Traveling quickly back to the more affluent section of town, he looked about for an inn. The Golden Dragon caught his attention, and he chuckled to himself at the irony of the name. Stepping in from the bright day, he blinked and waited for his eyes to adjust.
“Good day, good sir. How may I serve you?” a man’s voice asked, and Drake turned toward him.
“I need a room for a time. Who are you, good sir?”
“I am Barten Carrington, owner of the Golden Dragon. And you, good sir?”
“Drake Standralson. I am here to investigate trade for my father and his associates. I will need a room for a moon or more.” Drake’s eyes had adjusted enough for him to see Barten clearly. Barten was in his middle years, with gray sprinkling his sandy hair, but not dimming his blue eyes.
Nodding his head, he motioned Drake into the common room. “A moon, room and board? That will cost you twelve silver.” Barten led Drake to a table, and motioned for a server.
Drake was surprised. He had expected the price to be a great deal higher. “A moderate price, good sir.”
“It’s the slow season,” Barten commented, glancing back to Drake. “During the summer it would be a gold a week.”
“Then I am glad I’ve come so early. How is trade?” he asked. Innkeepers were always a good source of information.
“Poor. Fear of the rebellion has kept most traders close to home. Unless you are trading in weapons.” Barten looked at Drake for an answer to the unasked question.
“Wool. Father is a master in the Weaver’s Guild.”
Barten shook his head. “Not much call for wool, Master Drake. Duke Delindas up in Waterlan might be interested though. They are major wool producers, and might be in the market for a trade partnership.”
Drake nodded and looked about. The Golden Dragon was a moderately prosperous inn, neat and clean, with room for about twenty patrons. “What is this rebellion I keep hearing about?”
Barten’s face closed down for a moment, then he shrugged. “King Blackmoore has been squeezing the dukes pretty hard, and they have been squeezing the lords. A group of lords from the east have been stirring up trouble, encouraging people to defy the dukes and the king’s men. There have been a large number of Tax Collectors robbed and killed.”
Drake shook his head slowly. “Bad for trade. Bad for the people. What has the king done?”
“He is attacking the rebellious duchies one by one, bringing them back in line. They say he has an army of Magi, and nothing can stand in their way.” Barten looked at Drake closely to see his reaction to that pronouncement.
“An army armed with only magic? How can people fight that?”
“They can’t,” Barten whispered.
* * *
Drake began investigating the city, visiting trading houses and making enquiries about the cloth trade. The duchy he was in, Hiddendell, was not a major producer of cloth of any kind, and Barten’s suggestion that Waterlan might be a better place for him was repeated more than once. While he wandered about, he studied the people and town of Whitehall.
His first impression, that the town was poor and getting poorer, was reinforced each day. Inns and ale houses were crowded, but few men were drinking. That meant there was no money for liquor. The only people who seemed to be prospering were the lords.
Lord Elinston, the owner and manager of the quarry, lived in a fine manor house overlooking the great hole that was the quarry. He was not beloved by his employees, high or low. His profits from the quarry were impressive, but he kept his wages lower than poverty level. That he was the major employer in the city kept the entire city poor.
Lord Cavin, who owned most of the farmland around Whitehall, was a cruel man with no sympathy for those wretches who farmed his lands. He received a set amount from each tenant-farmer for the use of the land, whether the harvest was good or poor. His letters of agreement tied the farmers to the land for a set length of time. Many people were starving on the land they farmed, and they couldn’t leave.
Drake wandered the city for a week before he saw a familiar mop of red hair. Fran sat outside of a building, clutching her old blanket about her shoulders. Looking closer, Drake’s mouth tightened into a thin, disapproving line.
The building was a whorehouse.
* * *
Inside the whorehouse, Evin was begging. “Please, Forin, please don’t make me do this!”
“I don’t have a choice, Evin. Do you think I like it either? I hate it. But it’s the only way.” Forin, Evin’s cousin, stood in the middle of the room. “The only way we can live is by selling what we have to sell. And for us, that means our bodies.”
