The Dragonstone

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “Is there no way they can gain their liberty?”

  “Once in a great while a thrall will win his freedom, through valor in battle or other high service to his master. Then, with grand ceremony, the iron is stricken and given to the man or woman as a symbol of their liberty. Yet for most, the only way to lose the collar is to lose one’s head.”

  Arin sighed. “Long past, Elvenkind learned that slavery is a great evil, and one day mankind will come to know it as well.”

  * * *

  Egil made a few inquiries, and finally the four took a large room in the Silver Helm, one of Königinstadt’s numerous inns, modest by any measure, for they did not wish to call attention to themselves. Yet the mere fact that a Dylvana had come to the inn was enough to cause tongues to wag. Moreover, accompanying her was a yellow woman who seemed to be a warrior, no less, and wasn’t that a wonder? And with these two came a pair of men—human males, that is, and not Elves: the younger of the two was a man with a red eye patch and a fresh scar down his forehead and cheek; the second was an oldster, another one-eyed man. And when these four strangers took to the same chamber and ordered hot baths, tongues wagged all the faster, for who knows what might go on behind their closed door?

  Bathed and refreshed, they came down to the common room for a hot meal, and each had a mug of ale—all but Alos, that is, for although the oldster could eat whatever he wished, Aiko would not allow him even the tiniest sip of brew, no matter how pitifully he whined. And so the old man had to settle for honeyed, spiced tea to wash down his biscuits and mutton stew.

  As they ate, all eyes followed their every move, patrons whispering among themselves in wild speculation:

  Look at her, a tiny thing. An Elf she is, but taller I thought them.

  Ja, a Dylvana she is one. The Lian it is who are tall.

  The yellow one now, no Elf is she, but tell me, now, what land do you name her from?

  Land I know not but a fighter she is, swords at her waist.

  The young one—a fighter he is as well. See down his face the scar.

  He could a duel have got it in.

  Ja. Maybe a noble he is, a lady Elf he travels beside.

  The yellow woman do not forget. The scar he bears she could have made, her blades carving his face.

  Nie, I think not. A full head taller is he.

  The old man and the younger, together they travel. Uncle and nephew they could be.

  If so, in the family one-eyes run, har!

  My tongue would I hold if I were you, and not the old man get angry—a curse he would lay upon you.

  A Wizard he is, ja?

  Nie, but a man with an evil eye…white and all does it glare.

  The one with the red patch and scar a wide berth I would give. That axe at his waist your head he would lop.

  On went the mumble and buzz concerning the foreigners, but then, mercifully, a bard stepped to the center of a meager stage and amid a scattering of applause, the patrons left off their speculations and turned his way. He raised up a small tambour and announced, “‘Gurd and the Monster Kram.’” A cheer greeted his words, followed by devout silence as he began intoning a sing-song chant to the beat of his tiny drum—a tale of a young warrior’s hard-won victory over a terrible Drake.

  Arin shook her head at the outrageous claims made by the words of the ode, and turning to Egil she asked, “Is this epic sung widely?”

  Egil leaned forward and in a low voice replied, “Indeed it is, my love. Although most folks, including me, do not believe a Drake has ever been slain by the hand of a man, it does not in any way quench the wild popularity of the ode.”

  “Hmm,” mused Arin, raising an eyebrow and tilting her head toward the bard. “Even though it is a saga treasured by those who hear it, I would suggest he not cant it to a Dragon.”

  Egil bellowed out a guffaw, then clamped his lips to stifle his laughter, though he snorted through his nose. A nearby patron glared at Egil, but then turned his rapt attention back to the bard. Smiling, Arin looked up at Egil and waggled a finger in admonishment, but then had to stifle her own laughter. It took some moments for them to gain control of themselves as the bard astage continued the epic to the beat of his small drum.

  “I used to play one of those,” said Alos, tapping his fingers in time.

  “A tambour?” asked Aiko, her eyes wide, as if she never had considered Alos anything but a drunk.

  “Yar, but where he uses his hands, I would use a cruik instead.”

  “Cruik?”

  “A curved stick with a knob on the end to strike the drumhead. At least, that’s what it’s called in the Jillian Tors, where I first learned to play.”

