Dragon's Trail

by Joseph Malik

  “We’d be honored.”

  “Well, then,” Pitney announced. “To the Great Hall.”

  The council broke, with the usual banging and scuffing of benches. Not much was said among them as they filed for the door.

  Javal went to the table and picked through the parchments, skimming them.

  Ulo sidled up to Jarrod. His voice was deeper and slower than Jarrod expected, monotone and calm, with a haunting subtone that reminded Jarrod of Tuvan throat singing. Definitely going for the spooky evil wizard shtick, Jarrod noted.

  Ulo’s first words were, “I thought you’d be bigger.”

  Jarrod looked down and shrugged. “This was the only size they had left.”

  “I trust you’ll join me at my table.”

  Looking into the hood, Jarrod could just make out the dark features, high cheekbones, and shrouded, electric blue eyes. Ulo looked Native American, shamanistic. And a little bit nuts. Okay, yeah. He’s terrifying.

  The sword on his belt had a ring below the crossbar for his finger; a trigger for surgical precision. The handguard was a simple bar in the shape of a D. The sword rode in a silver-inlaid scabbard with black jewels. “They let you in here with that sword?” Jarrod asked.

  “You don’t trust me.”

  “Right,” said Jarrod, motioning toward the door. “Walk ahead of us.”

  As they wove down the stairs, Ulo’s hood turned to watch a particularly hood-turnable girl going up the stairwell.

  “Yeah,” said Jarrod. “That happens a lot around here. Mind the step,” he pointed, and as Ulo stumbled forward, Jarrod caught him with one arm.

  “That stair is twice as high as the others,” said Jarrod, taking Daelle’s hand.

  “What’s the point of that?” Ulo’s voice was so calm and level that he appeared disinterested.

  “If you’re in a helmet, you can’t see it, and you bust your ass.”

  “But you all know it’s here.”

  “Of course.”

  “Smart.”

  “It’s not a new concept. We did it on Earth. In Europe, they paint the trip steps bright—” He didn’t have a word for orange. Daelle had to translate orange as “fire.” Ulo got it.

  “I never knew that.”

  “Now you do. Gavria doesn’t do that?”

  “Not as far as you know,” said Ulo.

  “Well played.”

  Ulo’s laugh was quiet and slow. And weird. “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “How’s the head?”

  Jarrod shrugged.

  “It was . . . nothing personal.”

  “I would’ve done the same. Trip step,” he warned again.

  At the next landing they were at the Great Hall, which was smaller than the Lords’ Hall and used primarily for entertaining visitors and, as Jarrod had learned the week prior, throwing raging holiday parties that lasted for days.

  Jarrod and Ulo took seats at the head of a table at the front of the room. Wine was poured into tall agate chalices, and a plate of stuffed mushrooms was set into the space between them.

  Ulo took one with slender fingers and pulled his hood back.

  Jarrod had known a Kazakh fencer with skin nearly as dark and green eyes, but never anyone with skin as dark and eyes as radioactively blue.

  Ulo continued in English, speaking more quietly but still with the eerie, grating overtone that made Jarrod’s teeth ache. “Do you understand,” Ulo asked, pausing to take another mushroom and pausing again to savor it, “the ramifications of the deal you’ve been offered?”

  Jarrod told Daelle to excuse them. She did, and Ulo watched her walk away a little too long for Jarrod’s liking.

  “What deal?” said Jarrod. “And she’s a kid, asshole.”

  At this, Ulo smiled. “You’re a sorcerer, training for knighthood.”

  “I’m not a sorcerer,” said Jarrod, “I’m a stuntman.”

  Ulo stared a hole through him. “A joke,” he said slowly.

  “Maybe.”

  Ulo was visibly uncomfortable. “But you’re here to kill me.”

  “I have no interest in killing you.”

  “None?”

  Jarrod shrugged. “Keep talking, we’ll see how this goes.”

  “We are two scorpions in a jar. Our masters will shake our jar sooner or later.”