Drake entered through the front door and looked about. Several women came toward him, each trying to look attractive, and failing. As his eyes adjusted, he saw Evin and another woman come from a back room. “Good sir, welcome. Do you see anything that interests you?” Forin said sweetly, smiling at Drake.
Drake looked past her at Evin and nodded. “I do. I saw Fran outside, Evin. Where is Shena?”
Evin started, not recognizing him. “My daughters are not for sale!” she snapped, her eyes narrowing as she glared at him.
“I would hope not. This doesn’t seem like a safe refuge. Is this what you want?” he asked, stepping closer to her.
Evin looked at him, still not recognizing him. “What is it to you? Who are you?” she snarled, defensive before this stranger’s questions.
“A friend. Do you want to stay here, Evin?” Drake’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t sure why he was feeling this way, but finding Evin in a whorehouse after she had rejected him in the forest angered him.
“No, it isn’t. But Forin lost her shop. This is all we have. Who are you to question me?” Evin’s eyes had tears shining at the corners.
Drake suddenly felt horrible. Who am I to question her? “Drake.”
His name, spoken simply and without elaboration, meant nothing to Evin. Then she looked closer at him. “Lord Drake?” she whispered, finally placing the face. She began backing away, fear plain in her expression.
Drake nodded. “Where is Shena?” he asked again, his eyes compelling an answer.
“She is in the laundry, Lord Drake,” Evin answered softly, frightened by his interest.
Forin was looking at the man in her parlor, trying to figure out what Evin was so frightened of. Then she placed the name. She had not believed Evin’s story about the dragon and the golden bowls. Having a man that Evin called “Lord Drake” there made her suspicious. “Evin, you cannot convince me that this man is a ...”
“He is! Forin, he is. Don’t anger him!” Evin turned panicky eyes on her cousin and then back to Drake. “Please, Lord Drake, please don’t be angry.”
“Gather your things, Evin. And your daughters. This is not what I thought you were coming to.” Drake’s soft voice and narrowed eyes left Evin on the verge of tears.
“What are you going to do to us?” she asked, her voice quavering.
“I am going to see you better cared for than this. Shena and Fran deserve better than to be servants here,” Drake answered.
“Now, just one moment,” Forin interrupted. Evin was, after all, her cousin. “You cannot come barging in here...”
Drake held up one finger a light flared brightly from it. “Yes, I can. Evin, it is your choice. Let me help you again.” Drake looked into Evin’s eyes, waiting for a response. It is her choice.
Evin bit her lips, then turned to Forin. “I am going with him, Forin. I can’t do this.” She turned and fled, returning moments later with Shena in tow, her belongings wrapped in a golden blanket.
“You came after us?” Shena asked eagerly, and he nodded. “Good. I like you.”
Drake suddenly laughed. “I like you, too.” Smiling he walked out the door to find Fran. She was still sitting on the porch, looking at the passing people.
She looked up as he opened the door, then smiled as her mother and sister came out. “What are we doing, Mama?” she asked,
then she recognized Drake and smiled. “Are you going to marry mama?”
Drake smiled wryly at that. “We’ll see, Carrot Top. Come along.”
* * *
King Blackmoore led his army through the duchy of Greencastle. The task of rooting out the rebellion had become a burning, all-consuming need in his heart. No one can be allowed to defy me. Forestfall had fallen to him, the rebel lords and their followers dying in droves as his Magi scoured the city clean of their infection.
“Dread King, Forestfall is cleansed,” his senior Adept said from his side. “Where are we headed now?”
“Whitehall, in Hiddendell. I have heard the lords there are unhappy with the taxes I have levied on them. A lesson is in order.”
* * *
Drake took Evin and her daughters back to the Golden Dragon. When Evin saw the sign, she stopped and looked curiously at Drake. He shrugged at her unasked question. “I don’t know if that’s supposed to be me. But I like the inn, and the innkeeper.”
Barten looked askance at Drake as he came in with the family. “Goodman Drake, this is a surprise.”
