Dragontiarna: Thieves

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “Let’s go,” said Ridmark.

  They turned away from the thainkul and back into the dwarven corridors. Ridmark kept his attention on their surroundings, but he brooded on their next move. Once they found the source of magical power beneath Cintarra, they could cut short whatever the Drakocenti planned to do.

  Of course, the flaw in any plan of battle was that the enemy could overturn it. Accolon was putting pressure on the Drakocenti, and sooner or later, they were bound to do something more dangerous than hiring the Red Family.

  Ridmark thought of Hadrian Vindon, of the corpse withered by a weapon of dark magic.

  Perhaps whoever had wielded that weapon would turn his attention to Accolon next.

  ###

  As darkness fell over Cintarra, Master Cyprian of the Scepter Bank sat in his study and brooded.

  He was very nearly out of time.

  The wretched Prince Accolon had spent the entire day reversing enclosures and returning the claimed lands to the commoners and freeholders who had once farmed them. Cyprian himself did not particularly care, but the enclosures had done a fine job of pushing Cintarra towards revolt, and Accolon was undoing the damage. Granted, it would likely take a few years for Cintarra and the surrounding villages to return to their previous prosperity, but Cintarra would be stable and orderly, and the Theophract had ordered Cyprian to create chaos.

  But the growing doubts among his supporters were a far more immediate threat.

  There were only a few dozen Drakocenti in Cintarra. Even the greediest and most ambitious merchant or noble might hesitate to renounce the church and turn his back on the Dominus Christus. Rich men always thought they could repent on their deathbeds or earn favor with God by bequeathing a large donation to the church. But while the Drakocenti had only a few dozen members, Cyprian had many more allies who did not know the truth, who supported him out of greed and hope of advancement.

  Accolon Pendragon was undermining all of that. By refusing to penalize nobles who accepted his decrees, he was drawing grudging support for his actions among the nobility. Even the greediest noble was smart enough to see that half a cake was better than none, and if Cintarra had continued on its previous course, the city would have gone up in flames. Cyprian’s supporters among the nobles and merchants were wavering…and the loss of nerve was spreading to the Drakocenti themselves.

  It would just take one. One member of the cult losing their nerve, going to Accolon, and telling him everything. Then Accolon would have all the excuse and justification he needed to move against the Scepter Bank. Cyprian would lose everything…and worst of all, he would lose the chance to become a dragon god by opening the Great Eye.

  He was so close! His men were going through mercenaries at an appalling rate, but they had almost mapped out the route to the chamber of the Great Eye in the Shadow Ways. Just a few more days, a week at most, and Cyprian would have access to the Great Eye.

  But he feared he did not have that week.

  Damn Caldorman for failing to kill Accolon. Damn the Red Family for their failure as well. After the public failure to kill Accolon, they had yet not made another attempt. And damn Accolon Pendragon himself! Cyprian had thought the Crown Prince weak and stupid, the sort of man to flagellate himself over the loss of a woman. Perhaps that had been true, but that idiot Caldorman had somehow let the truth slip, and Cyprian had to admit that Accolon had proven a dangerous foe.

  Maybe even more dangerous than his father. The High King permitted his nobles a great deal of independence so long as they heeded his will, which had allowed the Drakocenti to operate in Cintarra with ease. Accolon, it seemed, was becoming a harder man.

  Cyprian sat alone in the dark, drinking, and then a shadow fell over his desk.

  He looked up with a scowl and saw Aeliana standing by the window, clad in her usual clothes and cloak, that odd sword at her belt.

  “Herald of Ruin,” said Cyprian, lifting his cup to her. “Shall we get drunk together?”

  He saw her scowl in the dim moonlight. “This is no time to lose your wits to drink, High One of the Drakocenti.”

  “Well, why not?” said Cyprian. “It seems our plans are on the verge of ruin. Accolon is putting too much pressure on the nobles. The lords among the Drakocenti stand to lose a great deal of money.”

  She took a step closer. “The lords among the Drakocenti have a chance to become dragon gods, and they quibble about mere gold and lands?”

  “Not everyone is as far-sighted as us,” said Cyprian. “Did you kill Hadrian Vindon?”

  “Yes,” said Aeliana without hesitation.

