mounted up in one quick, efficient motion that a man half his age would've envied. Isabelle felt water sting her eyes and a swift, sweet ache in the core of her heart as her father turned in the saddle and gazed at her without a trace of anger or resentment.
"May I accompany you on this morning's adventure?" he asked.
"Of course," she answered, speaking around the rock in her throat.
They took a meandering path down into the village, passing a group of palace guards who obediently raised the wrought-iron gate that would admit them into the village square. The guards raised their fingers in quick salutes as they passed, ice-bright morning sun streaming over dull, steel-gray armor as they moved, their red capes flapping and rustling in the wind like blood-coated wings. The sounds and smells of town life closed around them, horses trotting on cobblestone streets, merchants bellowing about the quality of their goods, using truth, half-truth, and baldfaced lies to entice buyers. Isabelle could hear the hammer of a blacksmith striking steel somewhere. Upon turning a corner, Victoria nearly trod over an old, gray-robed woman squatting down at the very edge of the street. An herbalist's three-leaf charm was knotted around the crone's throat with brown thread and rows of potted plants were arranged around her like soldiers. Isabelle smelled sage, lemonbalm, and basil. Quite a combination, she thought wryly, shaking her head to clear the fog of cloying scent. I should've brought some money. The cook could probably use some of those plants. Maybe I'd even give them to him myself, if I could stand to be in the kitchen that long.
The princess jumped in the saddle as a heavy gong clanged, the sound carrying from several streets away. It rang seven more times, sharp, clear peals that drowned out the squabble of street noise around them.
"The monks certainly do like their bells," her father remarked, cupping a hand to his right ear and grimacing. No one had singled out his presence yet, as his face was well-hidden underneath his cloak. And even if some sharp-eyed person recognized him Isabelle doubted anyone would be fool enough to attack the king while surrounded by his subjects in broad daylight. All of Cloister loved him.
"Indeed they do," she nodded. The abbey bells tolled every hour to mark the time, and occasionally for no reason at all other than to remind people to think holy thoughts. Not many bothered to pay attention before giants started falling out of the sky, then the brotherhood became all the rage as peasants flocked to be anointed and children were sent off in droves to receive a religious education. Through a haze of dust, Isabelle could just barely see the roof of the abbey's steeple rising above the bakery and sweetshop like a red-rimmed tooth, the thick coat of clay steaming under the sun's touch.
"I hope they're keeping their holy relics under closer supervision these days,' she muttered, then had to pull up sharp on the reins as a pair of fat chickens fluttered across her path, their flaming rooster tails held high, flapping wings strewing drifts of white feathers in their wake. Up ahead, a farmer in a faded straw hat cursed furiously at the skinny, dark-haired boy who'd apparently bumped his cart, tipping it just enough to give his clucking merchandise a chance to escape.
Thunder's mane rippled like fresh oil as her father brought him to a halt beside her. "I don't blame the monks for what happened. I blame men like Roderick who think they can control forces best left alone." King Brahmwell sighed. A crease appeared between his eyebrows as his jaw clenched. "I still can't believe he betrayed us. And he would've let the Gantuans eat you..?"
"It's over, Father. He's dead."They rode together side by side, neither one speaking for several minutes. It made Isabelle's stomach hurt to see how deeply Roderick's selfishness had wounded her father. He'd taken everything else - the beanstalk, the Gantuans, even the invasion in stride, but the revelation that the friend he'd confided to and been counseled by for years would've let them all die just so he could sit on the throne and play at being king had cut him, and cut him deep.
Up ahead, a crowd of people gathered round a squat little building draped in orange and gold banners. Isabelle knew it immediately.
"Father, here's the theater where I met Jack!"
