Dragonslayer

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Hate fought with shame and regret with such fury that he thought his heart would come asunder. He launched himself into the air, desperate to be rid of the place, to take his mind elsewhere. The bigger building loomed in front of him and he hurled himself at it with every ounce of the raging turmoil inside him. He tore chunks of stone from the walls, burned it with flame, smashed his body against it, desiring to hurt himself as much as cause destruction. He sought oblivion in rage, but could not find it.

  * * *

  Amaury stared out of the carriage window as it rattled along the cobbled streets toward the cathedral. He seemed to be spending a great deal of effort trying to distract himself from the dragon. It didn’t work, however. To say he was worried was an understatement. He was a juggler who had thrown all his balls in the air, and he had no idea when they would come back down. The penalty for dropping one would be death.

  Boudain the Tenth was too squeamish about breaking with a thousand years of law and tradition for Amaury to make him completely privy to his plans. The king couldn’t understand that every omelette required eggs to be broken. He needed to be managed as carefully as the public.

  Their relationship had been soured by Amaury leaking news of the dragon. There was no way to hide the Prince Bishop’s involvement in that, and he would have to take his chastisement with good grace when it came. He would still have to watch out for the king’s other advisors. They hungered for Amaury’s power, and he would be damned before he let them have it.

  He leaned back into his seat and drummed his fingers on the windowsill. When he was ready to announce the Order, he needed to be certain the king had no option but to agree with him. Covered in the glory of saving Mirabaya from a rampaging dragon, they would be seen as the sword and shield of the nation. As risky as it was, he knew his chosen course was the correct one. There would never be another opportunity so good.

  The carriage came to a juddering halt outside the cathedral. Amaury didn’t wait for an attendant to open the door. He was too eager to get to the archives and continue his studies. Every time he stepped into the vaulted, cavernous room beneath the cathedral, he learned something new. His mentor, the previous Prince Bishop, had been the first man in centuries to recognise the power that knowledge could give. Something of a zealot—not a trait Amaury would ever claim for himself—that knowledge had been anathema to him, despite the man’s wish to assert the primacy of the church over the entire world.

  For a time after his ascension, Amaury had not known what to do with the archive. Only after he had discovered Ysabeau’s existence, and her talent, had he turned his mind to magic and how it could be used.

  There had been a time when kings, princes, and dukes had heeded the words of the great prelates of the church. Now, in a time when Amaury’s letters to even bishops in other countries went unanswered, the church’s influence over the secular world was all but non-existent. He was less interested in the spiritual power of the church—far more so in the temporal.

  Where once the church had been ruled by the Prince Bishop from Mirabay, in recent decades, the individual dioceses had grown increasingly independent. Each state sent its cardinal to Amaury’s annual congress, but they no longer remained in Mirabaya year round, and their participation when present was lacklustre at best. Other than that, he rarely, if ever, heard from the other archbishops. Men of learning and influence amongst the people, they always had the ears of their rulers, and if Amaury could bring them back under his control, the power he could exercise would be enormous—far more than any local potentate could hope for. Mirabaya would be supreme, the physical support for the church as it spread its influence across the world, and the Order was key to that. Might was the only thing men with power understood, especially when it came to having to give up some of that power.

  He swept through the cathedral’s nave, giving only a curt nod to the eager deacon who had come out to greet him and paying little attention to the man’s disappointment. He sped down the tight spiral staircase to the archive, focussed on his thoughts.

  He was under no illusion that it had been anything but his political acumen that had won him the old king’s ear, and it was the monarch’s mental decline that had allowed him to build such an impressive power base so quickly. Amaury’s predecessor, gods bless him, had been too much of a firebrand to gain much traction at court. He had been like the embarrassing uncle that families had to humour, but tried to distance themselves from.