  “Unh,” grunted Aiko, noncommittally.

  The bard finished his chant to enthusiastic applause, the patrons calling for more. “Mayhap he’ll do ‘Snorri Borri’s Son and the Mystical Maid of the Maelstrom,’” said Egil.

  Alos laughed and clapped his hands. “I know that one, Egil, m’lad, and a right bawdy tale it be.”

  Arin looked askance at Egil. He cleared his throat. “A sailor’s song, love.”

  But the bard took up the “Lay of Jaangor,” the horse made of black iron, and all joined in on the chorus, for this song was well-known too.

  * * *

  The third time the iron-collared serving maid brought three ales and a mug of honeyed, spiced tea to their table, Egil said, “You seem to have a good crowd tonight. Is it always this way?”

  “Oh, no, sir. The festival it is.”

  “Festival?”

  “Declared by Queen Gudrun all month to last. At a good time you have come.”

  “What does she celebrate?” asked Aiko.

  The girl gasped as if taken aback, but they could not discern whether she was surprised by the question itself or by the fact that it had been asked by the yellow warrior woman. “Why she celebrates, milady, no one knows; as a complete surprise it came. Elwydd, enough it is that she does.” With that, the serving girl scurried away.

  Alos looked longingly at the mugs of ale and muttered when Aiko slid the tea his way, but what he said went unheard in the general babble.

  * * *

  They slept soundly that darktide, the only disturbances being ’round mid of night when Alos tried to slip past Aiko, the golden warrior meditating on her tatami before the latch-locked door. That and Egil’s ill dreams.

  * * *

  The next day amid a scattering of visitors they walked up toward a citadel to have a look at the fortress. As they strolled through the city and toward the hill, they could see that bastion walls ran all the way ’round the crown of the tor, atop which stood an ornate castle of white stone, with turrets and towers jutting toward the sky, all set in manicured grounds. Topiary and hedges and gardens graced the enclosed estate, and here and there were scattered outbuildings, their purposes untold. All this they took in as they walked up the hill, though when they arrived at the base of the ramparts, all beyond was hidden.

  The walls themselves were thirty feet high and made of granite blocks—huge, shaped, and grey. Crenellations capped the stonework, and warders bearing crossbows patrolled above. The main entrance was a wide archway with a twisting passage running under the barrier, and the leaves of the great iron outer gates stood open, the portal flanked by guards. Inside the tunnel a massive portcullis was grounded, and beyond the bars the corridor turned sharply, the route designed to slow invaders and prevent passage of great siege engines. No light shone through from beyond, and so they surmised that at the far end stood a pair of inner gates, closed. In the tunnel, machicolations gaped overhead—murder holes through which to rain destruction down upon an invading foe—and arrow slits lined the walls.

  Both Egil and Aiko scrutinized these ramparts with a practiced eye, and Ann murmured, “’Tis well warded.”

  Egil nodded. “Even so, love, at night a small band could slip over these walls undetected, given the spacing of the sentries.”

  “I would rather go
in through the gate,” she replied.

  Alos blinked his good eye and nodded toward the portcullis. “Eh, the way is shut and it doesn’t seem as if anyone’s being admitted.”

  “It cannot always be closed,” said Aiko, “for even a queen must eat.”

  “Stay here a moment,” said Egil, “I’ll see what I can learn.”

  They waited as Egil stepped up the roadway to one of the warders at the portcullis and engaged him in conversation. After a while, Egil turned and came back. “Only those with specific business are permitted in.”

  Alos frowned. “Specific business?”

  “Aye,” replied Egil. “Messengers, diplomats, invited guests, visiting nobles, queen’s merchants, and the like.”

  “Oh my,” said Arin, crestfallen. “And we have no recognized need.”

  Pondering, they turned and began the trek back toward the city.

  “Perhaps we could pose as visiting nobles,” said Alos, wiping his nose on a sodden handkerchief and then smiling a brown-stained, snag-toothed grin.

  Aiko looked at the scraggly oldster and growled, but Arin said, “Nay, Alos. Too many townsfolk noted the manner of our arrival—coming as we did in a small sloop. Too, they know the quarters we took.”

