Dragonslayer

by Duncan M. Hamilton

Guillot said nothing.

  The man’s eyes widened. “It is! Well, ain’t that a thing. Usually I wouldn’t even think of taking something like that from a man. There’s robbing someone, and then there’s robbing someone. Still, a blade like that really doesn’t deserve to be stuck with someone like you.”

  Dal Sason emerged from the trees, holding a bundle of sticks, a fourth man’s dagger held tight against his throat.

  “Search their things and take the horses,” the man said as he went to collect Gill’s sword, never taking his eyes from Gill. He hefted the Telastrian blade in one hand. “I actually feel bad about this, I really do, so I’ll tell you what. I’m Captain Fernand, Estranzan by birth, infamous by life.” He doffed his hat. “If you ask around, you should be able to find me, should you ever want to get this magnificent blade back. How does that sound? I’m not so bad, am I?” Abruptly he let out a short grunt and crumpled to the ground.

  Guillot raised his eyebrows and looked at dal Sason, but the other banneret seemed just as surprised as Guillot.

  Another highwayman dropped where he stood. The man with the knife at dal Sason’s throat collapsed an instant later, leaving Guillot no further impediment. There seemed little point in grabbing a sword, so he charged, slamming his shoulder into the remaining highwayman.

  The element of surprise enabled Gill to wrestle his way to the top of their sprawl. He rained blow after blow onto his enemy, pouring out every ounce of his rage and shame. His anger carried him along as he drew his dagger and plunged it down. By the time he stopped, the man was dead.

  Getting to his feet, Guillot looked around. Dal Sason met Gill’s gaze with a puzzled expression, clearly no wiser than Gill as to what had felled the other three. Guillot moved from body to body—all were out cold, but showed no signs of injury. Being a gentleman of the road was an executable offence, and the responsibility for that was one of the many tasks Guillot’s seigneurship imposed upon him. As distasteful as dispatching a defenceless foe was, there was no telling who these men might harm, given the chance to do so. He made it quick, and took what little solace he could in knowing they wouldn’t feel any pain.

  “You two all right?” A female voice called from the dusky gloom.

  “We are,” dal Sason called back.

  Solène appeared from behind a bush, a stone in one hand and a loop of cloth in the other.

  “Looks like you boys got yourselves in some trouble.”

  “Looks that way,” Guillot said.

  “It’s getting cold. You should probably make a start with that fire,” she said to dal Sason.

  “Don’t bother,” Guillot said, retrieving his sword. “I’m not sleeping next to these vermin. There was another reasonable camping spot a short way back. If we move fast, we can be set up before we lose the light completely.”

  They walked in silence, leading the horses. Guillot chewed over two things. The first was his humiliation during the swordfight. He had never experienced that before, not from a lowly highwayman, nor the most esteemed of fencing masters. Even at his low ebb, he had expected to be capable of more. The second thing was Solène’s makeshift slingshot, and her seemingly lethal accuracy with it.

  Once the horses were secured at their new camp, dal Sason set about building a fire. Even as Guillot started to whittle tinder from a stick, he thought about how much he loathed himself—how could he have allowed the one thing he had been so good at escape him?

  He took a seat by the assembled firewood, drew out his flint, and started to work it against the edge of his dagger, creating a peel of sparks with each pass.

  “That was quite an impressive display with the slingshot,” Guillot said.

  Solène shrugged.

  “I didn’t see any stones flying through the air. Or hear them.”

  “Not my problem if you don’t see or hear well,” she said. “But I reckon that must have gone some way to settling my debt. Hurry up with that fire. I’m freezing.”

  He looked at her. She was shivering; it was a mild evening, but she looked as though she had crawled out of a freezing river. And missed a few nights’ sleep.

  “The thing is,” Guillot said, “the men you hit … None of them had a head wound. They didn’t have any wounds at all.” He fixed his gaze on her.

  “Oh, for gods’ sake,” she said, shivering hard. “I saved you. Does it matter? Just be grateful.”

