Page 1 of Henry & the Dragon
Chapter 1
“Henry Cabot! Come here this instant!”
Henry flinched at Master Neron’s strident tone, which indicated that he was not a happy man. Then again, when was he? Henry put down the pieces of wheedle brush he’d been ordered to strip from the thorny bark, much to the regret of his bruised and bloodied hands. He wiped his palms on the filthy smock, smearing them with the precious fluids, then rushed to the front of the shop to see what Master Neron would berate him for this time.
“Yes, Master?” he asked, bowing his head.
Neron slammed a bundle of fire lilies on the counter, their flame red blossoms ripped from their delicate stems now scattered across the floor glowing for several moments in the dim lighting before darkening. “The Lady Jasper claims that these did not work in her stew.”
Henry wanted to remind Master Neron that it washewho sold the flowers to the Lady, telling her they would give her meal a peppery taste. He had to bite back the words he longed to speak during their transaction, to remind them that fire lilies were toxic and ought not be used in any type of cookery, but he kept his mouth shut, knowing anything he said would only draw his master’s ire.
“She is quite vexed.”
He bit back a snort. She would have been even more so if she’d eaten enough of the lilies and developed the cramps that would have had her on the chamberpot, wishing she could have died. He’d seen animals who’d eaten the noxious plantscrubbing their back ends across the ground, trying hard to get rid of the flames that seemed to eat them up from the inside.
Henry truly did like his job. Although it wasn’t the one he agreed to, he had learned much from watching Master Neron. Especially what not to do. Unfortunately, he also realized that Master Neron ought not be teaching. He was an ill tempered man, with little actual knowledge of the healing arts. Henry could brew potions and salves that would drain illness from the body, but Master Neron said that what he was making was akin to poison, and destroyed the things he’d crafted.
Mostly.
Henry had managed to continue his work in secret, and had begun to make stronger potions that he’d secreted out of the shop and given to the ill after extracting their solemn vow that they not reveal where the elixir originated. To a person, everyone had recovered not only their strength, but also their vitality. Master Neron claimed that it was due to his skills and no one ever contradicted him.
But the people knew who had truly helped them, and that made all the difference for Henry. They greeted him when Master Neron sent him to the town square to fetch things from the markets. Families wanted to introduce him to their daughters. Many townsfolk would hug him. True, it wasn’t everyone, but most would at least acknowledge him when he passed. They seldom did that for Neron, who seemed a cross between prickly plant and a wet cat. Henry knew if Neron was aware of the fondness people showed to Henry, it would most assuredly agitate the man, and thereby make him more apt to punish Henry for minor infractions.
“I need you to go to the forest and bring me back a basket of ghost moss.”
Henry froze. The forest? “Master?” he asked, his voice quavering.
Neron’s beady ochre-colored eyes narrowed. “Dare not speak against my wishes, Henry Cabot. You are already without my graces, so you ought not compound that further.”
The forest was a dark and foreboding spot, a blight on the earth, where only the most foolhardy of people entered. It was said the place was filled with animals large enough to devour men whole, as well as demons and spirits that would drag his soul to the other world where it would be feasted on for all eternity. Foolish young men from the village had gone in there after a night of mead and taunting dares, only returning to tell chilling tales of enormous bog beasts that gave chase, snapping at their heels. Only their skill—though Henry likened it more to luck—had saved their lives. He shuddered at the stories for he was not one with whom fortune found favor. If he were, he never would have had to to go with Neron when he was but a lad of five years. He held no ill will toward his family for it had been his choice. It was the only bargain Neron would agree to in order to provide medicine each full moon that would save Henry’s older sister’s life. He would have gladly suffered far worse to save Meredith, one of the few lights of Henry’s world.
In the two and twenty years he had been bonded to Neron, Henry had learned many things, but most were self taught. Neron didn’t want an assistant, he wanted a servant. It was Henry who cooked the meals, did the cleaning, tended the animals, and was he who oversaw the needs for the alchemy shop.
