The Last Dragon Lord

VIII-4

Dark stood behind his parents as they addressed a seaside village. A crowd of elves and humans gathered in a meadow to pay tribute to them.

“It is our hope that we can come to an amicable arrangement,” Smirnagond said.

She stalked through the crowd as she spoke. She towered over their heads. As she passed, elves and humans ducked away from her.

What a relief to see elves living in huts with thatched roofs instead concrete fortresses. What a relief to see them subservient, afraid, respectful!

“Our problem is not with you,” Smirnagond said. She was unsmiling, unafraid, even as hundreds surrounded her. “Be industrious, pay us dragons our tribute when we ask for it, and you will find that we Darks can be your allies. More than Karagarn. But whether we are allies or enemies depends entirely upon you.”

Alsatius stepped forward. “And trust me, you don’t want my wife as your enemy. My son is just as wicked—isn’t that right, my boy?”

On cue, Dark poured a wooden bucket of blood across the grass. The rest of the royal entourage followed suit until the grass was stained with it. The crowd groaned and covered their noses. Some vomited. Others cried.

“This is what happens when you disobey,” Alsatius said. “You become an example.”

“We dragons, elves and humans have one thing in common,” Smirnagond said. “Respect for our elders. You are all future elders. What a terrific observation and prophecy I am giving you today! What do you want your progeny to say about you?”

Even though it was a rhetorical question, she paused for a long while, sneered at a woman holding two babies and said “Far better that you live to find out.”

She spread her wings and the crowd of people dropped to their knees and began to pray.

“Well done,” Alsatius whispered. “They fell right into line. They thought it was real blood.”

It wasn’t.

It was cow blood, gathered from the last two weeks’ worth of tributes. But that was his and his father’s little secret.

“It’s not about violence,” Alsatius said. “Any brute can crack bones and drink blood. And maybe it will work for a time. This is about fear. That’s the invisible ingredient that holds this all together. Violence is just the dressing, my boy. Bloody no doubt, but a dressing, indeed.”