Torturous Alliance

by Kristine Lichtlider

  “I see,” said Kate, blowing out a sigh “so I am to marry a man whom I do not love, who is old enough to be my grandfather, all for the good of the kingdom.”

  “Yes,” said Lord Mannix, though his eyes glistened with moisture “yes, absolutely. We nobles must often give up what we really want, in order to do what we really must. You have been listening to too many stories from the maids. Perhaps the commoner can choose who to spend their lives with, but for us...it's not so simple.”

  Kate slipped her arms around his waist, kissed him gently on the cheek.

  “Is that why you never...” she said softly “...never took another wife?”

  She felt his body stiffen against her own, could sense the pain that was still just as real as it had been fifteen years prior when her mother had sickened and died. Still, his hand moved to stroke her soft hair, and his voice was gentle when he spoke.

  “To tell you the truth,” he said “being around another woman would only remind me that Caroline is gone to the Allfather. She was my one, my all...”

  “You did not marry her for duty,” she said, lifting her face so she could gaze into his lined visage.

  “No,” he said, chuckling “it was arranged by our fathers. I was so nervous when we first met, I vomited up bones. We were lucky, as our parents had chosen well. It was a good match. A good match...”

  “I'm sorry,” said Kate “I should not have said anything.”

  “Rubbish,” said Mannix “your mother is with the Allfather in Paradise, but we must keep her alive in our hearts. Every time she made us laugh, or made you angry, every tear and every sigh, though it might make us weep at our loss.”

  “I miss her too,” said Kate, pulling away from him. She fixed him with a stern stare, putting her arms akimbo. “And I wonder what she would think of your...investments in the south.”

  “This again?” said Mannix, trying to dismiss it with a chuckle and a wave of his hand.

  “Father,” she said “I know.”

  “You know what?” he said, still not understanding.

  “I know.” Said Kate firmly, and the harshness of her eyes would brook no further innuendo. Mannix reacted as if struck, flinching and turning his face away from his daughter.

  “How?” he said, still not meeting her gaze.

  “Quinn,” she said, which prompted a frightful look from him. “Do not be alarmed, as he has only told me. He is a good man, a noble man though he lacks his lands and title. The first sword has promised not to utter a word to any.”

  “Excellent,” said Mannix with a half-smile “He does seem quite the devoted man, does he not? But is he devoted to me, I wonder, or to my daughter...”

  “Father, please,” said Kate, her cheeks flushing with color “do not change the subject. Why are you doing these...why would you commit...”

  “Treason?” said Mannix, who went to the door. He opened it and glanced up and down the hallway, ensuring there were no prying ears about. When he came back into the room, his face was grim. “For one, the King seems to have become...ill-humored of late.”

  “So?” said Kate. “The monarchy have raised taxes in the past, and ever has the Drakken line been swift to dispense harsh justice-”

  “True,” said Mannix, holding up a palm to halt her tirade “but never so high, and never so brutally! Eighty percent, Katherine. The crown takes eighty of every hundred bushels of wheat, eighty of every hundred fatted calves, eighty of every hundred silver that the chimney sweep earns. It is difficult, nay, impossible for a man to survive on such, at least not honestly. When men lack the means to support themselves, they will turn to desperation. Thus, we have bandits on every highway, pickpockets on every corner, and yes-those who wish to see things made better.”

  Kate chewed on her lower lip, digesting what he had said. When she looked at her father, his thin boned, handsome face, his fine garments and neatly shaven cheeks, he seemed hardly like a rebel. Still, there was a fire in his eyes, life in his voice that she had not seen since her mother had passed.

  “Why take this risk?” she said at length. “You and the nobles have sway at court! If I...if I marry Drakken, will your own influence not expand?”

  Mannix walked to her window, stared out at her beautiful garden below. The sun had just begun to dip below the horizon, bathing him in soft golden light. She allowed him the time to gather his thoughts, even as she tried to make sense of the convoluted jumble inside her own head.

  “What is it,” he said “that you think the King has done with all the coin he has collected?”