  Cyprian scowled. “Why? Did he betray us?”

  “No, but I suspect he was going to,” said Aeliana. “He was not terribly far-sighted, to use your own words. Allowing himself to be captured by the Wraith ended his usefulness. And his death will confuse the Shield Knight and the Keeper, perhaps throw them off the trail for a little while longer.”

  “Usefulness,” said Cyprian. He had perhaps drunk too much whiskey and had clouded his judgment, but he did not care. “Why don’t you actually make yourself useful? Go kill the Shield Knight and the Keeper. Or better yet, go kill Prince Accolon. Hadrian was a fat slug, and so an easy target, but I doubt you would have the nerve go after a Swordbearer or…”

  Aeliana said nothing. She just stared at him.

  Cyprian’s brain screamed that he had made a mistake.

  He set down his cup. “Perhaps I spoke hastily. The last few days have been…challenging.”

  “Hastily,” said Aeliana. “Yes, you did. But I am here to tell you to hold your nerve. You are almost there. Another few days and your men will find the Great Eye. Then you will become a god, Cyprian. The Theophract showed you the way, and you will ascend to more power than any man of Andomhaim has ever known. You just have to hold your nerve for a little while longer, and then you shall wield more power than you can imagine.”

  “Yes,” said Cyprian. His tongue felt thick against his teeth. He did not like the fluttery quaver of relief than had gone through him once Aeliana had decided not to take offense. She was just one woman. She shouldn’t frighten him as much as she did.

  “Be ready to move Prince Tywall,” said Aeliana. “We need his blood to open the Great Eye. Let Accolon Pendragon reverse as many enclosures as he wishes. Let him bask in the adulation of the common vermin. It will not matter in the end.” She glared at him. “But this is no time for cowardice. You are taking great risks, yes…but great power only comes to those who dare it.”

  “Yes, you are right,” said Cyprian. He sat up straighter. “Please forgive my…lapse, Herald.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, High One,” said Aeliana, stepping towards his door. “You are only human.” She smiled over her shoulder as she stepped into the corridor. “But not, I think, for very much longer. And fear not. Soon the Crown Prince and the Shield Knight will have much bigger problems than you.”

  With that, she left.

  Cyprian counted to a hundred in his head and only then let the disdain show on his face.

  Yes, he did fear her, just as he feared his enemies…but she was right. He need only press on for a little while longer. Then he would have the Great Eye, and its power would be his.

  And then, perhaps, he would no longer need to obey the Herald of Ruin.

  Until then, he hoped she would attack his enemies.

  Idly, he wondered just what sort of chaos she would unleash on Cintarra.

  ###

  Aeliana scowled as she walked alone and unseen through the darkened corridors of the Scepter Bank.

  Cyprian and the Drakocenti were idiots, but Aeliana needed them to carry out the will of the Warden and seek her revenge on Ridmark Arban.

  Well, flawed tools were better than no tools. Cyprian and the Drakocenti just had to find the Great Eye, and they had to get Tywall Gwyrdragon there and begin the spell. Once they did, Aeliana would have no further use for them, and then she could kill them all.

&n
bsp; The sword on her belt could feast upon their deaths, and she found herself looking forward to that with a great deal of pleasure.

  Until then…

  As abruptly as a lightning bolt, the Theophract’s voice filled her thoughts.

  “Herald,” said the Theophract.

  “Lord Theophract,” said Aeliana inside her head, fear and awe filling her. The Theophract spoke with the voice of the Warden. Come to think of it, the Theophract might not even possess his own will any longer.

  “Prepare yourself,” said the Theophract. “The red orcs will assail Cintarra in a few days, though the currents near the Isle of Kordain make the exact time impossible to predict. When you see the red sails in the harbor, you will know that the time has come. Be ready to move the High One, the Drakocenti, and the vessel of royal blood to the Shadow Ways if they have not located the chamber of the Great Eye by then. Agravhask does not have complete control over the priestesses, and he may not be able to stop them from killing the Drakocenti.”

  “Such precautions may not be necessary,” said Aeliana. “I believe the Drakocenti are on the verge of finding the Great Eye. They have found the ancient ruins of the Liberated. A little more time, and they should locate the Great Eye itself.”

