Dragonslayer

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  With Trelain being a major town, and the seat of a duke, there were a number of coaching inns along the road between it and Mirabay. The distance between them was, for the most part, a day’s travel by carriage. They became less useful when you were on horseback and trying to make good time—in Guillot’s experience, it always seemed to get dark when you were exactly halfway between two stopping points. On this occasion, however, he had timed it well. They would have warm, dry beds for the night and Guillot would have one last opportunity to abuse the Prince Bishop’s bank balance.

  With the sun setting, the innkeeper had clearly not been expecting any more customers. The sleepy establishment burst into life when they arrived, although their less than luxurious mode of transport meant he showed then straight to a communal bunk room.

  Guillot looked the room over and grimaced in distaste. “I don’t think this will do,” he said. “We’ll need individual rooms. The best available.”

  Dal Sason cast him a sideways glance, but Guillot had been abusing the Prince Bishop’s funds enough for him not to show too much surprise. The innkeeper nodded eagerly, not about to turn away the extra money. He showed Guillot to a room farther down the corridor: small but well turned out, the type of thing a travelling merchant might choose.

  “I like to have space about me,” Guillot said.

  “I have just the thing,” the innkeeper said, his smile broadening.

  They continued down the corridor to a room at the back of the inn. Farthest from the road, it would be the quietist and thus the most expensive. The innkeeper opened the door with visible pride, so Guillot made a show of looking around and nodding with approval.

  “This will do perfectly,” he said.

  The room ran the full length of the back of the inn; its lead-latticed windows looked out over the small kitchen garden behind. The bed sat at one end and the remainder of the space was filled with a small two-seater sofa and a coffee table sitting on a drab rug. Guillot waited until the innkeeper had left, closing the door after him, then dropped his travelling bag on the end of the bed and let out a sigh. He couldn’t have cared less about the room—he had slept on the floor, in the gutter, and in various spots on the street between Jeanne’s tavern and his house. What he wanted now was space and privacy.

  The bed was inviting after the long ride, but he had to resist the temptation. He removed his armour—a difficult but not impossible task to accomplish alone—and stretched his aching muscles. He needed his body to get used to the plate again, and wearing it was the only way to do that. Once he had loosened some of the knots in his shoulders, he pushed the couch and coffee table up against the wall. After a moment of deliberation, he got down on his hunkers and rolled up the rug before placing it to the side. That done, he took his sword from its scabbard and started doing what was known in the Academy as “the positions.”

  From the age of five or six until his early twenties, every day had started with the positions. It was a slow and methodical progression through guards, attacks, and defences, the focus being on controlled, precise movement at a reduced pace. Over time, the movements became second nature, and when needed at speed, they would be clean, accurate, and hopefully lethal. At his peak, Guillot had even added positions of his own devising to his routine. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done them.

  Studying his feet, he made small adjustments to their position until they were where he wanted them. There was a time when they would have naturally fallen into the correct spots, but that was no longer the case. He flexed his knees and winced at the creaking sounds they made. The position felt strained and unnatural and he knew he could not blame his hours in the saddle for that.

  He raised his sword hand and took his guard. The tip of his rapier bobbed about like it had a mind of its own, where once it would have been perfectly still. He tried to console himself with the thought that it was impossible for all his skill to come back to him in an instant, but he was on his way to try to slay a dragon and he didn’t have much time to get back in shape.

  He started to work through the positions, which were so firmly ingrained on his memory that he would never forget them, no matter how much he drank or how much time had passed. His form was ugly. His blade waved about like a piece of cloth flapping on the wind. If he tried to thrust, he was confident only that he would be able to hit the wall in front of him.

  After only a few minutes, he sweated from the effort. His forearm screamed under the strain of a sword that felt made from lead. His form, already poor, worsened with fatigue, so he stopped to take a break. He slumped down on the sofa and allowed the tip of his sword to bite into the floorboards. At least the dragon won’t be using a sword, he thought. The thought made him smile, but only for a moment. How could he have allowed himself to sink so low?

  He had never set out to drink himself to death. It had helped ease the pain in the days after Auroré’s death, but those days had seemed to run on and on, into months and years. The moment had never come when he thought it was time to stop. Might it now be too late?

  CHAPTER

  20

  Solène felt nervous every step of the way to the palace. The power of the Prince Bishop frightened her, but she was more afraid of the Intelligenciers and a repeat of her experience in Trelain. She knew she couldn’t expect to be so lucky a second time, and the Order was the only place she could find safety. There was no way to know what she was getting herself into, but the unknown seemed like a promising alternative to the world she already knew.

  At the palace gate, she was stopped and had to wait for word to be sent to the Prince Bishop. To her surprise, he arrived in person a few moments later, followed by a retinue including two men in the cream robes.

  “I’m very glad to see you,” the Prince Bishop said. “You’ve made your decision?”

  “I have,” Solène said. “I’d like to take you up on your offer.”

  “That’s very good news,” the Prince Bishop said. “Very good news indeed. These men are members of the Order of the Golden Spur, and will bring you there. You’re about to embark on a very exciting journey, Solène.”

