Page 124 of Triumph at Pemberley

Quickthorn’s voice boomed out. “Surrender yourself. We have blocked you from transforming, and you cannot escape us.” At least the dragons were still free of Napoleon’s influence.

“Why would I want to?” Napoleon asked calmly. “I would far rather converse with you. We have a great deal in common, you and I.” He sounded as unconcerned as if he was in his throne room with all his soldiers behind him.

“We know the truth of you, and we will not serve you.” Quickthorn threw her weight forward, as if she could barely restrain herself from attacking.

Napoleon spread his hands. “I do not want you to serve me. Quite the opposite. My quest is to free all dragons from the yoke of oppression, to create a world where dragons need not hide from either the High King or greedy mortals, where we are revered for our skills and gifts.”

Quickthorn’s voice dripped with scorn. “That would, no doubt, explain why you forced dragons from the Isle of Skye into fighting for you, even though it meant permanent enslavement for them.”

“One of your English mages tricked me into it. That mage, in fact.” His face twisted in fury as he pointed to Lady Anne. “I would have been the savior of dragons, but she bound me to obey the Wicked King. He demanded a tithe in dragons.”

“You, the savior of dragons?” sneered Quickthorn.

“Yes.” He dropped into a storyteller’s tone. “More than a century ago, my own small Nest on Corsica was discovered by humans searching for treasure. They slew our dragons, our philosophers who would not fight back. I was the only one to escape. To survive, I was forced to take the form of a human infant. A peasant family took me in, ignorant enough to pass off my oddities. Pretending to grow up among them let me improve my disguise, but eventually I was forced to kill to protect myself. That was when I learned my great secret, which I will share with you today.”

Cerridwen snarled, “We all know what happens to dragons who kill.” Her hackles were raised.

“Ah, but did you know you can do so with impunity if you are not in dragon form? I have killed in battle as a human and a falcon, occasionally as a wolf, but never as a dragon. And I remained as free as you are. That knowledge allowed me to set off on my quest to make this world safe for dragons.” His voice was almost sing-song in its cadence.

The prickles of a strange sending licked at Darcy’s skin as Napoleon stopped speaking. Quickthorn, Coquelicot, and Cerridwen all settled back on their haunches, seeming oddly relaxed, as if fascinated by whatever message he was giving them. Even cranky Quickthorn looked happy.

Horror churned Darcy’s stomach as the truth dawned on him. They were spellbound. No longer fighting.

Nor were any of the mortals. They were all in Napoleon’s thrall.

This was a disaster. Instead of killing Napoleon, they had turned over the Nest to him. Coquelicot, instead of healing, would be condemned to be a battle dragon for Napoleon and the Wicked King, forced to kill instead of to heal.

Napoleon’s gaze was flickering back and forth between each of the dragons and the humans. Did he have to keep eye contact to control them? Was this a weakness he could exploit somehow?

Darcy had to do something to break Napoleon's entrancing stare. Attacking him was no use, even when invisible. The emperor would strike him down with his magic, if not his weapons. Could he try to block Napoleon’s line of sight to break the enthrallment? Or move him?

A desperate idea burst into his mind. He reached into the earth, into the hollow of the dragon nursery - and he tore it open, right under Napoleon's feet.

The ground crumbled, first slowly and then faster, making a hole dozens of feet across. The emperor staggered, but he managed to step back from the edge. Darcy tried to enlarge it under him, but the ground was too solid there.

He had failed.

A whirlwind appeared behind Napoleon, growing rapidly until it was nearly as tall as the trees. And it struck the emperor, knocking him forward into the hole, his arms flailing with nothing to catch hold of.

Frederica’s weather magic! How had she managed to remain free of Napoleon’s control?

The ground was still rumbling as stones continued to fall. Darcy sent out his last dregs of Talent to solidify the edges of the cavern before the entire hillside collapsed. In the sudden silence, one of the ancient Dragon Stones slowly tipped and fell to the side.

He had nothing left. His knees wobbled beneath him from the overexertion of his Talent, and his hands flickered back into sight as his illusion of invisibility failed. He searched for more strength in the earth, finding broken roots and creatures fleeing the disruption he had caused, but he could draw no power from it.

Yet, even as he struggled, the dragons began to stir, auras of fear and fury crashing through the clearing. It had worked! Napoleon's enthrallment had been severed when he fell and lost eye contact.

But where was Elizabeth? He still could not see her. She would never leave when Cerridwen was at risk. How badly had she been hurt?

Then a shape emerged from the hole, a dirt-encrusted figure of a man, impossibly supported by nothing but air. Terror seized Darcy's chest, but somehow he shouted, “There! He has escaped!”

A dragon roared, and a massive dark form passed just over Darcy's head. He ducked involuntarily, nearly losing his balance.

Sycamore, his black scales shimmering with amethyst in the sun. With a growl, the huge dragon sprang on top of Napoleon, capturing the emperor in his enormous talons and bearing him back into the cavernous hole in the ground.

Suddenly Granny was beside him. “Close it over!” she cried, her voice cracking. “Seal them in! Now!”

“But Sycamore is in there,” he protested. Her own dragon. She could not possibly want that.