  Alos shrugged. “So?”

  Egil laughed. “What the Dara means, my friend, is that both our transport and lodging are well beneath the station of visiting royalty. Had we been of the nobility, we would have come in a great ship, been escorted by a retinue, and likely would have gone straight to the castle rather than taking quarters in a modest inn. But had we needed to stay atown, as nobles we would have selected the very best lodgings Königinstadt has to offer.”

  “Oh,” said Alos. “Then what about merchants? Mayhap we can drive a wine wagon onto the grounds.”

  “Ha!” barked Aiko. “If you were put aboard a wine wagon, old man, the kegs would be empty ere we got to the gate.”

  Alos stuck out his chin. “Oh, you think so?”

  Aiko looked at him and shook her head in resignation and said, “Yopparai.”

  “Tispe,” snarled Alos.

  Arin held up a hand. “Enough!” she commanded. “If we are to succeed, we need a way in. Preferably by invitation.”

  Alos glared at Aiko, then looked at Arin. “I say again, why not as merchants?”

  Arin shook her head. “Not just any merchant can go in. Each must bear the seal of the queen. Besides, I do not think we can pose as merchants; we are too…”

  “Too uncommon,” supplied Egil. “Just look at us, Alos—an Elf, a golden warrior woman, a scar-faced one-eyed raider, and a—”

  “A yopparai,” interjected Aiko.

  Egil shook his head. “No, Aiko. Not a yopparai, whatever that is”—he clapped a hand to Alos’s shoulder—“but a worthy helmsman, instead.”

  Alos thrust out his chest and raised his chin and arched an eyebrow at Aiko…but said nothing as they came into the bustle of the city proper: hawkers, merchants, teamsters, patrons, street urchins and the like, all peddling wares, transporting goods, buying, selling, running errands.

  Suddenly, Egil laughed and gestured at the hubbub and stir and ado. “I mean, even in disguise we couldn’t pass ourselves off as common merchants. We look more like a strangely mixed band of traveling jongleurs. Nay, I say we go over the wall at night like the raiders we need to be.”

  Arin’s eyes flew wide at Egil’s words and she grasped his hand and said, “Thou hast hit upon it, chier.”

  Egil grinned and clenched his fist. “Ah, over the wall at night, eh?”

  “Nay,” replied Arin. “Through the gate as a band of jongleurs.”

  “I’ll play the tambour,” said Alos.

  * * *

  By the time they found their vendors of choice, their plans were nearly set. In a music shop they purchased a tambour and cruik for Alos. Then at a clothier’s, they selected tasteful but colorful cloth—all but Aiko, who merely chose a handful of bright ribands—and a bevy of tailors took the measure of Arin and Egil and Alos. Arin paid the proprietor a small gemstone, and he promised to deliver the outfits the very next morning.

  “In a suitable trunk, if you please,” said Egil.

  “Oh, ja,” answered the proprietor. “And deliver it where, shall I?”

  “Why, the very best hostel in Königinstadt,” replied Egil.

  “Ja. The Queen’s Crown.”

  “Indeed,” replied Egil, glancing at the others.

  Taking their leave of the Silver Helm, they moved all their goods to the Queen’s Crown. And as Alos stood on the balcony and cruik-tapped his new arm-held drum, regaining his rhythm and skill, down below in the common room Egil approached the innkeeper and made him an offer.

  The next night a colorfully dressed Dylvana sang Elven songs while Alos tapped the tambour, and the crowd sat rapt, weeping and laughing and joining in when asked. And they oohed and aahed as a golden warrior took center stage, bright, flowing ribands tied ’round her arms and legs and waist and brow. And they gasped in awe as she spun and twirled and leapt, her ribands streaming, her gleaming swords flashing in a dazzling dance of death.

  * * *

  Swiftly the news spread ‘cross Königinstadt: an Elven bard was singing at the Crown, and aren’t Elves the best bards of all? And a yellow warrior-woman danced with swords, the steel and she but a blur, so quick was this golden maid.