  * * *

  Solène had never ridden in a carriage before, let alone one as fine as the Prince Bishop’s. The comfort did little to quell the butterflies in her stomach. His haste in sending for his personal carriage as soon as they had spoken suggested that he wanted to get her to the Order’s headquarters before she had a chance to change her mind. She was flanked by the two men in the cream robes, both young and intense-looking. She tried to engage them in conversation to satisfy her curiosity and temper her anxiety, but they said little. They were courteous enough, however, and if anything, she would have said they were wary of her.

  The Priory—the Order’s home—was situated on the city’s north bank. At first glance, it was an austere, walled complex that did little to build her enthusiasm. The buildings looked like they had been built many years earlier; certainly long before the Order came into existence, and judging by the density of buildings around it, before this part of the city was as populated as it now was. Her sense of foreboding grew and she questioned if she had made the right choice. However, she knew she couldn’t spend the rest of her life running. The Order might represent her only opportunity to stop. It didn’t need to be the land of milk and honey that the Prince Bishop had painted it. It only needed to be safe.

  The carriage rattled to a stop outside heavy old gates recessed into the wall. The two men got out of the carriage and engaged in a brief conversation. After a moment, one of the men popped his head back in.

  “His Grace’s carriage is too large to fit through, miss. This is as far as it can take you. We’ll take your baggage and bring you in.”

  Solène smiled at the thought of having baggage. The seamstress had arrived at the inn with her new clothes only moments before she had left for the palace. She would not have believed how good a fresh set of well-made clothes could feel, but after fleeing Trelain with only
those on her back, it was a sensation she hoped she would not forget, nor ever take for granted.

  Her companion offered Solène his hand, to help her out of the carriage, and she could not help but notice the effort they were making. The Prince Bishop wanted her, and wanted her badly. Was she really so special?

  “Thank you,” she said, peering through the open gate to get her first glimpse of the place she might be calling home. Her eyes widened in surprise. From the outside, she would have described it as bleak. The inside was a very different matter. A courtyard garden caught her eye first; it rivalled anything she had seen at the palace for beauty. It was lush, shady, tranquil, and as far from what she expected as she could imagine.

  “This way, miss,” the man carrying her bags said. “Word of your arrival was sent ahead, so you’ll be expected.”

  She smiled and followed him, trying to take everything in. As she passed through the gate, the path changed from mud to smoothly raked gravel that crunched pleasingly underfoot. A large fountain adorned the garden’s centre, and the sound of flowing water lent the courtyard an air of serenity. She wanted to lie down on the grass and listen to it all day. Men and women in cream robes were scattered about the garden, sitting and reading, or walking together, deep in conversation. Her immediate reaction was that this was somewhere she wanted to be.

  The buildings that had seemed so dour from outside were exemplars of architectural beauty from this side. Many looked far newer than the walls themselves, and she felt her misgivings being replaced by the exciting thought that this might be somewhere she could be happy.

  A tall, slender woman with blonde hair tied back in a ponytail approached the new arrivals.

  “Solène?” she asked.

  “I am.”

  “Excellent. My name is Kayte dal Drezony,” she said. “I’m the Seneschal of the Order—that’s a fancy name for one of the senior officers. Welcome to the Priory.”

  “Thank you,” Solène said.

  “Where are you from?”

  “A tiny village called Bastelle-Loiron.”

  “I hear the Loiron valley is very beautiful,” dal Drezony said. “I’ll take you to your room and tell you how things work while we walk.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Solène said, feeling overwhelmed. “It’s beautiful here.”

  “Not what you expected?”

  Solène shook her head. “No, it looks very different from the outside.”

  Dal Drezony laughed. “That’s not entirely unintentional. The Prince Bishop felt that maintaining as low a profile as possible was for the best. I agree with that, but we discovered early on that if people are happy in their environment, they make better progress, so we hide our little paradise behind ugly walls.

  “This way,” dal Drezony said, indicating an archway leading into another courtyard garden. “I’m to be your mentor while you’re training. If you have any problems settling in, I’m the first person you come to.” She pointed to a long building. “That’s the library over there. It’s not the largest around, but it’s being added to nearly every day and it holds a lot of books you won’t find anywhere else. Not just on magic, but a broad range of things that might be useful to us, or just of interest.”

  Solène glanced at the building and wondered how many books it might contain—certainly more than the shelf in the chapel’s annex in Bastelle.

  “There are two types of people here,” dal Drezony said. “Fencers and conjurers—although one day the Prince Bishop hopes for us all to have the same skills, and there are a few who are passable at both. I don’t see it happening myself—at least not to the level the Prince Bishop wants, but he can always dream. The first type—the fencers—are Academy graduates. Commander Leverre, the Order’s marshall, is the only banneret who can create worthwhile magic. The bannerets are pretty lethal with a sword, though. Most of them have been swinging one since they were infants, and it shows.