  “I don’t have masters. Keep your hands where I can see them,” Jarrod advised, as Ulo reached into his lap. His hand reappeared, holding a napkin, and he daubed a corner of his mouth.

  “You don’t appreciate the danger you are in,” Ulo began.

  “Story of my life,” Jarrod admitted, picking up his wine.

  “You have no rights here. You have no ability to stop anything that your superiors decide to start.”

  “So you say. Go on.”

  “Let’s suppose that you discover nefarious doings far over your head.”

  Jarrod set his chalice down. “Let’s.”

  “Do you think there is some court of appeals, here? A United Nations floor to air grievances? Have you even seen a court of law in this world?”

  “Come to think of it . . .” He shook his head after a moment’s reflection. “No. Not really. Huh.”

  “There are no courts here,” said Ulo. “Not as you’d know them. No one has ever derived any concept of individual justice here. The moral order that you take as axiomatic is an artifice.”

  “I am not drunk enough for this conversation.”

  “Laws here are laid down by the rulers at their whim, and upheld by auxiliaries. This is why there are no real laws in any of these realms. Well, one law: the strong rule.”

  “Lucky for me.”

  “You need to take your ideas of right and wrong, and go home. Now.”

  “I don’t see that happening,” said Jarrod. “Maybe they need a judicial system. Maybe they need somebody to stand up and tell them that we hold these truths to be self-evident. You know, and all that.”

  “I thought so, myself, once.”

  “And?” asked Jarrod.

  “I became king. Not president.”

  Jarrod gave it a respectful moment. “Point taken.”

  “They’ve never read Plato’s Republic. They’ve never heard the Sermon on the Mount. The very concepts that your perceptions of right and wrong are based upon are completely alien to these people.”

  Jarrod drained his wine, snapping his fingers at the server and pointing to the empty. “Keep going,” he told Ulo.

  “The ‘justice’ you’re fighting for—”

  “—I didn’t think I was—”

  “You are,” Ulo assured him, “is an artificial virtue that’s necessary for a society that doesn’t exist here. Your concepts of right and wrong are a function of the voluntary agreements of a nonexistent social contract.”

  “And?”

  “And you’re just going to make people mad.”

  “Looks like it’s working.”

  “Except here, there is nothing to stop anyone you anger—not just me—from throwing you in a dark hole with your eyes burned out and leaving you there until everyone forgets about you. Which won’t take as long as you think. So if this develops into a war—”

  “You mean when,” Jarrod corrected.

  “If this develops into a war,” Ulo repeated, “Thousands of people are going to die. You are powerless to stop it. You’ll be swept up into the machinery of war and spat out on a bloody field someplace, if you’re not snatched away in the dead of night and buried alive. A bit of an ignoble end either way, don’t you think?”

  The mushroom plate was pushed aside and another plate, piled high with sausages around a pot of mustard, was set between them.

  Jarrod smirked. “I can’t be the first person to have trouble taking you seriously.”

  “You could be the last.”

  “Are you threatening me?”


  “It doesn’t have to come to that.”

  Jarrod dipped a sausage in the mustard and bit off a chunk. “So, All You Are Saying, Is Give Peace a Chance?”

  Ulo had a slow, intriguing smile. “You are sorely outmatched,” Ulo said. “My bloodline goes back a hundred generations here. You are out of your element, and if there is a war, thousands of men are going to die, and one of them is going to be you. And if you start sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong—which is your order’s stock in trade—you won’t live to see a minute on the field of glory.”

  Jarrod swallowed, cleared his throat and stuck out his hand. “You know, we got off to a bad start. I’m Jarrod. I didn’t get your name.”

  Ulo continued, unphased. “They are giving you what you want. Enjoy it.”

  “I am. But pump your brakes. You want me to throw the fight?”

  “I don’t want a fight.”

  Jarrod chewed at him for a moment. “Yeah, I can believe that.”

  “Fighting is not my style. What I am saying, is take what you’ve been offered, and do your best to lie low. Your life will be considerably easier. And longer.”