  “I am grateful,” Guillot said, pausing in his effort to set fire to the tinder. “Very. Thank you. Only, I’m a little confused.” The colour was gone from her skin, and her eyes were heavy. She looked as though she was about to drop from the cold.

  “Light the bloody fire, would you,” she said. On her utterance, it sparked to life, a long tendril of flame rising from the centre of the pile of wood. She hugged her knees to her chest, her eyes wide. The expression on her face was like that of a guilty child.

  “I, uh…” Guillot looked at his untouched tinder. “Well,” he said, “that really is something.”

  Dal Sason had been close to falling asleep, but now was fully awake and staring. If he was as surprised as Gill, he certainly did a better job of hiding it.

  “Tell me,” Guillot said, his voice calm, “did you really turn into a goat?”

  “Of course not,” Solène said. “I turned him into a pig. Only for a couple of minutes, though.”

  Guillot laughed. Dragons. A sorceress. What would be next? The Prince Bishop announcing he was going to donate all his wealth to the mendicants? No, that would be too far-fetched. Dal Sason remained silent.

  “You aren’t afraid?” Solène said.

  “Why should I be?” Guillot said. “I’ve just seen you drop three grown men without laying a hand, or a stone, on them. If you wanted to hurt me, you’d have done it long ago. Come closer to the fire. I’ll stay awake with you until you’ve warmed up some.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  Each morning, there seemed to be something new for them all to digest. First, it had been Gill’s revelation that dragons roamed the land once more. Now, their new travelling companion was a user of magic.

  They packed up their camp in silence. Guillot kept his mouth shut, not out of any discomfort at being in the presence of a mage, but rather because of the memory of his fight with the highwayman. He had been a great swordsman for so long, the idea was part of his very being. To have it stripped away left him feeling hollow. He had always thought it would simply be there, waiting for him, if he ever needed to call on it again. How to get it back, though? He feared that he didn’t even know where to start.

  They set off for Mirabay once again. There seemed to be no question of her not going with them. Guillot didn’t bring up the matter. She seemed to know how to look after herself, and if she wanted to go to Mirabay, he had no reason to stop her.

  “What you said about the Intelligenciers,” Solène said after they had been riding for a little while, the first word any of them had uttered. “You wouldn’t actually do that, would you? Knowing what you know?”

  Guillot shook his head. “It’s not my business.”

  “You said you were the king’s representative…”

  “Not really. Not for a long time.”

  “It was a lie?”

  Guillot smiled. “It wasn’t. I swore you would get justice, and I reckon setting you free did that. I still do. I don’t believe for a second what you did to Arnoul was anything other than self-defence. Admittedly, before last night, I didn’t believe you’d done anything to him at all. Still, I’m not going to lose any sleep over my decision.”

  “Why’d you stop them, then? If you didn’t intend to hand me over to the Intelligenciers?”

  He sighed. “Let’s just say I don’t like injustice, and leave it at that.”

  “Why aren’t you afraid of me, like everyone else?”

  For the first time that day, Gill realised he didn’t have a headache, and was grateful for the fact. “You’ve already asked me that.”

&n
bsp; “I want a better answer.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been around enough people who wanted to do me harm to know what they look like.”

  “And I don’t look like that?”

  Guillot couldn’t restrain a chuckle. “No, you don’t. Then again, I’ll bet those highwaymen would have said the same thing.”

  They rode in silence awhile longer before Guillot’s curiosity got the better of him. “Did you know you were a … sorceress, before you came to Trelain?”

  “Please don’t call me that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because sorcerers hurt people. I’ve read about them, and they did terrible things. I’d never do anything like that. I’d never want to be like them. I didn’t ask for what I can do, and I’d never use it to hurt someone unless they were trying to hurt me. Or my friends.”

  “I apologise,” Guillot said, “but did you know you can do what you can do?”

  She nodded. “Back home, I already knew I could do things—light fires, move objects around without touching them—but I was always careful. One day, I wasn’t careful enough.” Her voice grew flat. “I was worried that the parish priest might denounce me to the Intelligenciers, so I ran before he had the chance. I thought I could hide in Trelain. Compared to where I’m from, it seemed huge.”

