School by Nathaniel Hardman (top reads .TXT) 📕

They came from a local man who had somehow managed to climb onto a news helicopter when it landed to refuel. He claimed loudly, after his arrest, that the aliens were inviting a dragon apocalypse and pled for the army, the President, anyone, to stop the dance before it was too late. The nation collectively crossed its fingers and made a wish the man was wrong.

By morning on the second day, Tuynomosh knew, even through his near delirium, that he wouldn’t make it. He was staggering now as he danced, swaying, barely staying on the chalk line. His mouth kept forming words, but they felt wrong in his mouth; he was probably gibbering.

He wobbled and caught himself. His rhythm broke. He stretched his arms up over his head and pressed on in the dance, savoring the new position, his engorged fingers and hands flexing around the wand, welcoming the circulation.

He took a clear bearing on the line, then shot a look to his men, searching. He wasn’t sure who would be on this shift, and it took him several glances before he found Shegush. His lieutenant stiffened, growing more alert, his eyes querying. Tuynomosh brought a cupped hand up to his mouth, even as he continued the chant. Shegush gave an order, and someone ran.

The king was falling back into his trance when he felt something wet touch his hand. He willed himself alert, reoriented himself on the line, then pulled the sodden loaf from the spear his man was holding out to him from the edge of the circle.

He pulled off a piece of soggy crust and stuffed it in his cheek, chanting around it. He took his time, letting it dissolve and trickle down his throat. Good Shegush, he thought, to give him the ziso with bread. He could almost feel his body digesting it, metabolizing it. He took another bite, and another.

As Tuynomosh ate, his head cleared. For the first time, he became aware of the power building in his spell, and then his footsteps did falter. This was power such as he had never felt – a great well of magic swelling beneath his feet, electric, alive.

He studied the chalk and saw he was barely over half-way done. He put another chaw of bread in his cheek, shook his head grimly, and kept on moving.

On the afternoon of the second day, three separate attempts were made to stop the dance.

A sniper on a roof more than a mile from the castle managed an award-worthy shot that would certainly have killed the king had it not been for his beads. As it was, the bullet ricocheted off an invisible barrier a foot from his chest, and the king was knocked backward almost off his feet. A very ugly look came over his face, but he didn’t even look up as he refocused on the line and continued the dance.

A second shot went wide, and then rippling currents of air found the man, first paralyzing him, then dragging him forward to the edge of the roof where he teetered, screamed, and fell.

Only a few minutes later, a pair of men in a jeep managed to drive over a hedge and get around the military blockade surrounding the castle.

The jeep careened onto the parking lot and accelerated toward the castle, and the passenger stood, a rocket launcher braced on his shoulder. He took aim, squinting through the sight, and then the jeep burst into flames. His panicked shot went wide, and then he and the driver were swinging away, beating at the flames with hands and feet until they crashed into the army’s barricade.

The final attempt was from a soldier. The shell he fired from the tank actually did hit the wall of the castle near the roof, blasting a hole in the battlements and knocking several of the aliens off their feet.

It didn’t stop the king. He kept dancing, his teeth visible as he snarled out the chant, his eyes burning down on the image beneath his feet. The soldier was subdued and dragged from the tank before the aliens’ spells could even reach him. The President’s orders were still clear; they were to hold and wait.

As the sun went down on the second day, a thought began to worm its way through the king’s deadened stupor. “Earth to Uoshn,” he whispered through cracked lips. Not a thought, exactly, but an incongruity. Something was wrong. The light was coming from beneath him.

Tuynomosh looked around and staggered wildly as his head swam. “Every dragon,” he choked out through the wave of nausea that hit him. He re-centered on the line, then lifted his eyes minutely beyond his feet.

The king caught his breath; the pattern was shining like the moon.

He had worried, when he first noticed the bloody stains his feet were leaving, that it would interfere with the magic, but he could see now that the blood shone brightest of all. A good thing, he thought, looking down at his feet.

An hour later, Tuynomosh fell for the first time. He shook his head groggily, still whispering his chant on all fours, then shoved himself back up. He swerved wildly across the line and almost fell again, but put hands on knees and managed to stay up. He prayed out the chant and tried to clear his head.

He tried to straighten up again, but the world swam wildly. He looked up to the nearest guard, his eyes desperate. The guard looked back, helpless. Tuynomosh began to feel the power ebb. Then from behind, he heard Zchig’s distinct gravelly voice, “Lightning venom!” The spell hit his back with an explosion of pain.

Almost, the king abandoned the Great Magic to kill Zchig. But the magic of Zchig’s spell cleared his head as it spread, and he understood.

He gritted his