  “Excellent,” said the Theophract. “I am busy with tasks in the Frankish Empire, else I would aid you myself. When the Great Eye opens, the Dragonmaeloch and his soldiers will come through. Cintarra will be destroyed and Andomhaim broken, and our lord the Warden shall have an unobstructed path to the Great Eye and Cathair Kaldran. But first, Cintarra must be weakened so the red orcs can take the city.”

  “I shall weaken it, Theophract,” said Aeliana.

  “Good,” said the Theophract. “Your gift is chaos, Herald of Ruin. Use it. I believe your sword hungers.”

  With that, the mental contact ended.

  Aeliana let out a shuddering breath and looked around, but none of the Bank’s guards had seen her.

  She touched the hilt of her dark soulblade, feeling its hunger, and smiled.

  A plan sprang into her mind, and all at once, she knew how to both weaken Cintarra for Agravhask and the red orcs and to take her revenge on the Matriarch at the same time.

  ***

  Chapter 14: Blood, Water, and Fire

  “There is no doubt, my lords of the Empire,” said the Guardian Rilmael. “It is the withering plague.”

  Grim silence answered his pronouncement, and Tyrcamber looked at the lords gathered around Prince Everard and Duke Chilmar.

  They had made good time on their march over the last few days. The scouting of the Knights of the Griffin and the flanking forces had repulsed the goblin raiders and the pagan gnolls, inflicting heavy losses on Duke Merovech’s forces. The Dragonmaeloch seemed have decided to abandon the raids, and had pulled all his forces back to the southwest. The loyalist army had continued its march unimpeded, and now the mountains of Roxaria were visible to the south, gray and snow-capped and misty.

  It was not much farther to Castle Valdraxis, Duke Merovech’s ancestral seat, and the traitorous Duke would have no choice but to make a stand. He had abandoned castles and towns both during his retreat, stripping the fortifications of their men. Town after town and village after village had surrendered to Prince Everard. Tyrcamber had thought it a strange tactic on the Dragonmaeloch’s part. At least Merovech hadn’t razed the villages to deny them to his foes, but perhaps he hadn’t had the time.

  Then they had come to the village of Grundorf.

  “I have spoken with the captain in charge of the men-at-arms,” said Rilmael. “Once his men had ridden into the village and realized what was happening, he had the good judgment to order everyone to stay there. He sent a message, and it made its way to me. I inspected the villagers and the men-at-arms with my Sight. There can be no question about it. The illness is the withering plague.”

  “God and the saints,” said Everard.

  Chilmar grunted. “How many men-at-arms?”

  “Fifty,” said Rilmael. “And Grundorf is a small village, no more than a hundred and fifty men, women, and children.”

  “At least the captain had the wit not to ride back into the army bearing the plague,” said Chilmar. “I’ve ordered men to set a quarantine over the village. Crossbowmen, with instructions to kill anyone who attempts to flee.”

  “A grim measure,” said Master Ruire of the Order of Embers, a solemn middle-aged knight. Tyrcamber had followed him for years as a Knight of the Order of Embers, and he still found it strange to no longer have the Master giving him commands.

  “There isn’t any other choice,” said Chilmar. “If the plague gets loose from Grundorf, it might wipe out a third of our army. And Merovech’s forces, for that matter. Might be why the traitor pulled back to the mountains. Perhaps he thinks that the plague will wipe out our army for him.”

  “Or it might be a weapon against us,” said Duke Cataul. Ever since the day that Tyrcamber had forced Brunhilda to retract her insults against Ruari, the young Duke had seemed more confident, more capable. Perhaps Brunhilda had stopped terrorizing her children for fear of drawing Tyrcamber’s notice. “The withering plague is magical in nature, is that not so?”

  “Aye, Duke Cataul,” said Rilmael. “The Dragon Imperator created it as a weapon to use against humans. Which is why I could safely visit Grundorf – it doesn’t affect cloak elves. But I fear that humans are most susceptible to the plague.”

  “Then both those men-at-arms and the villagers are on their own,” said Chilmar. He looked at Rilmael. “Unless you could use the Heal spell on them?”

  “I regret that I cannot,” said Rilmael. “My talents in magic lie towards destruction. I can manage the Heal spell well enough, but not with the degree of skill necessary to cure the withering plague. Especially in the very young or the old, since the shock of the Heal spell might kill them.”