  Amaury thought of him more fondly than that. Had it not been for the previous Prince Bishop, Amaury had no idea where he would be now. Probably like so many other crippled swordsmen who had turned to the bottle or dream seed, who ultimately met their end on the Black Carpet, the illegal and often deadly underground duelling circuit. He didn’t even have a country estate to retreat to—his father had taken it away from him when he lost in the Competition, favouring the younger brother over the severely wounded elder.

  The church was universal, though, and the perfect vessel to exercise a type of power that did not end at national boundaries. Amaury did not see why he should pay court to a king, or seek to curry favour from a man entitled by birth, rather than by merit. It should be the other way around. Until Amaury gained a firm grip over the church and its bishops, that was not going to happen. So long as foreign bishops saw themselves as independent, their rulers were not going to pay attention to a Mirabayan priest, regardless of his title or the former authority of his office.

  He had long wondered if there was a magical way to sway public opinion, and this was one of the things he kept an eye out for as he pored over the shelves in his private, forbidden library. It seemed like too much to hope for, considering how the College of Mages and all its people ended up.

  He needed to focus on what he knew—manipulation of public opinion the old-fashioned way. Still, that was a task for the next day. That night was his, and his skin tingled in anticipation of what he might discover on the shelves.

  CHAPTER

  22

  Guillot had spent most of the previous evening doing the positions and had risen before dawn to pick up where he left off. By the time he joined the others for breakfast, he felt as though he was already halfway through his day. His shoulders complained of overuse. He had improved, but only marginally. Movements that had once come easily, had been fast and fluid, felt like they were lubricated with gravel.

  Dal Sason looked up from where he was eating alone and gave Guillot a nod when he entered the room. Leverre and his people were sitting a noticeable distance away, talking quietly amongst themselves. They didn’t react to Guillot’s arrival. Guillot sat opposite dal Sason.

  “How’s the food?”

  “Not bad,” dal Sason said. “Sleep well?”

  “Middling.”

  “I know what you’re up to, by the way.”

  Guillot’s gut twisted. “What do you mean?”

  “You can fritter away as much coin as you like. It won’t make the slightest difference to the Prince Bishop. It’s said that he’s richer than the king.”

  Guillot concealed a sigh of relief. “Perhaps, but I’d still prefer that I benefit from it, rather than him.”

  “Do you mind me asking: why all the ill feeling?”

  “I do mind. It’s none of your business.”

  Dal Sason blushed, but the innkeeper arrived in time to spare them an awkward moment. Gill ordered eggs, bacon, bread, and jam. It didn’t even occur to him to ask for a glass of wine, which was something new.

  “I expect we’ll be arriving back in Villerauvais some time this evening?” dal Sason said.

  “Something like that,” Guillot said, regretting how sharp he had been. “Depends on whether our friends here have another day of hard riding in them.”

  Leverre overheard the remark. “We’ll still be going long after you’ve dropped from the saddle,” he said.

  Guillot raised his glass of water. “I certainly hope so.”

  “As soon as you’re don
e eating, we move,” Leverre said.

  Guillot turned back to dal Sason. “From the way he speaks, you’d almost think he was in charge.”

  Dal Sason chuckled. “You might think that, but actually, I am.” Guillot frowned. As the alleged dragonslayer, he believed he was also leading the expedition. “I’m the only impartial party,” dal Sason said. “Leverre wants to prove himself and his people. You want to … Well, I’m not sure what you want to do. All I’m interested in is seeing this threat to the kingdom extinguished.”

  “Impartial but for the substantial reward I’m sure the Prince Bishop is to recompense you with.”

  Dal Sason blushed but said nothing.

  Guillot leaned back in his chair, not sure how to respond. It stung to be passed over. He had been the finest swordsman in the land, fought in several wars with distinction, and had been declared a hero three times over, but now, it all seemed to count for nothing. All that mattered was his membership in a social club for dissolute noblemen. What possible value could that have?

  “Why do we have to go to Villerauvais, anyway?” Leverre said. “We have our plan.”

