Dragon's Trail

by Joseph Malik

  “Yes.”

  “You wouldn’t be coming to me now, unless there was something I could do for you. And it’s something that you don’t want anyone else to know, or we’d be discussing this somewhere where we wouldn’t get rained on.”

  “As I said, you’re shrewd.”

  They were silent for a while.

  “There is something you can do,” said Mukul, as the first drops of rain pelted them. “I need a voice in Parliament. You’ve done well, but you need to learn our political system so you can work within it. You have talent, but it would take you a lifetime to learn how to survive at court. I am offering my expertise.”

  “At what cost?”

  “Friendship.”

  Ulo barked a laugh. “That, I do not need.”

  “My friendship, you need.”

  “You mean my friendship, you need.”

  “That, as well.”

  “And what does our friendship bring me?”

  “Everything you can’t buy,” said Mukul. “Respect. Power. Your family’s name no longer whispered in hushed tones and used in stories to frighten children.”

  Lightning flashed behind Ulo, and thunder slammed through the world.

  “So, what, exactly, is the problem with Gateskeep?” Ulo asked, speaking to the war council. “Are their armies better trained?”

  “I’d say yes,” Loth spoke to the disagreements of the other warlords. “Face it, Hanmin,” he addressed the eldest, “They run tight, textbook formations. They excel at breaking offenses. Their infantry is brave and solid. We counter this by hitting them with more armor, but you know they’re more disciplined.”

  “That’s purely academic,” another warlord interjected. “Taking the Shieldlands creates a situation wherein we must use a small, mobile contingent to hold a space a week’s ride across. It’s improbable that we can hold that much land once we take it. Gateskeep’s armies are the last of our problems. We need manpower to instill order. We need soldiers in every hamlet and farm before we move into Falconsrealm.”

  “You don’t have the soldiers,” Ulo stated. “So, what do you have?”

  “Well, as you know, ores—gold, silver, steel, and their end products—are our major exports.”

  “If by yours, you mean mine?” Ulo corrected.

  “Ulorak is now a territory of Gavria,” said Parliamentarian Hanmin, balding and fat. “I’d suggest you remember that.”

  Ulo stared at him for a moment and let it pass.

  Loth spoke. “We’re still short of manpower. We haven’t a tactician who can hold Falconsrealm with our numbers.”

  “You do now,” said Ulo.

  The room went quiet.

  “Are you suggesting we use your army?” said Mukul.

  “If I had an army that could beat Falconsrealm,” said Ulo, “would I be paying taxes to Gavria?”

  Loth spat his drink across the table.

  “I need to arrange a meeting with the heir presumptive of Falconsrealm,” said Ulo. “This Lord Albar Hillwhite.”

  “He’s the heir presumptive,” said Hanmin dismissively. “He has no actual power.”

  “He’s the heir presumptive,” corrected Ulo, “so he has a tremendous amount of power. His power is not obvious, so it’s nothing your feeble mind is able to appreciate.”

  “Watch your tone, wizard,” said Marghan, Lord High Inquisitor.

  “Arrange the meeting,” said Ulo.

  “You expect him to give us his country?” asked Hanmin.

  “I expect him,” said Ulo, “to listen to reason.”

  Jarrod Torrealday was doing his time in hell.

  They’d been out of Gateskeep for four days. The joyride was over.

  Aside from the bumps, bruises, and saddle-soreness, he had a crushing headache from muscle fatigue in his back and neck, and dozens of patches of skin rubbed raw under his ever-sweaty armor.

  Adding to this misery was a case of hay fever he’d contracted as a result of his body’s reluctance to adapt to new surroundings, which had now turned to a full-blown case of allergic sinusitis. On top of everything else, something he’d eaten had crippled him with the trots.

  Even Sir Javal had to sympathize. Rather than taking the twenty-day trek around the mountains, through the Shieldlands, dropping in on local lords and training Jarrod along the way, he chose instead to negotiate the trails leading through the passes, spotted with snow even in summer but leading into High River’s backyard.

  Regardless, Jarrod’s vacation had been utterly ruined by the time they limped into High River.