“Perhaps.” Drake said as he fished three gold royals out of his pouch. “This will cover them for a time,” he said and Barten blinked in surprise. He had assumed that Drake had brought Evin to stay with him.
Evin bit her lip, but kept quiet. She had assumed that Lord Drake was taking her as his mistress, and while his true nature frightened her, his young, handsome form had charmed her. Hearing that she was to have a separate room caused her to rethink her assumptions. Barten led her and her daughters to a second-floor room without further comment and left them alone.
Drake knocked on the door and Fran opened it. “Hi.”
Drake smiled at the girl. “Hi, yourself. May I come in?”
Fran looked over her shoulder at her mother and received a nod. Stepping aside she grinned at Drake. Evin stood to receive Drake. “Lord Drake, I’m confused. Why are you doing this?”
“I don’t truly know, Evin. In the hundred years that I have been flying over this continent I have never felt this way toward anyone. Not even Amber.” He paused, leaving Evin to wonder who Amber was. “I suppose it was seeing Fran outside that whorehouse that got to me.”
“I wouldn’t have let her inside, Lord Drake. And why did the innkeeper call you goodman?” Evin was emboldened by his friendly attitude.
“Because that is how I presented myself to him. Your comment about a rebellion made me curious, so I dropped in for a look. This town in going downhill fast. It will not be long before the economy collapses.” He seated himself and Shena came to stand by his shoulder, touching him with a curious finger.
“Shena! Stop that!” Evin hissed, but Drake simply laughed.
“It is all right,” Drake laughed, poking Shena back. “Evin, this is not going to be a safe place for you and your daughters to stay. The economy is so far gone already that people are fleeing to other duchies. I am posing as a trader, and have been told over and over to head north.”
Evin nodded. “Forin said the same thing, but this was as far as we could go. We just don’t have the means to escape that far.”
“I will see to that.”
Drake and Evin settled into a strange relationship. He was not interested in her sexually, which confused him as much as her. He spent his time with her and her daughters, enjoying the easy laughter of Fran and Shena. Evin remained reserved when he was around, but the girls soon lost all fear of him and adopted him as a father figure.
* * *
King Blackmoore surveyed the little city of Whitehall dispassionately. “Adepts, you may begin,” he said in a bored tone.
Magebolts slashed into the city, destroying some buildings and setting others on fire. The most powerful Magi concentrated on the manors of the lords, reducing them to rubble in seconds. People began streaming out of the city, screaming in panic and pain as the Magi continued to rain destruction on their vulnerable shoulders.
A magebolt leveled the Golden Dragon with everyone inside. Drake was knocked unconscious and remained so until Barten and a serving girl dug him out of the rubble the next morning.
“What happened? Who did this?” he asked as he staggered to his feet. “Where are Evin and the girls?”
“I am sorry, Goodman Drake. They were over there.” Barten said and pointed to a section of the inn that had been hit by a powerful magebolt. Nothing remained of the room where Evin and her daughters had been sleeping.
Drake threw back his head and screamed in rage and pain. They’re dead! They’re dead because I tried to help them! Running away from the inn, Drake made his way out of town, away from people. When he was alone, he ripped the clothes from his back and transformed.
Amberdrake sailed into Whitehall and landed in front of the remains of the Golden Dragon Inn. His massive foreclaws lifted the rubble, searching for signs of life. But there was no one alive to be found. Directing his energies elsewhere, he searched and dug, using his magic and muscle to find and save as many people as he could. Turning to Barten, he bowed his head.
“Barten, you have to organize these people. You have to get them busy rebuilding.”
“Lord Dragon, I am not a lord. I don’t know how,” Barten replied, fearful of the great creature who spoke so familiarly to him.
“Do what you can. I will help, but there is something that I must do soon.” Amberdrake said, turning his head to gaze in the direction that Blackmoore and his army had taken.
“As you command, Lord Dragon,” Barten answered.
Amberdrake spent three days helping the people of Whitehall rebuild before he felt confident enough to follow Blackmoore. “Barten, I leave you in charge. Continue rebuilding as well as you can.” Launching himself into the air, he scanned the countryside. Spotting the trail of Blackmoore’s army, he flew hard to catch them.
