“It’s possible, I suppose,” Salem said. “But if Ignatius and Maria are of the bloodline of Anwyn, they would be so far down the line that it wouldn’t matter much.”
“But it would explain a lot, Salem, don’t you think?” Agnes said. “Such as how Maria can communicate with Sherlock, and how she is more powerful than we all originally thought.”
Salem brought a hand up to his chin, stroking his beard. “Yes, yes, I suppose that is true, but unless Anwyn’s blood cleared over the generations, then the odds—”
“The odds, Salem, are unimportant. If Maria possesses the blood of Anwyn, there is a chance that the rising of Odarth the Bright will not leave us as hopeless as we originally thought,” Agnes pressed.
“Hope,” Claire mumbled. “Yeah, hope is a good thing. I like hope.”
Tabby nodded in agreement.
“Yes, Agnes, you’re right,” Salem said.
The Gnome came up from behind them, startling them all. He was hardly taller than the table.
“Okay, your time with the book is up,” he said. His hand came up to adjust the hat that wasn’t on his head. When he realized what he was doing, mostly out of habit, he tried to play it off like he was brushing his thinning hair back from his brow.
“What?” Salem demanded. “We’ve hardly had it.”
The Gnome put his hands up in defense in a gesture that said, ‘I don’t make the rules, don’t shoot the messenger’. The other Gnomes watched from the circulation desk with sneers on their faces.
“I’m sorry, it was requested by someone else, and like I said earlier, it is an ancient text, one of our more valuable assets here.”
Salem rolled his eyes again, and Claire noticed how good he was getting at that. He closed the book with a loud slam!
“Fine. Take your book back, and know that your lack of hospitality is noted, and I will remember it. There may be a time when the Gnomes need the help of my travelers and I; know that we will gladly help you because we have kind souls, but we will take no pleasure in doing so.”
“So be it,” the Gnome said. He thrust his hands out for the book, and Salem snapped it up from the table, causing the Gnome to wince in fear; then Salem handed it to him gently.
“Come on, we have a dragon to slay,” Salem said calmly to the others.
The Gnome gave him a crooked look and mumbled, “Crazy old wizard,” under his breath.
Salem curled his hands into fists, cracking his knuckles. It took everything he had not to turn the Gnome into a toad or something equally heinous out of revenge; they were in the Light Elves’ castle, and such vengeful magic might be frowned upon. Plus, Salem liked to think that he was above that.
The Gnomes have been through enough lately, Salem smiled to himself, grateful that Sherlock had decided to lift his leg on them.
His party left down the invisible stairs, each one manifesting itself right before their eyes.
“It’s okay,” Agnes said, placing a hand on Salem’s shoulder. “I’m glad you showcased such control.”
“Took everything I had,” Salem admitted gruffly.
“Yeah, if that was me,” Claire said, “I would’ve kicked that Gnome in the nuts—wait, do Gnomes even have nuts?”
“Well, you could always go back and ask them,” Tabby added. “Or, you know, ask for a book on the anatomy of Gnomes.”
“Very funny,” Claire said. “You know what? Just forget I said anything about Gnome nuts.” She laughed. “ ‘Gnome nuts,’ that’s funny.”
“Hilarious,” Salem said. “I’m glad you can all keep it so lighthearted whilst a Rogue Dragon gets closer and closer to resurrection. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m only speaking the truth.We must be on our way.”
“He’s right, girls,” Agnes agreed.
Claire leaned over and whispered, “Geez, they’re starting to sound just like my parents.”
Tabby chuckled, and they continued down the stairs until it was time to be magicked down to the ground.
Once they reached the same wonderful and wild field Ignatius, Maria, and Sherlock had stood in not long before their own trip to Ashbourne, Salem opened a portal, and the group stepped through to the lakeside town and the ensuing chaos beyond.
Chapter Eight
“I want all the prisoners right here. Close enough to have their eyebrows and beards singed by the flames!” Hunter shouted to the Dragon Tongue. The cloaked men moved back and forth, carrying large barrels of anything that was flammable.
On the shore of the lake, where Hunter stood directing traffic with his blade, were five fishing boats. The Dragon Tongue sweated as they hoisted the barrels into their cargo holds.
“Captain!” someone shouted nearby. A few of the men had stopped what they were doing. Hex ran up the small boardwalk, kicking loose stones in all directions as he rushed to meet Hunter. When he reached the Dragon Leader, he bent over and tried catching his breath without much luck. All that fire inside of him was proving detrimental to his lungs.
“What is it?” Hunter demanded. “Speak while you still have a tongue!”
“It’s…the p-prison,” Hex managed.
Hunter’s eyes shot open. They burned brighter than they had ever burned before, and Hex knew it was because Odarth’s resurrection was nigh.
But he was beginning to wonder if that was such a good thing.
The Dragon rises, and then what? He wasn’t sure.
“What of the prison?” Hunter demanded, spitting the words out of his mouth like they were poison.
“They…they’re dead.”
“Who? The prisoners?”
“No, the guards. All of them are dead or hurt. They say it was a young woman with a sword who did it. She came through and beat them with her magic.”
Hunter’s hand shot out and gripped Hex’s throat tightly.
A coughing fit overtook him as he tried to breathe. How unfortunate; he’d gotten his wind back, only to have it taken away by the cold fingers of the Dragon Leader.
Straining for his voice, Hex tried to choke something out, but it came as a gurgle.
“What was that?”
“S-Something e-e-lseeee,” Hex said.
“Speak it!”