  Soon in the evenings there were no places left to sit in the common room of the Queen’s Crown. And many who had thought to come early arrived only to discover the inn already filled. And so they stood ’round the walls and waited for the show and complained to any who would listen o’er the lack of seats, but when they left for home in the wee marks of the morn, they went away filled near to bursting with what they had seen and heard.

  Too, the spectators were generous with their coin, yielding copper and silver and gold to the performers. Egil shared it out among them, holding back a goodly reserve which he stashed aboard the ship. Even so, there was enough surplus to purchase whatever anyone willed, all except Alos, for Aiko forbade him to buy drink. And so the old man hoarded his coins against the day he would at last be free.

  There came a night when with deference and dread a richly dressed man was escorted to the center table at edge of the stage. And when he had seen what he had come to see, Egil was called to attend. When the man left Egil came to the others, an engraved blue card in hand. “We are,” he announced, holding up the token, a broad smile on his face, “summoned to the castle by Queen Gudrun’s lord chamberlain, who commands we perform for her.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Just after dawn the next morn, Aiko was awakened by a tapping on the door. Sword in hand, she opened it to find two iron-collared footmen standing there, liveried in black and orange and gold. Their eyes widened at the sight of the yellow warrior, yet the elder of the two said, “Lady Aiko?” At her nod, he continued, his common tongue speech impeccable, “We have been sent by the lord chamberlain to fetch you and your companions to the queen’s castle. At your convenience, milady, a carriage awaits below. We will stand by in the hall.”

  Aiko roused the others, and with Alos grumbling they performed their toilet and dressed and packed their goods. Aiko called in the footmen to bear their meager luggage as well as their costume trunk, and all proceeded downstairs. While the others stepped to the carriage, Egil went to settle with the innkeeper, who shook his head and refused to accept payment, declaring, “Nothing you owe me. The singing and sword dancing paid for all. Here to the Crown soon you will return, ja? Free room and board I will give, and handsomely will I pay, the profits even share.”

  Egil shrugged. “I know not when we may return, for the queen summons.”

  The innkeeper glanced at the carriage out front. “Ja, that I can see”—he drew in a sharp breath—“and answer you must if your necks you value. Hear me, now: your rooms for you I will save; in fact, the best will I hold that I have if come back you will do when done y
ou are.”

  Egil smiled and nodded. “We’ll think on it.”

  * * *

  A landau had been sent by the chamberlain, and riding in style in the early morn, they were conveyed up the hill. The way under the wall twisted and turned, and the coachman slowed the horses to a walk and maneuvered the carriage through, but as soon as they were clear of the barrier, he chrked the team to a lively step, and along the white pave they fared, hooves aclatter on stone. The way curved through ornate gardens, where topiary beasts stood tall and green and silent, flanking the pale granite road. And as they wended upward, from somewhere on the manicured grounds they heard a harsh call of some sort of creature—Karawah, karawah, karawah!—but whether beast or fowl or something altogether different, they knew it not.

  At last the carriage drew up before the entrance, and one of the footmen sprang down and lowered the steps and opened the door while the other gathered up their goods. Egil stepped to the flagstone court and then handed Arin and Aiko down, and aided Alos to descend as well. They were met by a handful of servants, who were surprised at the lack of baggage. A steward bade them to follow, and led them through a grand foyer and into the hallways beyond, six thralls trailing after, bearing the small satchels and the costume trunk of the guests. They came to a chamber where sat a young man, peering at papers of state. He was but one of the chamberlain’s many assistants, and he informed them they would be performing tomorrow night and directed the steward to show them to their quarters in the outer tower of the east wing.

  They wended through passageways, bearing ever easterly, passing other servants and guests and members of the queen’s staff. But as to which was which, they could not readily tell, though the steward bowed to several, and was bowed to by others as well.

  One of these to whom the steward bowed was tall and black haired. Dressed in finery, he stood and watched as Arin and her comrades came toward him. His dark blue eyes widened at the sight of an Elf, and he sketched a bow. Then his eyes widened again as Aiko strode by, and once again he bowed. He merely nodded at Alos, but as Egil passed, the man’s gaze narrowed upon seeing the Fjordlander’s face and scar.