  “I don’t know if Mirabay is going to be any better for you. It’s larger by far, but there will be more Intelligenciers there. Lots more.”

  “I have to try. You can’t hide in a place where there aren’t many people. In a city I can disappear. It nearly worked in Trelain. It would have, if it wasn’t for Arnoul.”

  Guillot didn’t know what to say to her. He hadn’t spent much time listening to other people for a long time, at least not while sober, and he was out of practise. Like swordplay, chivalry had once come easy to him. Now it seemed completely alien. Was he obligated to do more for her than he already had?

  “You seem like someone with good intentions,” he said awkwardly. “Mirabay isn’t the place for that. You’ll need to be very careful.”

  “What’s it like there?”

  “It’s hard to put into words. On the surface it’s beautiful; the buildings, the music, the art, the food. Underneath?” He shrugged. “There’s rot everywhere. They just dress it up better in the city.”

  “Thank you for helping me,” she said. “I’ve never met anyone who would do something like you did for a complete stranger.”

  Guillot blushed.

  “It must have taken a lot of courage to ride into an angry crowd like that and make them hand me over. You saved my life.”

  The praise made Gill feel uncomfortable. He was a drunk who had pissed his life away because things hadn’t gone his way. He thought about admitting that he had still been drunk when he’d rescued her, but couldn’t bring himself to say it. Instead, he shrugged, echoing the habit of country folk who didn’t want to respond to something. The thought of being someone’s saviour felt like a heavy burden. Would he have done it had he been sober? He liked to think so, but he honestly didn’t know. He looked at his hands. The shaking had stopped, which came as a relief—as did the fact that his craving for a drink was far less intrusive than before. He still felt off, but “off” was better than he’d felt in a long time. Nonetheless, it was long past time to change the subject.

  “You’re very quiet back there, Nicholas.”

  “Simply trying to complete my mission with as little aggravation as I can,” he said.

  “Oh, don’t be like that,” Guillot said, refreshed by not being the most miserable person present. “It’s not so bad.”

  “Dragons? If I tell anyone at home about this, they’ll have me locked up. I mean, dragons?”

  Guillot didn’t miss the fact that he hadn’t commented on Solène turning out to be a mage. Was dal Sason afraid of drawing her ire?

  “Wouldn’t have believed it myself until I saw one,” Guillot said. “But it was as real as any of us, and it’s only a matter of time before it starts killing people, if it hasn’t already.”

  “I don’t mean anything by this,” dal Sason said, “but I couldn’t help noticing all the empty wine bottles in your house. I’ve been the worse for the bottle on more than one occasion, and I’d have sworn I saw things—”

  “It was a dragon,” Guillot said, “or something that looked very like one.”

  “I was there for a couple of days. I didn’t see anything that gave me to think—”

  “A dragon,” Guillot said, his firm tone indicating the conversation was over.

  * * *

  “Always provokes a reaction, doesn’t it,” dal Sason said when they crested a hill later that morning and Mirabay finally hove into view.

  The city basked in bright sunshine. It was a stunning sight—even Guillot, who had nothing but bad memories of the place, couldn’t disagree. Surrounded by high walls and towers, the city spread along the banks of the River Vosges, with its heart and ancient centre on an island that split the river in two. The buildings were mostly built of a creamy white local stone, capped with grey-blue slates. He spotted familiar landmarks—the old castle and the cathedral on the island, the palace on the hill on the south bank, overlooking the river. His gaze lingered there a little longer, his memory drawn to the duel in the great gallery that had won him his life and freedom, but had guaranteed his disgrace. He felt bile rise in his throat.

  “I don’t think it’s provoked quite the reaction that you mean,” Guillot said as the sight of the place filled him with contempt, and worse: fear. “No point sitting here gawping.” He urged his horse on. “I assume the Prince Bishop will have accommodations prepared for us?”