  “All the swordplay goes on in there,” she added, pointing to a low building. “The refectory is over there.” She indicated a long building that took up one side of the courtyard. “We try to take meals together as a community. Helps to create a sense of collegiality. The food’s pretty good—one of the benefits of having so many people here of noble backgrounds. You can train them into the ground, but if the food isn’t up to standard, it’s mutiny.” She laughed.

  “Your room is through here.” She escorted Solène through another arch, into a galleried lane. “The conjurers—you and I—are usually academics or people who’ve shown a bit of talent. You can swing a sword from dawn until dusk—and you’ll have to until you get the hang of the basics—but you won’t match a banneret’s skill. I like to think we have an edge when it comes to the mental agility needed for magic, though, so it balances out. Now.” She stopped at a door and opened it. “Your palace.”

  While the room did not quite match Bauchard’s standards, it was certainly far closer to a palace than Solène’s room in Trelain. She looked around—a large bed with what was clearly a feather mattress, comfortable chairs, spotlessly clean. It was far more than she could have hoped for.

  “Will it be all right?” dal Drezony said.

  “It’s excellent. It’s better than excellent.”

  “Good, good. The Prince Bishop is very eager to see that you’re happy. We’ll take lunch in an hour—the bell will let you know when. Come across when you hear it. Until then, settle in, relax, and feel free to take a look around. If you’ve any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  The woman left, as did the men after delivering Solène’s bags, and Solène sat down on the bed, surveying her new home. She couldn’t stop herself from grinning like an idiot. All she had ever done was survive. Now the possibilities seemed limitless. Her mind boiled with questions. When would her training start? What would it involve? She wondered what she might learn. Would it seem too eager if she went to the library to take a look around?

  As much as exploring her magical talent appealed to her, the idea of learning how to use a sword excited her. She had seen bannerets about the place, the swords that only they were entitled to wear strapped to their waists. She had always wondered what it would be like to use a blade, and now it seemed she would get the chance to try.

  CHAPTER

  21

  Alpheratz had visited the village a number of times, filling his belly with the humans’ cattle and sheep. The inhabitants had done their best to make feeding difficult for him, but he had stripped away their herds nonetheless. Now that it had little value as a source of food, it was time to finish the place and move on.

  He circled the village from above, trying to decide where to begin. If he started with the buildings on the outskirts, he could herd people toward the centre with little effort. The outlying buildings took light easily, whipping up the inferno of flame and smoke that created the terror he so wanted the people below him to feel. Lining up several buildings that lay along a rough curve, he swooped. His squeezed on his flame glands and let out a long tendril of flame that ignited each building and scorched the ground between.

  He flew along an ever-decreasing perimeter, squirting jets of flame at anything made by man, taking satisfaction as fire rose. People ran out of the burning buildings, confused and terrified, just as Alpheratz desired. He considered killing them as he went, but he wanted them to have time to consider their fate, to know they were about to suffer and die. He wanted them to feel fear. Terror. Still, he held hope that when his vengeance was complete, he might find others like him somewhere in the world.

  The people began to flee the conflagration, toward the centre of the settlement. He tightened his circle with each pass, herding them to their deaths. When only the cluster of buildings surrounding the central open space remained, he paused, allowing his flame glands a moment’s rest. Spotting a sturdy-looking building, he glided down to perch on the apex of its roof. It flexed under his weight and a number of slates shattered, but it held him. The square below was fil
led with people, their eyes fixed on Alpheratz. He screeched, more for effect than out of true anger, and revelled in their terrified response. An arrow pinged off one of his scales, no more an irritation than the buzzing of a bee. Somewhere among the vermin beneath him, there was a brave one, not that it would matter.

  He screeched again, accompanying it with flame. Cries of pain and prayers for aid filled the air, but it was all so much noise to Alpheratz. He breathed deep and emptied himself of fire until he could no longer see any people before him, only a raging inferno. The heat was so great that even his eyes stung. His task complete, he stretched his wings and gave them one great beat, letting the fire’s heat lift him high over the village. He looked down, satisfied that once the flames had died, the destruction of the village would be complete. He turned toward his mountain, content that his work for the night was done.

  He’d flapped his wings only twice more when he spotted another building in the distance, substantial enough to make it worthy of his time. More importantly, he spied two figures running toward it and altered course accordingly. He swooped low over them, letting them know that they had not escaped. Spinning about so he faced them, Alpheratz slammed onto the ground in front of the humans, who stopped, wide-eyed. They were a female and a male hatchling who barely reached her hip.

  “Get behind me, Jacques,” the female said.

  The hatchling did as he was told, his fear-filled eyes wet with tears.

  “Get away from us, you filthy bastard!” the female shouted, displaying the protective instinct with which most creatures treat their young.

  Alpheratz ended their lives with a jet of flame so intense neither of them had time to scream, but felt no satisfaction. Indeed, he felt sick to the pit of his stomach. The image of the woman’s defiant, terrified face burned in his mind. The love she showed, trying to protect her young even in the face of her own death, disturbed him. He thought of Nashira and his own hatchlings. Was this human female so different?