* * *
King Blackmoore was enjoying a quiet luncheon when shouts of wonder and fear echoed through the army. Strolling out of his tent, he looked up to where his Magi were pointing, marveling at the magnificent dragon who was flying above them. Then his amazement turned to terror.
Amberdrake fell on the army of Magi with all his rage. Three quick passes of fire reduced most of them to struggling torches. Those few who had managed to shield themselves sought to flee, but he attacked again, his massive magical abilities shattering the shields of the human Adepts. Finally, he landed and began stalking the ruins of the army. A flicker of movement, a man running, caused him to pounce.
“No! I am the king! You can’t do this to me! I’m the king!” the man shouted, looking over his shoulder. Falling to the ground, the great King Blackmoore looked up in terror at the dragon who had slaughtered his invincible army of Magi.
“You are the human king called Blackmoore?” Amberdrake asked.
King Blackmoore looked up in wonder and shouted, “Yes! Yes, I am King Blackmoore!”
Amberdrake tilted his head to the side as a draconian grin stretched his lips. “Good. You survived.” Raising his head and stepping away, he carefully swung his tail over the prostrate king.
King Blackmoore looked up, smiling and laughing because the dragon was letting him live. The dragon was leaving, carefully stepping over him. Then the dragon paused with its tail above him, and Blackmoore saw something move at the base of the dragon’s tail.
Amberdrake paused after carefully positioning himself over the man and deliberately emptied his bowels on the great king. The internal body temperature of a dragon rivals that of a potter’s kiln. While most parts of the animals that dragons eat are digested, there are some things that even a dragon’s furnace of a stomach cannot consume. Those parts are cooked and reduced to a black, sticky substance that men call tar. At normal temperatures tar is either hard and shiny, or thick and sticky. But straight from the dragon, tar is deadly.
Blackmoore raised his hands to shield his face as the material came toward him. A scream of pain was ripped from his throat as the flesh
was seared from the bones of his hands and the unprotected portions of his head. The heat from the tar penetrated his clothing and cooked him alive. Amberdrake looked back between his legs at the struggling form. Blackmoore was truly black now, and the pitiful sounds that came from the puddle fell on deaf ears.
When Blackmoore stopped moving, Amberdrake turned his fire on the dead king and his followers, scorching the ground bare of life, and scattering the ashes of the Magi in the spring wind. Then he flew away, westward toward his home, and away from the memory of two little girls he had begun to call his family.
* * *
Mellody and Rochelle both had tears in their eyes, and even Saunder looked sad. He said, “Drake, that is so terrible. To find a family, then lose it again so soon, and in such a horrible way.”
“I spent a lot of time as a dragon while I recovered from that experience. It took a very special set of circumstances do bring me out of my depression.”
Rochelle looked intrigued. Mellody asked, “What happened?”
Drake smiled. “I told you I was hosted by King Zelin of Zamaria. I didn’t tell you how long ago that was.”
“How long?” Saunder asked while the women nodded.
“About five hundred and sixty years ago.” He almost laughed at the stunned expressions on their faces.
Adventure 7
The Silent Clan
AMBERDRAKE SAILED THROUGH THE SKIES OF the Brondian Continent, memory warring with memory. The death of little Fran and Shena had wrenched his heart as much as having to leave Amber behind so long ago. Yet, for a dragon, it was not long ago at all. Below him was a high plateau, the home of men who lived by herding alone. Few crops grew in this high, arid land.
Sailing in lazy spirals, he looked for a herd of deer or elk, or even wild bison. He was well aware that some dragons did not scruple against eating the stock of mere humans, but the part of his personality that was Drake still respected other’s property. Spotting a herd of deer, he began his attack. A long, shallow glide allowed him to get within several hundred feet of the deer before they spotted him. The scattering herd eluded him for the most part, but six fat deer fell beneath his claws before the rest found the safety of the trees. He circled, picking up his catch and making a pile before he landed to eat.
The Chronicles of Amberdrake Page 30