  “I need to get something,” Guillot said. “We’ll make Trelain not long after nightfall if we maintain our pace. A good night’s sleep there, an early start, and we’ll be in Villerauvais by noon. It won’t delay us.”

  Leverre made to open his mouth, but Guillot fixed him with a stare that said the discussion was over.

  * * *

  Guillot had mixed feelings returning to Villerauvais. He was sober, in new clothes, and cleanly shaven. Quite possibly no one there would recognise him. He was afraid to learn if there had been many more attacks in his absence, and wondered how the people would greet his return. Might they have thought he had abandoned them?

  When all this was over, if he still lived, he would change. He would invest time, money, and energy into the village and his demesne. At one time, he had harboured great plans for Villerauvais; when had they drifted into the ether? After the Darvarosian War? The Szavarian War? Or one of the others?

  He should have left the city and taken Auroré back to Villerauvais after the wars, before he joined the Silver Circle. That was the moment everything started to slide downhill. Hindsight again. What a wonderful thing it was. It might be too late for his happiness, but that didn’t mean it was too late for Villerauvais.

  But it was.

  Villerauvais was nothing more than an ash pit. Guillot stopped his horse and stared at it, unable to make sense of open space where buildings had stood since before he was born. The others stopped beside him.

  “Is this it?” Leverre said.

  “Gods, Guillot, I’m so sorry,” dal Sason said.

  “This was where your village was?” Leverre said.

  Guillot nodded. “Yes.” The word caught in his throat.

  “Going to the city was the right choice, Guillot,” dal Sason said. “There was nothing you could have done if you’d stayed here. If you’d been here, you’d be dead, and no help to anyone.”

  Guillot heard dal Sason’s words from very far away. “I was no help to anyone as it was.”

  He urged his horse forward and scanned the remains, not sure what he was looking for. Little of anything remained beyond ash. When he got to the market square—the oldest part of the village, where stone had been used for construction, back when the Villerauvais seigneurs had been wealthier—there was a little more. Remnants of the buildings around the square stuck up like charred, skeletal ribs. The fire had been so hot that many of the stones had split into pieces.

  “How long ago do you think this happened?” dal Sason said.

  Leverre dismounted and waded into one of the ash piles, oblivious of the effect this had on his cream robes. He knelt and took up a handful.

  “It’s stone cold, but the ash looks fresh,” Leverre said. “A day or two. Probably not long after you left.”

  “Any sign of survivors?” dal Sason said.

  “What could have survived this?” Guillot said, his voice full of despair. “It was hot enough to break stone.”

  “The beast will most likely have moved on. What’s the nearest settlement?”

  “Montpareil,” Guillot said, his voice hollow. “It’s a little larger than Villerauvais.”

  “We should check there,” Leverre said. “They might have suffered the same fate, but perhaps not. We might be able to stop it happening there.” He studied Gill for a moment. “Maybe some survivors made it there.”

  “How?” Guillot said. “I’ve never seen destruction like it. Not even during the Szavarian War. How could anyone survive this?”

  “We’ll need to warn them if they’re the next village in danger,” dal Sason said.

  Guillot turned his horse, looking for the manor house. He could see the house was gone. The dragon had burned it to the ground as well. Everything was gone. It felt as though the years he had spent there were nothing more than a drunken hallucination, the buildings, the people, all imagined. Yves, Jeanne, Philipe, Jacques. All the others. They had relied on him, looked to him for protection, and now they were ash. “I’ll be ready to go in a few moments.”

  He rode to where his small townhouse had stood. Like all the other buildings, it was little more than a smudge on the ground. Dismounting, he walked through the burned debris, kicking at the ash with his foot until he struck something solid. He cleared away the ash, surprised to see the blue-grey sheen of Telastrian steel. The old sword trunk that he had kept by the door looked to be the only thing to have survived. The gold and silver decorations on its surface had melted away, but the Telastrian steel of the trunk itself looked sound.