  “Raising an army,” said Kate “he has insurgents to deal with, as well as a campaign to mine the Blood Wood.”

  “Indeed,” said Mannix “that is what I surmised as well. Do you remember two years ago, when Duncan and I became a bit tipsy-”

  “Falling down drunk,” said Kate with a gentle smile.

  “-Falling down drunk,” said Mannix with a laugh “and we became lost beneath Fort Drakken? Well, we beheld something there, something that disturbs me greatly, because of the sheer insanity of it.”

  “What did you find?” said Kate when his voice trailed off. “A hidden torture chamber where he keeps maids chained to the wall, a pit of feces in which he bathes himself?”

  “Nothing so simple,” said Mannix “he has done nothing with the coin, child. Nothing. It sits in great heaps and stacks beneath the floors of Fort Drakken, spilling its glittering mass upon the floor. Literally, a kingdom's ransom, and he lets it sit. Peasants starve, and he lets it sit. The roads more than ten miles from the kingdom are all but washed out into mud, and he lets it sit.”

  “Why?” said Kate, scarcely able to comprehend such a mountain of treasure, let alone allowing it to gather dust.

  “Who can comprehend the minds of the mad?” said Mannix. “I know not if it is dementia, or poison, or a bit of undigested leek in his innards, but something has caused Drakken to abandon reason for madness.”

  “Could you not expose him?” said Kate.

  “No,” said Mannix sadly “our influence is great, but as I have no sons there is little doubt that whoever you take as husband will end up my heir. Thus, I am a serpent without fangs, a cat without claws. Any such accusations I might make would be seen as the ramblings of an old man desperate to cling to his fleeting power.”

  “Then let me help you,” said Kate “I can-”

  “NO!” shouted Mannix, wincing at the way his voice reverberated throughout the chamber. “No,” he said more softly “it is bad enough that you know as much as you do. For your protection, you must let me do this myself. You must.”

  Kate cast her soft brown eyes at the tiled floor. She felt her father standing close, looked up at him as he gently cupped her chin with his hand.

  “Do not fret,” he said “let us speak of gowns, and decorations, and feasting, and leave these heavy matters for the converse of men, yes?”

  She returned his embrace, but her eyes were hard as she stared over his shoulder.

  Whipple eagerly seized the frothy mug in both of his pudgy hands, bringing it to his whiskered lips and taking a generous pull. A bit of foam clung to his mustache as he set the crockery back down on the table. Across from him, his wife frowned forlornly at the display. She was a woman nearly two decades younger than he, enticed to his side by the wealth his produce brought him. Though she had never been noble (which had more than one meaning in this case) she seemed determined that he would behave as one. The frown became a full blown scowl when he wiped his face with the back of a hairy forearm.

  “Use a napkin, please,” she said, her tone wheedling but her gaze harsh. She was a dark-skinned woman, tall and lean. Her curly black hair and wide nose bespoke of Sun People heritage, but her eyes were the pale green of the sea. The gown she wore had set him back nearly as much as a new horse would have, and its pleated taffeta skirt and delicately tapered ribbons were quite out of place in a modest restaurant like the one they found themselves in.


  “Sorry,” he said, more to prevent an argument than because he was truly remorseful.

  “Hey, Whipple,” said a man, clapping him upon the shoulder so roughly he spilled a bit of his drink on himself. “Heard that dragon of yours got another one last night. Dragged Mielar's wife off in its jaws, it did.”

  “Bah,” said Whipple as he stared up at the man's grinning visage “more likely, his wife ran off with another man, and he's taken to blaming the dragon. And it is hardly mine.”

  “He did not even see it,” said his wife, glowering at the visitor with such tenacity that he ended up leaving with but a shrug.

  “Got Mielar's wife?” said another man from across the room, his voice rudely loud. “I heard a couple of urchins say it's got itself a nest made of bones in the sewers.”

  “Aye,” said another “the same urchins who last week swore on their lives that a star fell into the sea.”

  “Do these people have no manners?” she said, pouting at Whipple.