  Jarrod hadn’t been saying much the last few days, mostly because he found his answers terse and his temper shorter than it had ever been in his life.

  There had been moments, however.

  That morning’s sunrise from the summit of Hellweather Pass, at the border of the Falconsrealm wildernesses, had come at just the right time to convince him not to hand in his spear.

  And now they were riding up the King’s Road, having skirted the length of High Lake, and proceeded through the gentry’s quarter at High River City, far below High River Keep.

  The lake—the headwaters of High River—was long and slender and deep, and split the city in two, East City and West City, one on either end of the lake with a handful of manor houses along the shores between them on either side. Jagged cliffs carpeted with evergreens stretched up and away into pinnacles that scraped fog down from the clouds.

  Javal had told him that civilization was repeatedly brought to its knees every thousand years or so in an event they called The Cataclysm: earthquakes, tidal waves, gouges in the ground swallowing entire cities, mountains belching fire. He figured Javal was exaggerating. Something had to survive, he knew, or they’d all be living in caves. But he guessed that the massive moon tore the hell out of the planet.

  He wondered what the oceans were like.

  The road from High River City became hideously steep as the horses plodded up toward the great keep. It took nearly an hour.

  As they rode under the barbican, Jarrod’s neck craned to wonder up at the towers. Beyond the gatehouse lay an immense curtain wall in either direction, spreading for acres up a soberingly steep hillside of waving grasses. Further up was another wall, much higher, and beyond that was the keep in all her broad-shouldered glory: two mighty, broad towers in the near corners and at a far corner a smaller tower, dizzying in its height, its crenellations silhouetted against the forested drop of the box-canyon and the sawtooths and spires beyond.

  “Wow.”

  “Yes” was all Javal said.

  It was a long ride up to the inner barbican, at which point they crossed a stone bridge bridging a gully filled with large and splintery rocks.

  Jarrod managed a half-wave to the many guards peering down upon them. “Hiya,” he muttered. His mind was on food, with all his pains sapping his energies. Ah, yes. Food. And a long soapy bath to wash the sweat from his blisters.

  Javal whistled for his attention. “Stop here, Jarrod,” he called. Jarrod pulled the mare’s head back (the two of them had just recently established where authority truly resided) and swung down, adjusting his swordbelt. He swallowed the pain as his legs shot slivers of black glass into his eyes. Dammit, you’re here!

  They entered the great keep, clapping each other on the back. Javal handed him a few well dones and assured him that the hardest part was over. “We’ll get you healed up in no time, rider.” The ground floor of Highriver was a three-story anteroom lit with narrow windows and torches that vanished into the distance down each wall, and adorned with ornate tapestries denoting the chivalric orders and allied cultures. The floor was rough stone and a wide flight of stairs corkscrewed up the right-hand wall.

  “Sir Javal, Son-Lord of Ravenhurst, Captain, Order of the Stallion,” Javal introduced himself to the guards, pulling off his helmet and headgear and tucking one into the other. “This is King’s Rider Jarrod, Son-Lord
of Knightsbridge. We report for castle duty.”

  The guard looked them over.

  Javal raised his voice a bit. “Did you not hear the word ‘Captain?’”

  The guards made a hasty salute.

  “Let me guess,” said Javal. “You’re here on scutage.”

  It was then that Jarrod noted that the guards seemed neither particularly fit, nor disciplined, compared to Javal.

  “Yes, sir,” said one. “Lord Farmond of Wine River hired us.”

  Javal nodded. He pointed to the twin gold braids around his left shoulder. “These,” he said, “mean ‘Captain.’ One silver is ‘Lieutenant.’ One gold is ‘Chief Lieutenant.’ Two silver is ‘Commander,’ and two gold,” he pointed to them again, “‘Captain.’ Make that mistake again, and I’ll beat you unconscious. You at least train with us, yes?”

  “I will, sir.”

  “That’s the right answer. Alert the chamberlain that we’ve arrived, and get some valets to haul our gear. We’ve got quite a bit, so bring several. We’ll watch the door.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the guard left the doorway, Jarrod asked, “Scutage?”