  He tried to open it, but it seemed welded shut. Likely some of the decorative metal had seeped into the joint and hardened. Guillot used his dagger to gouge at the seam, then pried open the trunk. Where the cloth lining had touched the sides of the trunk, it bore some minor scorch marks, but otherwise, the rare and prized metal had kept the contents safe. His ancient family sword and the Academy Sword of Honour were perfectly intact. He took them both out and clutched them to his chest, staring at the open space where there had been a wall bearing the painting of his wife.

  The land beyond remained the same, but everything he knew was gone. The dragon had wiped from the landscape the efforts of generations of men and women. The swords were all that remained of the life he had lived there.

  “How many of those do you have?” dal Sason said.

  “Three,” Guillot said. “You can have them if the dragon does for me.” He returned to his horse and strapped them to its saddle. “I’m ready to go.”

  “Lead on,” dal Sason said.

  Guillot spurred his horse on, feeling Jeanne the Taverner’s eyes burning into his back as he rode away.

  CHAPTER

  23

  Montpareil was the perfect picture of a Mirabayan country village, bathed in moonlight, with the star-punctured sky and silhouetted mountains providing a breathtaking backdrop. The settlement was a cluster of buildings neatly tucked into the curve of a small river. A few of the buildings that surrounded the spire of the village’s small church had the glow of light coming from their windows. Smoke drifted slowly skyward from the chimneys, and the water wheel on the mill turned lazily with a soothing slosh and whoosh.

  Even in the dark, Guillot could see that the village was orderly and well maintained—the telltale signs of a diligent lord. It made him want to vomit. This was what Villerauvais should have been. This was what he should have made it.

  “All looks well here,” dal Sason said.

  “It does,” Leverre said. “They’ve been lucky so far.”

  Guillot felt a flash of anger. Why had the beast chosen his village? His home? What had anyone there done to deserve their fate? Montpareil was a bullying bastard. Why hadn’t fate chosen to destroy his village? Guillot felt guilty, but couldn’t dismiss the feeling of resentment.

  “We should see if there’s an inn or tavern that
can put us up for the night,” dal Sason said. “Might as well enjoy whatever comfort is available to us. We’re not going dragon hunting at this hour.”

  “There’s a proper inn here,” Guillot said. “Montpareil is on the road, so people pass through. It might be a tight squeeze, but it’ll take us all. Come on.”

  He led them into the town along the muddy lane that curved toward the cobbled, arcaded square that was the feature of all the towns in the region. Were it not for the good level of upkeep, he could be forgiven for mistaking it for Villerauvais. A faded sign swung from a metal bracket on the wall on one of the buildings, and Guillot pointed to it.

  “That’s the inn,” Guillot said. “It’s not Bauchard’s, but the cook won’t poison you, and the beds won’t leave you with an itch. Probably.”

  Dal Sason nodded. “Leverre, have one of your people go in and fetch the stable boy.”

  Leverre didn’t react for a moment, and Guillot wondered if dal Sason had over-stepped the mark. He found himself disappointed when Leverre nodded to Ginger—Brother Hallot—who obeyed the instruction without comment.

  “You’ll be taking a room to yourself again, Guillot?” dal Sason said.

  “If Amaury is paying for it, I most certainly will. If they have one. Only after I’ve had a good dinner, though. I’ve got quite an appetite.” He felt guilty thinking of his hunger. He felt guilty thinking of anything. His village and its inhabitants had been burned to death. They didn’t get to be hungry anymore. Yet he still lived, and slaying their killer was his duty. One he feared he would almost certainly fail to execute. He had to try, though. Every moment the beast still lived insulted the memory of the people he had failed.

  The stable boy arrived to take their horses with the sullen attitude of one who had believed his day’s work to be over. Dismounted, Guillot and the others went into the inn. They were greeted by the smell of stale wine and smoke; the latter from a large, crackling fire that filled the room with welcome warmth.