"Ah." Her father's mood brightened considerably at the mention of her fiance. They steered their horses closer to the theater. Sounds of laughter and applause drifted out from behind the fluttering banners that served as a door. The place was decorated for a special performance. Freshly harvested pumpkins had been arranged in haphazard little patches around the entrance, and scents of spiced candy, roasted meat, and fermentation clung to the thin wooden walls. A performer dressed in only a loincloth made of woven sticks and a beret of deer's antlers spiraling in skeletal corkscrews from the top of his head emerged, shoving aside the autumnal banners with a knobby fist. He staggered toward them, muttering to himself and reeking of apple mead, when he glanced at Isabelle, did a double take, and dropped to his knees with all the grace of an arthritic cow.
"Your Highness!" he slurred. "You grace my humble theater with your presence again!"
"Oh, get up, Merek!" she snapped, waving a hand at him. "Don't draw attention to us!"
"Yes, Your Highness!" His bony knees creaked audibly in his haste to rise from his miserably-executed prostration. He lifted up a slim-fingered hand, intending to tug at his untamed mop of wild brown hair, only to jab his forefinger on the sharp end of an antler. She could see him bite back a curse, and the corner of her moth twitched from trying to hide her smile. If only Father knew how many improper words I've learned from this man. "You are most welcome to come in and watch the show! It will begin again in one hour!'
"We're just passing by, Merek, but thank you." Isabelle stifled a groan. Merek, you should know by now that you don't have to treat me as anything other than your friend.
"We?" The player peered at her father, whose face was partially hidden beneath the hood of his cloak. Then Merek's bloodshot eyes widened, his flabby cheeks blanched, and he moved as if to bow again until Isabelle frowned while making a slashing gesture with her free hand. Taking the hint, the player simply nodded politely and let his storklike legs carry him off, presumably in the direction of the nearest tavern, the bracken loincloth creaking and popping as he walked.
"They know you well here, I take it?" Her father kept his vice level, but there was a quizzical tilt to his head and both eyebrows were raised as high as his forehead permitted. She sighed. Her legs were beginning to ache in the stirrups and the cold wind beating against her clothes wasn't helping. We should go back, she thought, feeling goosebumps creep over her skin like frozen bees, stinging as they went so that she had to unhook her fingers from the reins and rub warmth back into her wrists. From the corner of her eye she saw that the dark-haired boy who'd bumped the farmer's cart earlier was now standing by a fruit seller's tent watching them, his scrawny arms folded across his chest as he shivered. At least I'm not the only one who's uncomfortable. "I come here often. Whenever I can, anyway."
"Isabelle...' His voice trailed off, and she braced herself for another lecture on the many dangers of the world and why she should stay safe in the palace and avoid eccentrics like Merek and...
"Your mother would be proud of you."
Her whole body jerked, as if an invisible finger had just plucked every sensitive nerve ending in her abdomen and left them vibrating. She looked over at his old, wrinkled, beloved face, saw the sincerity in his eyes, and turned quickly away. It was only the second time this morning she'd felt like crying.
"Do you think so?" she asked. They were riding casually, letting the horses do most of the navigation themselves. Some of the merchant crowd had dispersed with the day's produce sold, the lucky ones going home with a few coppers in their pockets, but there was still plenty of foot traffic in the narrow streets. She inhaled deeply of the mixture of foul and sweet aromas that made up life in Cloister, and listened to her father.
"You faced creatures out of legend and survived. You haven't let your status as a princess stop you from having adventures, despite my best efforts," he said, a wry smile crinkling his face. "And I know once you become Queen, you'll make the world a better place."
"Oh yes, she would be so very proud of you."
Isabelle could feel her face getting hot. Her father reached over and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"As am I," he said
It was difficult speaking around the lump in her throat. "Father, I-"
Whatever she'd been about to say was cut off by a high, shrill scream. Isabelle whipped her head around, scanning the crowds around them. Every peasant in the street stood frozen, whatever games they'd been playing or goods they'd been trading or arguments they'd been having forgotten. All wore expressions of slack-jawed amazement mixed with fear. Following their eyes, Isabelle realized they were staring in the direction of the abbey. And then she saw why.
