It was a lot of guesswork, but no one could offer a better suggestion. The group stepped forward toward the opening together. A high-pitched keening broke the silence.
"It's a baby dragon," Connor said, his eyes lighting up. "At least one of them is alive." He pushed past Jarrett and crawled into the opening.
Jarrett dropped to his knees and followed behind Connor, propelling himself with his forearms. He couldn't see farther than Connor's shoes as they descended down the dirty tunnel. Finally the ground leveled out again and they crawled forward.
They emerged into a cavern filled with light from a series of glowing braziers. Cracked eggs lay scattered all over the floor, their shells in a multitude of pieces. In the far corner of the room, the dragons played with each other, rolling and tumbling across the rocky floor.
Connor did a quick count. "They're alive! We only lost the one!" He smiled and clapped Bastian's back just as Elinor emerged from the tunnel behind him.
Jarrett watched the little dragons. He'd never seen one so young before. They were cute. Like puppies. All tongues and feet and playing in an awkward jumble. He drew his sword and walked toward them.
"What are you doing?" Bastian called from behind him.
He paid Bastian no heed and continued to make his way to the passel.
"Jarrett!" Connor called out.
Jarrett heard feet scrabbling from behind. He heard his friends’ calls. Yet he continued, picking up his pace, his sword thirsty for dragon blood.
Chapter Seventeen
Jarrett raised his sword above his head and struck down, the blade slicing through the first dragon. The head rolled off, the tongue hanging out the side. He heard the screams of rage, but he did not falter. He swung his sword again and again. Blood splattered in the air, in concert the whistle of his sword.
Flesh clung to his blade, mingling with that of another kill. Someone grabbed his arm, but he fought it off, his mind set only on one thing: slaughtering the baby dragons. His mind clouded over. His vision had only one target. The hatchlings screamed and squirmed within his reach. One coughed as if it were trying to summon dragonfire. Jarrett knew it was too young. He had no fear of reprisal. Not from the dragons. Not from the humans trying so desperately to stop him.
He raised his sword one last time, the smallest dragon cowering in the corner. It didn't even bother to fight. He took a deep breath, preparing to take the final life and complete his mission. His sword swung down, but struck something else. He blinked and saw what was in front of him.
A woman. Blond. Covered in blood. His sword sticking out of her chest. Her arm outstretched. Her mouth lips forming a plea.
Jarrett shook his head. "Gods! Elinor!"
Bastian ran to her side, taking her in his arms.
"Don't move the sword," Elinor gasped through bubbles of blood. Her arms hung limp at her sides.
Jarrett didn't have a chance to apologize. A fist met his face. Again and again and again until he couldn't open his eyelids. He lay on the ground, taking the beating, not fighting back.
Eventually the fists went away, leaving him in a bloody pulp on the floor. He listened to Bastian and Connor's choked sobs. He could hear their voices in his head.
Their grief surrounded every inch of his mind, squeezing, choking.
Then it all winked out and Jarrett found himself back in the room with the Keeper.
"You have done well, my son. You have proven your worth to me. Soon you will be the next Keeper. You will fight to keep the dragons from our treasured island. You are the greatest champion, having slain more dragons than any of us combined. Stories will be sung about you."
Stories, Jarrett thought bitterly. Yes. Everyone would hate him throughout the Dragonlands and anywhere else in the world the stories might be carried. Bards would demonize him. Children would cower in their beds, fearing he would visit them in the dark of the night. He would become the beast the world would come together to fear.
He would be their common enemy.
Jarrett rolled over and threw up, leaving a mottled mess on the pillows.
"Stump will clean that up. Unless you'd prefer to eat it." The Keeper laughed and laughed, slapping his knee. "I am disappointed you didn't bring me back any dragon flesh. Oh well. I will have to send Stump to get the body of the man he killed. We shall feast on human flesh tonight, my son!"
Jarrett's memories, which had been so fuzzy and confused only moments ago, thrust back into clarity. Tressa. Oh gods, Tressa. What would she think of him now? He wept into the pillow, his hands balled and his nails driving into his palms. He wanted to die. He deserved to die for what he'd just done.
"Why?" he asked the Keeper, his voice hoarse.
"Why do we kill dragons?" the Keeper asked.