  Javal’s voice was low and serious. “Knights can hire mercenaries to stand in for them at castle duty, as long as they pay a tax in addition. The money paid to the mercenaries is called scutage. It’s a major flaw in our security.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “It was bad enough that the border lords used to send the fools that pass for their local knights,” said Javal. “Now even they don’t bother to show up for castle duty, and their lords send these idiots instead. We say nothing of our missions or objectives to anyone outside of our own order. Is that clear?”

  “Absolutely,” said Jarrod. “You know, Carter said something about the border lords. Kinda rough out there, huh?”

  Javal shook his head. “Lawless. Most of the lords of the Shieldlands took their keeps by force of arms, and it’s ongoing. The estates out there might as well be small kingdoms, waging ten-man wars with their neighbors.”

  “Shit.”

  “Shit, indeed. Teenaged thugs and paunch-helmed robberbarons are the only troops standing between us and Gavria right now.”

  At that moment, another guard across the antechamber bellowed, “Attention, all! The heir presumptive, his grace, Lord Albar Hillwhite!”

  “Speaking of paunch-helms,” said Javal, kneeling. Jarrod dropped to one knee as well, and set his helmet in front of him.

  A small knot of men wound their way down the stairs to the main floor, laughing and talking loudly. Three were men in riding armor, fine silver mail over buckskin or suede; two of these were in spectacled Norman-style helms with mail hanging from the eyes and horsehair plumes, and the third, a head taller and half again as broad as the others, was bare-headed and sported a black topknot. There was also a hooded figure in silver and black who walked silently behind the warriors with a ponderous gait; and last was a blade of a man Javal’s age, quite well-dressed in a bright yellow tunic and black cape, with a shock of dark hair and a pinched face that would have been handsome had it not been so intense. He seemed to be dominating the conversation.

  As the knot neared, Javal’s smile melted and his face went ashen.

  His voice a hiss, the knight ordered, “Don’t look up. And whatever happens,” he said this last emphatically and with clenched teeth, “Do. NOT. Draw.”

  Jarrod, obeying but not understanding, averted his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

  The party wove its way over to the door. Jarrod fought the itch to look up with all he had.

  “—well, quiet journey to you,” the pinched-faced man was saying, “And I, ah—” his voice quickly trailed into nothingness as he saw the two kneeling knights by the doorway. “Yes. Quiet journey,” he concluded.

  On his way past, the tallest of the armored men slammed Jarrod’s ear with his shin hard enough to level him and send his helmet skidding across the floor.

  Jarrod regained his feet, slurping at the shooting pains in his head.

  The knight muttered a gruff apology, snorting, “Oh, excuse me, sire!” with his hand on his heart. This brought hoots and taunts from his seconds.

  Jarrod’s temper supernovaed.

  They tangled, crashing and bashing and cursing at the top of their lungs. Javal leaped to his feet and roared Jarrod’s name, both a reprimand and a warning.

  For Javal had recognized the tallest of the knights.

  It was General Loth, High Warlord of Gavria.

  Javal was working out how he would explain to Crius that Jarrod had been killed only a few days into his training until, in a spectacular moment, Jarrod rolled Loth up onto his shoulders and flipped him into the stone floor hard enough to rattle the entire castle.

  The world stopped on its axis.

  Somewhere outside, a bird sang.

  Heads turned from Loth to Jarrod and back amid a growing murmur of profanities as it occurred to everyone in the room that Jarrod might have just killed the most feared warrior in all of Gavria with his bare hands.

  Jarrod spat a mouthful of blood and put one hand on his swordhilt as he addressed Loth’s seconds. “Are any of you tougher than him?” He nodded toward Loth, still not drawing.

  Even a couple of Falconsrealm knights backed up a step for good measure.

  Loth rolled to his feet, groaning, wincing, and nearly doubled. He staggered to a horse stance, then drew his sword and held it before him with both hands as he straightened up. His voice was pained. “Nice trick. Try that with a sword in your hand, boy.”

  “Okay,” Jarrod offered, half-drawing.