  “Gertrude, please,” said Whipple, taking another drink of his mead “folk are excited at times like these. You have to expect a little bit of rudeness.”

  “I can expect decency and decorum,” she said “but I'm likely to be disappointed.”

  The door to the street swung open. A dirt streaked youth leaned his freckled face within, shouting to all the patrons.

  “The dragon has returned!” he said in a holler. “It slaughtered the horses at Gaol's Stable, and now the watch have it trapped!”

  The youth was gone, the door swinging shut behind him. Many of the restaurant's patrons gave each other incredulous looks, then bolted for the door themselves. Whipple found himself rising from his chair, an eager grin on his face.

  “Sit down,” said Gertrude.

  “But,” said Whipple, pointing at the nearly empty establishment “but all the other men are going to see the dragon!”

  “And if they used a mason's tool and drilled a hole in their heads,” she said “would you be so eager to do that as well? Sit down, fool. It is probably just a large lizard that wandered inside to escape the summer sun.”

  Whipple sat down reluctantly, casting one last longing glance at the open front door.

  The dragon had found itself too large to fit through the hole that first allowed it into the Port Gar sewers. It was of little consequence, as the beast used its massive, scaled body to carve out a new one. It hunger seemed to grow by the minute, and its nostrils detected the aroma of prey nearby.

  Ignoring the terrified screams of the folk on the streets, it padded sinuously down the dirt path until it reached the source of the tantalizing odor. Using its horned, yellow eyed head to shove the flimsy wooden barrier blocking its path, it crouched low to fit through the ten foot doorway.

  Once inside, it was able to lift its scaled belly out of the dirt hay. The four legged animals panicked, whinnying and kicking hard against their wooden stalls. The dragon rose up, placed its forelegs on one of the swinging gates. Its own weight easily brought the structure down. Though its body was too large to fit into the stall, its head was just the right size to slither in and bite the horse's head off in one snap.

  As the dragon feasted, it was dimly aware of shouting outside the stable, of booted feet and jangling metal. However, it was secure in its own invincibility, that it was the apex predator and had nothing to fear from the soft bodied animals that walked on two legs. Thus, it continued to batter down the stall gates and feast upon the hoofed animals within. Perhaps it would take a few of the two legged ones, as well...

  “Where's your bloody dragon slayer, Captain?” said a watchman as Murdoch came hurrying up the street. “We got the dragon cornered in there, we do!”

  “He and the naked witch are trying to make a batch of Besk,” said the portly captain, squinting at the open door to the stable. Though he saw no sign of the beast, the fetid smell emanating from the opening clearly indicated the slaughter within. “Likely, the dragon is long gone.”

  “You want to wager on that?” said the watchman, casting his eyes downward at the muddy street. He scooped up an apple core by the stem and hurled it into the dark doorway. A moment later they heard a deep rumbling, feeling it in their bellies. Murdoch's blade was in his hand without him remembering having drawn it.

  “Get archers down here,” said Murdoch “and hurry.”

  “A contingent from the militia is on their way,” said the watchman. “Hopefully, the beast will stay inside and sleep off its meal.”

  Murdoch chewed on a knuckle of his index finger. He stared into the dark interior, though the bright sun made it difficult to make anything out more than a foot inside.

  “We need straw,” he said “and pitch, as well as stout hearted lads to place it around the stable.”

  “You're going to burn it down?” said the watchman. “But are not dragons said to be able to breathe fire-”

  “Our dragon slayer assures me that is a myth,” said Murdoch.

  “But Goal will be furious if you burn down his stable,” said another watchman “already he speaks of the city owing him for the head of horses he lost.”

  “The city will buy him a new one,” said Murdoch “I'll not risk my men against that monster. We will burn the stable and the dragon with it. Our friend Seamus will simply have to find another job.”

  Murdoch stood back across the street as his orders were carried out. At first his men would only throw the straw at the structure, not wishing to get too close. However, as they piled more and more tinder about, and the dragon had no apparent reaction, they grew more bold. One of them even risked sticking his head within the wooden stable, trying to make out the dragon. When he came hustling back, his face was white as a sail.