  “We have no other choice,” said Prince Everard. “We must leave the disease to run its course. We shall leave some men to guard the village and enforce the quarantine, and I think we can spare some extra supplies for the villagers. The army will camp here tonight, and then continue on the morrow…”

  “Pardon, my lords?”

  It was a woman’s voice.

  Tyrcamber turned his head and saw Adalberga and Ruari approach. Adalberga seemed her customary bluff, cheerful self, though her posture was full of nervous respect as the gazed at Prince Everard and Duke Chilmar. Ruari followed in her usual blue dress and leather apron. She was beautiful even in the simple clothing, and a few of the lords gave her openly admiring looks. Tyrcamber was surprised to feel a surge of angry jealousy. Ruari looked nervous, perhaps from the attention.

  “Aye, Lady Adalberga?” said Chilmar with a hint of impatience.

  “Lady Ruari wishes to request permission to enter Grundorf and cure the plague.”

  Chilmar blinked several times. “What?”

  “Both Lady Ruari and I have survived the withering plague already, my lord,” said Adalberga. “Consequently, we are immune to it, and so are several of the other women in the hospital. We can all use the Heal spell, and Lady Ruari is exceptionally skilled with it. She believes that we can cure everyone in the village who has been infected with the plague, hopefully before anyone dies.”

  Chilmar frowned. “Would not your efforts be better spent among the wounded in the hospital wagons?”

  Adalberga hesitated and looked at Ruari, who scribbled something on her wax tablet.

  “Lady Ruari says that all we can do for the wounded has already been done,” said Adalberga. “They must now recover or die as their strength allows and God wills it. But she believes we can stop the outbreak of plague in Grunberg before it spreads further.”

  “Guardian?” said Prince Everard. “What say you on this matter?”

  Rilmael was looking at Ruari, a thoughtful frown on his alien features. He looked almost like he was trying to remember something he had forgotten. For her part, Ruari was
staring at the ground, as if afraid to meet the Guardian’s gaze.

  “Yes,” said Rilmael. “Yes, it can be done. My lords, I have offered counsel to the Empire since Count Roland of the Breton March became the first Emperor, and in all those centuries, Lady Ruari is one of the most skillful users of the Heal spell that I have ever seen.” Ruari bowed her head at the compliment, though she still would not look at him. “And she and the other women will be immune to the withering plague, for they have already survived it. Lady Ruari is right. The quarantine could fail – one of the soldiers might panic, break discipline, flee with a horse, and spread the plague through Swabathia.”

  Prince Everard thought this over and nodded. “This plan seems sound to me. My lord Chilmar, what say you?”

  Chilmar scowled at Ruari, and then shrugged and looked at Tyrcamber. “Well, she is your wife, Sir Tyrcamber. What do you think?”

  Tyrcamber looked at Ruari. Her eerie blue eyes met his, and he saw the silent plea in them. He remembered what she had written on her wax tablet the day they had met. How she did not wish to destroy but heal.

  “Yes, but only if I accompany her,” said Tyrcamber.

  The blue eyes widened. Ruari hadn’t expected that.

  Chilmar frowned. “No. You’ll expose yourself to the plague, and you are the only Dragontiarna Knight in the Empire. To be blunt, ten thousand villagers from a hundred villages like Grundorf would not be an adequate replacement for your power on the battlefield.”

  “There would be no risk, Duke Chilmar,” said Rilmael. He looked thoughtful again. “The withering plague was targeted at humans, but the transformation into a Dragontiarna Knight has altered Sir Tyrcamber. The plague would no longer affect him.”

  “Sir Tyrcamber’s skill lies with fire magic,” said Master Ruire. “I was under the impression that a Heal spell empowered with elemental water was the best way to cure the withering plague.”

  “It is, my lord,” said Adalberga, “but there is another way. A Heal spell charged with elemental fire can burn it out of the body, though it takes quite a toll on the subject’s stamina. It works best with someone young, strong, and healthy.” She smiled. “Like our soldiers, my lord, and the younger men in Grundorf. Sir Tyrcamber can heal them, Lady Ruari can attend to the old and the young, and my nurses and I will heal everyone else. My lords, I believe it can be done.”