  Jarrod laughed under his breath. “If you’re asking me to take a dive, you’d better consult your Evil Sorcerer’s Manual. You’re doing great so far with the whole thing, by the way. You’ve got the robe, the mannerisms, that voice thing. This little intimidation speech. It works for you. Me, I couldn’t pull that off.”

  “This is who I am.”

  “Sure,” said Jarrod.

  “I am not saying—” he hunted for the word, and then settled on Jarrod’s term, “—take a dive, Jarrod. I’m saying, let us not rush into anything that would make us,” again, he searched for a word, “uncomfortable.”

  Jarrod swabbed another sausage in mustard. “I’m a soldier. Comfort is not one of my concerns. Your comfort, much less so. No offense.”

  “You’re not going to give me a lecture about how avoiding a fight isn’t in your character.”

  “Funny, I’ve had this talk a lot, recently.”

  “I’m sure. I was there when you took down Loth.”

  Jarrod’s eyes hardened as he locked them with Ulo’s. “Then let’s talk ignoble ends. If you fuck with me, I’ll take whatever pieces of you are left when I’m done, and I’ll load them into a catapult, and launch them in the general direction of your homeland.”

  “So, you are going to kill me.”

  “You decide.”

  “Were you raised a wrathful jingoist, or is it more of a birth defect?”

  Jarrod cleared a fennel seed from his incisor with a fingernail as his wine was refilled. “Do you want an ass-kicking? I’m free after this.”

  “Atta boy.”

  “Do me a favor,” said Jarrod, “Piss me off.”

  “Every man has his price. Consider yours.”

  Drums and dancing girls began. Jarrod picked up his wine and stood. “I didn’t come here to sell my soul,” he said. “I came here to buy it back.”

  “We’ll talk again,” said the sorcerer.

  “Only when I negotiate your surrender.”

  V

  SCHERZO

  “Never interrupt an enemy when he’s making a mistake.”

  - Napoleon Bonaparte

  Oh, my sister’s name is Tilly, she’s a whore in Piccadilly, and my mother is another in the Stra-a-and . . .”

  Jarrod sang loudly astride Perseus as they slammed through the king’s hunting trails on Javal’s tail. The crash of his armor, and the horse’s barding and steeled hooves, clamored in time.

  “. . . and my brother sells his asshole at the Elephant and Castle, we’re the finest fucking family in the la-a-and . . .”

  Jarrod was trying to remember verse two when Perseus skidded to a stop and he slammed against the beast’s neck.

  Four ogrish things appeared ahead of him in the road. “Javal!!” he yelled, drawing his arming sword and flipping his shield into his hand. “Ambush!”

  When they charged, they were unlike anything he had ever seen.

  Incredibly, impossibly fast, they moved in leaps and were at him, clubs and claws flailing, nearly as tall as Jarrod was, seated.

  Perseus was trained to fight but Jarrod hadn’t yet learned to direct him; without orders, the huge roan fought only reflexively, turning and biting and kicking at each blow hurled into the barding. He caught one with both rear hooves and flung it off the road into the trees.

  Jarrod couldn’t get a clear swing with the horse’s haphazard movements, and in seconds one of the gargantuan creatures had yanked him from his saddle. He landed on his back and rolled over his head, springing up to his feet—between a career as a stuntman and a black belt in Judo he could fall on his ass from six feet in the air and walk away whistling—and he barely managed to duck a haymaker from a giant club which would’ve brained him.

  He was now on his own turf—sort of. They were huge! Eight feet tall? Taller? Black claws and red skins and tusks.

  And armor.

  One grabbed his shield and pulled; Jarrod took off a hand with the arming sword and on the return he swatted its sword aside and delivered a thrust under the eye through the open face of its helmet.

  He yanked the blade free, at which point one of them bowled him over.

  He rolled sideways as a club scattered the gravel right where his head had been, and as he found his feet, Perseus charged in and smashed the sheth over sideways.

  Jarrod put his back to the saddle. Perseus stayed behind him.