  “It's huge,” he said breathlessly. “Bigger than the serpent tongued gray horses the Sun People employ in their labors.”

  “It lives,” said Murdoch with a growl “and all things that live must eventually die. Take heart, fellows, this is nothing more than pest control on a grand scale.”

  “Aye,” said one cheerful wit “we could use new boots, Captain!”

  “I'll make it into a belt, myself,” said Murdoch as two stout lads ran towards him, heavy buckets of pitch held in each hand. The black viscous fluid spilled out of the containers in their haste.

  The watchmen drew straws to see who would set and light the pitch while Murdoch organized the arriving militia men into two rows of twelve. They obeyed sullenly, for the militia considered themselves a more elite organization than the watch, though Murdoch's authority was not disputed.

  The first trails of smoke began to drift from the pitch laden straw, causing the captain to brace himself for action. No scaled body lunged from the darkness, however, even as the stable itself began to smolder. Murdoch dispensed a half dozen of his men to watch the fire and ensure it did not spread to the surrounding structures, most of which were stables as well.

  After the flames began to lick the sky, the captain allowed himself to relax. Perhaps the beast had succumbed to the smoke, and lay broiling within the burning stable. Perhaps no men had to die this day...

  A long, low rumbling growl shook his innards and his nerves.

  “Archers, ready!” he shouted, drawing his blade and taking a position behind the militia. A pair of yellow eyes began to gleam in the darkness, as long as Murdoch's arm from corner to corner. When the dragon squatted low, dragging its body in the dirt to escape the burning structure, the captain saw his chance.

  “Fire!” he said, his voice greeted by the twangs of a dozen bowstrings. Arrows whipped through the humid air, impacting against the beast's triangular shaped head. The dragon flinched, closing its vulnerable eyes and emitting a blood curdling roar.

  “Second line, fire!” shouted Murdoch, desperation creeping into his voice. Not a single one of the first missiles had been able to penetrate the dragon's scaled hide. Again a rush of wooden sticks flew for the beast's face, and again they bounced from its deep green scales.
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  The dragon reared up, splintering wood and sending heavy flaming planks flying outward. The archers broke their line to avoid the deluge, though one poor fellow took a sharpened timber to the thigh and had to be dragged away. The beast narrowed its eyes upon Murdoch, and with a sinking feeling in his gut he realized the thing was focused upon him.

  “Pull yourselves together!” he roared at the Archers. “Take aim and fire at will! Aim for the eyes!”

  To their credit, or perhaps to his own as a leader, the men tried to obey. However, the dragon surged forward, its speed belying its bulk. One swipe from a clawed paw the size of a hoss swine sent two of the archers flying. One of them slammed into another building near the roof and crashed to the dirt. Murdoch stared at the man's ghastly, torn open chest, at a face of a man who should be dead but wasn't quite there yet, and felt a rage build up in his belly that, if not dispelling the fear he felt, at least laid a blanket over it.

  The captain rushed the dragon, which still had half of its body within the burning stable. He managed to blindside it while it crushed another archer beneath its heavy foot. The man's scream was short lived, as a fountain of frothy blood blocked his throat. Murdoch took his own advice, angling his heavy short sword for the dragon's yellow orb.

  The blade struck home, but not before the dragon was able to close its armored eyelid. Murdoch grimaced, straining to hang onto his blade despite the fires dancing in his arm. It felt as if he had struck a rock with his sword, and the nicks and notches in the blade seemed to echo that sentiment. He hacked again, and again at the dragon's face. The beast moved its head away from the angry captain, eyes tightly shut. Giving a shout, his men began to rush into the fray as well, though the militia seemed to have retreated a block up the road.

  One of the watch; the fellow who had spoken with Murdoch a short while ago, charged in with a spear. The dragon's mouth suddenly opened and the toothy maw clasped down on the wooden shaft, as well as one of the man's arms. A violent twist destroyed the spear, and savagely rent the limb from his body. Murdoch had no time to react before the dragon reared up like a bear, swatting aside the watch as if they were troublesome insects.