But the forest? There were other places he could get the moss. Safer locations. If Neron was adamant, though, Henry had little choice.
“No, of course not, Master,” Henry said, hoping to still the pitch of his voice. “I would never speak out of turn. If you have need for me to enter the forest, I will do so without hesitation.”
When Neron pointed to the basket he wanted Henry to use, Henry’s throat went dry. It was by far the largest one in the shop. With ghost moss being so rare, it would take Henry the better part of the day, and possibly late into the eve to complete his task. His chest tightening and his stomach clenching, Henry retrieved the wicker herb basket Neron wanted filled, as well as his own satchel, before he made his way out of the shop.
He hurried through the town, nodding at the people who gave him greetings. This would end poorly, he knew. If he died….
No, he would not let that thought consume his mind. He could not. He had a task to complete, and he would see it done to the best of his ability. He straightened his shoulders and purposefully marched to the edge of the town, nine furlongs from where the dark forest lay. He would not be afraid. This was but another task, and Henry would see it done.
As soon as he stepped beyond the borders of safety, however, Henry’s bravery wavered and he wanted to turn and flee back to his home. This punishment from Neron seemed far too stringent for the perceived crime. And Henry hadn’t been the one to give the fire lilies to Lady Jasper. That had been Neron’s choice. Henry would have given her verro root, which would have added a hint of spicy sweetness to her dish, without poisoning her. Perhaps she made a comment about Neron’s ineptitude, and that angered him.
Henry turned his eyes skyward. It wasn’t an unpleasant day. The air was warm, though the clouds that hovered in the distance likely portended rain before the eve. A shudder rippled through Henry. He did not want to be caught in a downpour on his way home, because he feared the ghost moss might be too delicate to survive the trip. He’d not worked with it personally, but he’d seen it in the shop when Master Neron purchased it from a traveling vendor. It seemed far too lacy and delicate, and he worried it could dissolve if it got too wet. Maybe thatwas another part of Neron’s punishment. Set Henry on a task he could not complete, and thereby allow Neron to continue to discipline him.
Or it could be that Neron was trying to force Henry to run away. The king frowned on the indentured fleeing their masters, and he would likely find a way to hurt Henry’s family. A deep sigh rolled out of Henry. He couldn’t flee and he couldn’t argue, so what was he to do?
Maybe, if he were lucky, he’d be eaten by the beasts that inhabited the woods. That would solve all problems, except for the not seeing Neron’s face when Henry succeeded in getting the basket of ghost moss! Not that Henry could be certain he would succeed.
The trek seemed longer than it actually was. He’d had to stop several times to partake of the water in the stream to slake his thirst. The day wasn’t even warm yet, but Henry was sweating. Finally, in the distance he could make out the copse of trees as their silhouettes came into view. The place was ominous and foreboding, and a chill ran through Henry at the thought he was expected to enter the cursed place.
He stopped at the edge of the dark forest. It had taken him too long to arrive, and he feared he would be here long after dark, when everyone knew the most voracious of the beasts came out. He steeled his nerve, because to quail at the moment would certainly spell his doom.
He took a breath to gird his loins. The moment—the very instant—Henry stepped into the woods, every sound ceased, and Henry found himself plunged into an all consuming darkness. He no longer heard the babbling of the brook, or birdsong, nor the wind as it tickled the grass. Now it was an oppressive silence that allowed Henry to hear the blood that pounded in his ears. Worst was how black it had become. He could scarcely see his hand before his face.
For several long moments, Henry feared he had been rooted to the spot. His heart thundered and his feet refused to move. He wondered if he was to become part of the forest. Perhaps that was where all the trees came from. Foolhardy people who were turned to plants as they entered. He’d heard of houses made of wood from the gnarled trees that creaked and wailed. One person described it as the sound of lost souls, and their keening threatened to drive the man mad. Was that what was to become of Henry?