  The sheth climbed to its feet, snarling, “I’m a’kill you, human. We eat horse tonight!”

  “Not this horse,” said Jarrod. As he rushed at the sheth, it ran back, frantic. He broke the attack and backed up to Perseus, again.

  He had the wrong sword.

  Late nights with a diamond-honing kit had made the arming sword’s edge long past sharp; an edge that would take a head the way the best katanas could. But that same edge, microscopically thin, the Martensitic needles molecularly aligned, would fold over and self-destruct against a coat of plates.

  That’s why you have two swords, dumbass.

  It sure took that hand off, though. Damn. Nice edge.

  The gran espée de guerre, conversely, was not sharp by conventional definition—you’d have to punch the sword to cut yourself on it. It was, however, a masterpiece of edge geometry and blade harmonics, with a fat trick bevel that made it function less like a kitchen knife and more like a splitting maul, specifically designed to wreck mail and collapse a helmet or pauldron without suffering much damage.

  But it was on the far side of the saddle, beside his hammer. Which would also work here.

  His knees were shaking so hard his armor rattled.

  He was going to die.

  After all this, he would die for grabbing the wrong sword.

  At the very least, he knew, he was about to ruin the arming sword irreparably, and possibly break it, which would lessen his chances of getting through any further court intrigues with all his extremities still attached.

  Think, think, think, think.

  Your answer is four feet away. Figure this out.

  The sheth moved apart until they were at the edges of his vision. Jarrod kept his back to Perseus, swiveling his head with a monster on either side.

  One would charge as soon as he focused on the other. If he took the time to get into the saddle, both would charge, and take Perseus down, and if he got injured when the big horse fell, he was done.

  Four feet might as well have been an ocean.

  He wondered if he could duck under Perseus. If he could get to the gran espée de guerre, things would seriously start going his way.

  He’d never ducked under Perseus before. He wasn’t sure how he’d react, but one thing he did know about the big horse was that he didn’t like surprises.

  God, please, get that fucking weapon in my hands and I’ll always g
rab it first from now on, I swear.

  I’ve learned my lesson. Really. Got it. Thanks.

  He tried to move around Perseus to the front.

  As he moved, they both approached. He struck a guard and took a step forward, menacing, then turned to the other. They each backed up.

  Huh. They’re sure scared of you.

  It took him a moment.

  They don’t know you have the wrong sword.

  They didn’t see that you hit the unarmored parts of their pal back there. They just saw meat flying and blood spurting. And no way in hell do they want a piece of you right now.

  He heard the approach of an armored horse, the sound of a subway.

  The head of the beast to his right exploded, the end of Javal’s spear smashing through it. As the monster crumbled into the road, Javal spun his horse beside Jarrod.

  What had seemed to Jarrod an eternity had been only the minute it had taken Javal to don his helm and gauntlets. “Get on your horse!” His voice was louder than any Jarrod had ever heard, an operatic baritone that exploded through the forest.

  Jarrod sheathed his sword, slung his shield onto his back, then grabbed the mounting braid and swung up into the saddle.

  “Stay close!” Javal’s voice was adamant, possibly even angry.

  Faced with the two knights, out-armored, outgunned and with no flanking support, the last sheth made a retreat, scuttling sideways into the trees.

  “Do we give chase?” Jarrod asked.

  “Hell, no.” Javal kicked his horse around and jumped down next to the dead sheth. “Help me get his armor off. Helmet, too. Hurry.”

  Jarrod and Javal dumped the armor and helmet onto the table in the Chambers On Nine. The stink was a thing alive. Sheth had a graywater smell, not quite sewage, but green meat with a faint patina of old onions and dog shit.

  Jarrod threw up out the window. His voice was a leather-lunged shout as he yelled an apology down at the hillside.

  “Anyone out there?” asked Javal.

  Jarrod wiped his mouth with his hand. “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Good man.”

  “So, who’s going to go get Prince Skippy the Wonder Soldier?” asked Jarrod.