A huge creature resembling a green, serpentine gargoyle perched on the abbey roof. Its clawed forelegs dug into the soft clay, cracking it like dry bread. Sunlight reflected off curved teeth poking out of the sides of its crooked mouth, gleaming stark-white against lizard scales, and even with several streets between her and the monster Isabelle could hear the wet, snuffling sounds of its breathing.
Sniffing.
Her mouth turned as dry as preserved bones in a tomb. Victoria snorted, flanks heaving as she backed up a step, then two.
"Father," she said softly. "I think we should..."
"Run!" Metallic scrape of steel being drawn, and from beneath his cloak her father produced a sword she hadn't even known he'd been carrying. "Get back to the palace! RUN!"
No sooner had he given the order than the creature leapt from the abbey roof onto the street below. It landed on all fours, cracking the stones beneath it. Sound of panic-filled screaming as it made a lunge like a snapping terrier and caught a young woman around the waist, locking her body like a landed trout in its jaws. Blood sprayed from the sides of its mouth as the beast bit down, the woman's thrashing legs beat the air, and dark splotches oozed like thick syrup over the hem of her lavender dress.
Huge shadows flowed like cold seawater over the cobblestones as monsters filled the sky overhead. Isabelle's own shouts of warning were swallowed up by a stream of frightened, screaming people. Victoria bucked, straining to move within the crush of people shoving them forward, and something tugged violently at Isabelle's right leg, nearly yanking her out of the saddle until Victoria lashed out with both front hooves. There was a crunch, a yelp of pain, and Isabelle had just enough time to catch a glimpse of her would-be horse thief - a slim, wiry young man in a brown tunic, now bleeding, dazed, and crumpled on his back like an injured spider - before he disappeared beneath a living carpet of trampling feet.
"Father!" Isabelle jerked the reins hard. The horse's flanks shivered as it swung itself around, squared its shoulders, and fought step by step to move against the tide of people. Dragons were landing all around the square like hideous sparrows, devouring anyone within range of their jaws, while still more dove out of the sky to snatch up a wriggling peasant or two, then arrowed back up into the shelter of the clouds.
Where is Father? Her eyes darted through the blur of faces, trying to catch sight of a familiar cloak. She could see the theater, or the parts of it that still remained standing. Half of it was now a pile of wood chips and collapsed support beams, its red and orange banners lay strewn across the demolished foundation like spilled fruit. A dragon crouched near the ruin with the head and legs of a man dangling from the sides of its mouth, and as Isabelle drew closer she nearly vomited when she saw the ring of branches clasped around his waist as well as a single antler stump twisted in his hair. Merek was mercifully quiet as the dragon gnawed on his body.
There was no time to feel grief, rage, or even sad acceptance. Because from somewhere in the crowd she heard fresh screams.
High-pitched, terrified children's screams.
Isabelle kicked Victoria's flanks. the horse leaped forward, her hooves striking sparks as they hit stone, forcing the trickle of panicked survivors left in the street to dive out of her way like quicksilver. There was no time to be gentle. How many made it to the city gates? she wondered, and then there was no time to think at all because she heard her father's voice raised in a defiant challenge, followed by the clear high note of a sword striking something hard.
"FATHER!" Her scream was swallowed up by an angry screech. More sword strikes, then the heartbreaking screams of a dying horse. Isabelle's hair fanned out in an auburn curtain as Victoria leapt over a shattered cart, zigzagged through a narrow, trash-strewn alley, burst out into a patch of struggling sunlight on the street facing the abbey. The buildings on either side of the temple had been pulverized into steaming lumps of granite. Streamers of white dust floated in braids and coils through the air as she focused all her attention on the bubbling sound of a child sobbing nearby. Spotted the peasant boy a second later huddled on the cold flagstones, his thin frame drawn up into a tight ball. Wrenching her legs free of the stirrups, she leapt off the saddle, nearly spraining her left ankle as she landed in a crouch next to the boy. Felt jarring recognition flash through her mind as she marked him as the dark-haired boy she'd spied watching her earlier.