  “That was left to my discretion,” dal Sason said. “I’m not sure he actually expected me to succeed in bringing you back to the city.”

  “Excellent. We’ll need two rooms at Bauchard’s, then.” Guillot watched carefully for dal Sason’s reaction, but there was none. “Three, if you need somewhere to stay. The private dining room reserved for us every night we’re there.” Still no reaction. “And Solène can’t go around the city dressed like she is. We’ll need a seamstress to attend her. She needs at least three new sets of clothes. Day and evening wear, and at least one set of travelling clothes, I should think.” Still nothing. Guillot floundered for a more extravagant demand, but couldn’t think of anything. He wondered how much latitude the Prince Bishop had given dal Sason; how badly he wanted Guillot to come to the city?

  Guillot waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming. “Am I to assume by your silence that the Prince Bishop will pay for this?”

  “I don’t foresee a problem,” dal Sason said.

  “Excellent,” Guillot said, regretting more intensely than ever his decision to stop drinking.

  * * *

  Bauchard’s had been the most expensive inn in Mirabay when Guillot lived in the city, and it had not lost any of its lustre. The rooms were opulent, the beds were luxurious, the food was sublime, and the bill always enormous. That it would be satisfied from the Prince Bishop’s funds made the experience even more enjoyable.

  The very best Mirabayan wines were on offer at Bauchard’s, as well as those from places farther afield, the famed Blackwater vintages from Ostia among them. It strained Guillot’s willpower to its greatest extent to ignore them. With a seemingly limitless line of credit, one he desired to abuse as much as possible, the temptations were hard to resist, but he had made a promise to himself. To the people who relied on him.

  Something about his return to Mirabay felt like a homecoming. As he sat on one of the luxurious couches in Bauchard’s lounge, he could, at times, forget all that had happened. He could recall a nervous afternoon sitting in that very room, waiting for Auroré to arrive for their first date. Their marriage dinner had been held in the inn’s dining room. His stomach twisted with a mixture of grief and shame, and he wondered what he had been thinking, choosing Bauchard’s for their stay. Of all the places in Mirabay, this sho
uld have been the one he most wanted to avoid. Why had he been fool enough to come back here? Had he really thought the past would stay where it belonged?

  He felt hot, started to sweat, and thought he would be sick. He looked about for the fastest way to fresh air, but knew there would be no respite outside either. Too many familiar sights, sounds, and smells. He wanted more than anything to jump on the nearest horse and ride for Villerauvais as fast as it would carry him. He clutched the ornately carved armrest of his chair, squeezing it hard for what little anchor it gave him amidst the maelstrom of memory, regret, and pain.

  “Guillot? Are you all right?” Solène asked from her seat opposite.

  Dal Sason reappeared, having booked rooms. He frowned and said, “Is he all right?”

  Gill took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “Yes, came over a little dizzy is all. Probably hungry. I’ve been salivating over the thought of the dining room here for hours now.”

  “Me too,” dal Sason said. “I’ve booked our rooms, so I suggest we all take a few minutes to freshen up. As soon as you’re ready, we can go get something to eat.”

  “Perfect,” Guillot said, wondering if he’d be able to hold anything down. He didn’t want dal Sason to get any hint of what was really happening, but hiding it wasn’t going to be easy. “When do you need to report to your lord and master?” Guillot said, trying to direct his mind to something else.

  “I already have. I sent word ahead from the city gate. I expect he’ll send for us as soon as he’s ready.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  Amaury told his private secretary that he didn’t want to be disturbed, then closed the door to his office. Practising magic gave him little of the guilty thrill it once had—now it resulted mainly in frustration—but he persevered. His predecessors had chosen to ignore the contents of the great, ancient archive beneath the cathedral, out of either fear or the blinkered attitude that magic was evil, but Amaury had seen the opportunity it represented. He wondered why they hadn’t destroyed it all, but that might have meant admitting they had it in the first place, and he knew firsthand that the Intelligenciers weren’t averse to introducing members of the priesthood to the purifying nature of fire.