  “Jarrod!” yelled Javal. “Do not draw!”

  Loth menaced with his sword, which was big, heavy, unornamented, and, Jarrod knew because he owned one almost identical, specifically built to fuck up the exact armor he was wearing right now. “Earn your spurs,” Loth hissed.

  “Rider!” shouted the loud man in yellow. The prince, Jarrod realized. “That man is a guest of the crown!”

  “So am I,” Jarrod growled.

  Loth’s blade dropped a hair. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “I’m the guy who just knocked you on your ass,” said Jarrod. “Or were you not paying attention?”

  Javal stepped between Jarrod and Loth, his hands out in either direction. “Enough.”

  Loth was salivating, his eyes intent on Jarrod. “Away, Captain, or I’ll run you through.”

  Javal’s eyes were calm. “So be it, sir.”

  There was an awkward moment.

  “I swear!” Loth warned.

  Jarrod spoke quietly, “Captain, I can take this guy.”

  “I believe it,” said Javal. “But take your hand off your sword. That’s an order.”

  “Captain!” ordered the rat-faced man. “Get that soldier under control!”

  “He’s a King’s Rider, not a soldier, and go back to your knitting, Alby,” said Javal, still locking eyes with Loth, “This is man’s work. Go on,” he told Loth. “Run me through, so the rest of us can see you hanged.”

  “Hey, just apologize,” suggested Jarrod, to Loth. “You apologize; I let you walk.”

  “Rider,” ordered Javal, “Shut up.”

  In another moment, every available guard surrounded Javal and Loth, and had formed a wall between Jarrod and the warlord. “Get behind me,” one muttered under his breath. Another clapped Jarrod gently on the shoulder in commendation. “Nicely done, rider.”

  Loth sheathed his blade. “Another time,” he assured Javal.

  “Assuredly,” said Javal.

  “And you,” Loth challenged Jarrod through the crowd, “I need your name.”

  “I’m Jarrod of Knightsbridge!” shouted Jarrod, having to stand on tiptoes to be seen over the wall of black-armored Falconsrealm troops separating them. “And you owe me an apology!” he added as Loth and the others departed.

  “Sir Javal!” shout
ed Albar, “Control that soldier!”

  “Jarrod, form on me!” Javal pushed his way through the troops and stood face to face with Albar.

  Albar beckoned the knights closer to him. “Arrest that soldier,” he ordered, pointing to Jarrod.

  Jarrod spat another mouthful of blood and put his hand back on his swordhilt. “Easy, Jarrod,” said Javal. “Belay that order,” Javal growled at the troops. With his helmet off, every knight knew who he was.

  Javal’s chin was even with Albar’s nose.

  “You get that soldier under control,” Albar repeated, pointing at Jarrod.

  “Oh, he’s under control. Frankly, you’re lucky he didn’t decide to kill your—” and here his voice dripped vitriol on the word, “—honored guest.”

  “That man,” Albar’s voice quivered, “is an ambassador.”

  Javal cleared his throat, and spoke quietly. “This man,” he pointed to Jarrod, “is a King’s Rider.”

  Jarrod bowed.

  “If you have an issue with his actions,” said Javal, “you can take it up with the king. I doubt you’d want that, though, unless things have changed around here recently.”

  Javal turned to push his way through the crowd, Jarrod on his heels.

  “Oh, and Alby?” he turned back. Jarrod noticed—boy, did he notice—that Javal failed to address the heir presumptive by his title. “You realize we’ve arrived early. I’m certain you’ll take comfort in our extended presence here.” He wiggled his eyebrows mischievously.

  Javal muttered under his breath as they rounded the first turn in the grand stairway. “You just made your life exceptionally difficult.”

  “Are you suicidal?” Javal asked as he shucked his mail.

  “That’s an odd question,” Jarrod admitted.

  “It’s a serious question. He would have killed you. Or worse: if you’d killed him, you’d be hanged tonight. I told you not to draw your sword.”

  “I didn’t draw my sword.”

  “You were about to!” Javal reprimanded. “And you would have put yourself in a position that would have ended in your death, one way or another.”