Then she looked up, and felt everything in her turn to ice.
Before the wide steps leading up to the abbey doors Thunder lay quivering and squealing, both his front legs reduced to stumps sheared off to the knees, his beautiful tawny coat spattered with blood that trickled down in streams to form a pool around him. Her father lay sprawled on the steps beside him, one leg twisted at a horribly wrong angle, the gray length of his sword several feet away from his hand. She could see with startling clarity twin trails of blood dripping from a gash on his forehead, branching around the planes of his nose, and watched him lift a shaking hand to wipe it away.
Just as the dark shape of the dragon materialized out of a veil of cloudlike dust before him, its toothy predator mouth opening up wide.
"NO!" Time slowed down. She was up and running, but her body felt heavy and each step was too slow, too slow, and by the time she was seven feet away the monster's mouth was already clamping around her father's head, and the crunch of his skull being bitten off his shoulders was lost beneath her wild screaming. When she was five feet away, the beast was tossing its head back and the underside of its throat rippled as it swallowed, and as she closed the final three feet she realized her father's sword was now in her hands while her voice threw itself at the monster in an unearthly howl of rage and grief.
It uncoiled like a viper as it came for her, its jaws flung open wide, the canines dripping foamy, blood-tinged saliva. Fetid breath moistened her face with damp heat as it hissed, slimed the backs of her hands and the sword hilt as she drove the blade forward. Her arms slipped up to the elbows between its teeth, skimmed the wet red meat of its tongue, and her whole body shook from the force of the impact as the blade buried itself in soft, vulnerable tissue.
A stream of noxious fluid gushed out, purplish ichor that ran like berryjuice over the length of the sword, spattering hot droplets into her face. The creature whipped its head back while she doggedly hung on, her gore-soaked hands wrapped in a deathgrip around the hilt as her father's blade tore free of the meat, widening the hole at the back of the beast's throat. The force of its screech blew her hair back and she had bare seconds to scramble away before its body spasmed, wings flapping and legs writhing in convulsive little jerks. Isabelle was on her feet stumbling away when instinct told her to drop to the ground just as a barbed tail sliced the air over her head. The dragon's screams reached a painful crescendo, faded into a gentle, rasping hiss, and Isabelle felt the stones tremble as dead reptilian flesh thumped against them.
She was shaking, her blood thundering in her temples. Over her shoulder. she caught a glimpse of the dragon crumpled in on itself with that strange purple blood dribbling in little pools from its half-open mouth, wings limp as dried leather stretched over a rack. She felt filthy, a mixture of saliva and blood coated her arms all the way up to the elbows. Smoke and the ripe scent of spoiled meat clung to her, making her gag. Then her foot caught on something, she looked down to see her father's headless corpse, and the world pitched sideways as she fell to her hands and knees beside him, the meager breakfast she'd eaten coming up in one long, caustic stream.
Ringing in her ears. And voices, close by but sounding oh so very far.
"Isabelle!"
"Dear God, the king...!"
"Isabelle, are you all right?"
Jack! Felt his arms around her. Would have cried out, if only her mouth would work properly. Jack! Jack!
"Take the boy! Get them to the palace NOW!"
Isabelle was lifted up, her body so much deadweight in Jack's arms, and she slipped with a grateful sigh into gentle, forgiving darkness.
Author's Notes: I wrangled with this chapter for almost three weeks before I called it done and I'm still not sure I got it right. Isabelle may seem a bit OOC near the end but bear in mind what she just witnessed. Seeing her father die like that just might be enough to push her over the edge long enough to do something completely irrational (and badass!). I promise she's not going to turn into some monster-slaying Terminator (especially not once she's brought face to faces with a certain giant), but I want to give her chances to actually do cool stuff instead of always being the damsel in distress. And I do feel really bad about killing off Brahmwell. He was a better fictional king than most of the real kings throughout human history, but for the sake of the plot he had to go. Le roi est mort! Vive le roi!