The Dragonstone

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Delon glanced from one to the other, then in a low voice said, “I can get us out.”

  Egil leaned forward. “How?”

  Delon gestured at the fallen foe, then began stuffing the loose end of the silver chain down the front of his shirt. “The same way they got in, if their horses are yet out front. I know the signals. By Adon, I’ve heard them enough. Get Duke Rache’s cloak; Steiger’s, too.”

  Delon bent down and began stripping the wet cloak from the duke’s dead champion, taking the bugle as well. He buckled on the fallen man’s sword, then he donned the garb, slipping the bugle’s baldric across his shoulders.

  Aiko retrieved her shiruken from the baron’s throat, and she took his cloak and sword and belted scabbard too. She stepped to the fallen warder and retrieved her second shiruken, then moved to the door and handed the baron’s gear to the Dylvana and bade her to put them on “…and hurry, my tiger whispers of danger.”

  Egil, now cloaked, cast his hood over his head and said, “Ready?” Then he turned and looked, his gaze searching. “Where’s Alos?”

  Among the bodies on the floor lay the old man. Egil stepped to him and knelt.

  “Is he dead?” asked Delon.

  “Damn, damn, damn!” hissed Egil. “Dead drunk.” Then he hoisted Alos across his shoulders, surprised at how light the oldster was. “Come on, let’s go.”

  As they moved through the doorway, Aiko stopped and turned to the quivering guests, crimson blood yet dripping from her blades to the floor. “I will not be riding with my mistress to escape. Instead, I will be standing just beyond the door. If any come through before the bugle sounds, I will slay whoever is the fool. Which of you will be the first to die?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Aiko spun on her heel and stepped outward, closing the doors behind.

  Swiftly she caught up with the others, wiping her swords on her cloak as she ran.

  They strode through the halls, stopped by none, and out front in the rain they found the horses, six altogether and saddled, for the baron and duke and his champion each had a remount. Even so, the steeds were yet blowing, for they had been ridden hard. Egil handed Alos to Delon and mounted, then took the old man back, Delon flopping Alos bellydown across the saddle in front of Egil.

  “Hurry,” hissed Aiko, ahorse, her weapons now sheathed at her back. “My tiger growls of danger.”

  Arin hiked up her gown and mounted.

  Delon cut loose the remount from behind Egil and sprang to the saddle, and all four spurred their horses away, two remounts following, towed behind Arin and Aiko.

  Ignoring the curved stone road and praying that the horses would keep their feet, they galloped crossland down the hill through the rain-dark night, riding as if all the hounds of the Dark One were on their track. From behind, shouts of alarm sounded, for some of the guests had braved the door.

  Now Delon raised the bugle to his lips and sounded an urgent call: ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ta-ta-rah!

  Ahead, by lanterns within the passageway, they could see the inner gates swinging open.

  Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ta-ta-rah! Delon sounded again.

  Clots of earth were lofted by flying hooves, and toward the open gate they hurtled. But as they came to the portal, a bugle from the castle rang out an alarm.

  Into the twisting passageway they hammered, haling back on reins to slow the steeds. Hooves aclatter, through the stone way they fared as swiftly as the horses could move and still remain afoot. Above they could hear cries of alarm sounding down through the murder holes. And then they turned the last corner and the raised portcullis was ahead of them, but it had started downward. Egil shouted and spurred his horse forward, and the others galloped after, all ducking low, while downward thundered the deadly teeth of the massive grille. Outward dashed the horses, all winning free but one, and that the remount trailing after Arin; the animal screamed as it was skewered by tons of steel, a scream that abruptly chopped shut. Arin’s horse jerked when it came to the end of the tether, but the long lead snapped and she raced onward.

  A smattering of arrows hissed through the rain after them as they pounded away, but no one was struck by the shafts.

  Down from the citadel they galloped, down from the fortress and through the town along the rain-slick streets, a few pedestrians cursing at them as they hammered past. To the docks they ran, where Egil in the lead reined to a halt, just as Alos vomited down into Egil’s right boot.

  Dismounting and slapping the horses on the rumps, and with Delon carrying the old man, clumps of vomit yet sliding down his chin, they scurried to the sloop as the animals clattered off into the night.

  Swiftly Egil and Arin raised the mainsail and jib, and Aiko cast off, she and Delon shoving the craft out from the slip and leaping aboard. Tacking against the storm-driven onshore wind, Egil slowly maneuvered the sloop out and away from the docks and into the harbor. And as sheets of rain pelted them, they hove through chop and out toward the raging waters of the Weston Ocean, while behind and silhouetted against the lights of Königinstadt, they could see mounted soldiers thundering through the streets of the city.

  CHAPTER 42

  Through the black of night and blowing winds and pelting rain, the sloop Brise struggled out from the mouth of the harbor and into the cold fury of the Weston Ocean, where storm-driven waves crashed over the wales and rolled the small craft side to side, threatening to swamp her.

  “Quarter her up against the wind,” cried Egil, and Arin angled the tiller, while Egil shifted the boom of the mainsail about and Aiko hauled the sheets of the jib.

  Into the waves plowed the bow of the Brise, the little ship riding up the oncoming slopes and crashing through the caps to slam down onto the backslants of the waves as the crests thundered by. Time and again she did such, wind-driven rain and spume and hurtling water hurling across the deck to drench them all.

  “We’ve got to get into our foul-weather gear before this water sucks away all our heat,” called Egil. “Aiko, go now.”

  Aiko slid open the watertight door, and silhouetted by swaying light from within, she disappeared into the cabin, to emerge long moments later dressed in sealskins and an oiled cloak.

  “You go next, Egil,” called Arin in her gown, the drenched silk plastered against her body. “My people are less affected by heat and cold.”

  Now Egil slid open the door and popped into the cabin. A wildly swinging storm lantern lit the interior, casting gyrating shadows within. Alos, passed out, lay on one of the bunks, Delon, tightly gripping a stanchion, sat on another, the bard pale, sickly, with a bucket trapped between his feet. As the craft pitched up and over a wave and boomed down, in the stark lanternlight Delon gauntly looked at Egil. “Never could stand boats.” He leaned over and tried to retch into his bucket. Only a thin stream of greenish fluid rewarded his gagging efforts. “Nothing left,” he groaned, collapsing back against a bulkhead. “Adon, but I am worthless.”

  Egil did not respond, but shucked his water-logged boots, withdrawing a vomit-lathered foot from the right one. When Delon saw this, again he retched, to no avail. Swiftly Egil doffed the rest of his clothes and pulled on his sealskins and threw an oiled cloak across his shoulders. Finally he turned to Delon and gestured at Alos. “If we go down, get the old man out.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and slid open the door.

  * * *

  All night they battled the wind and waves and rain, and as dawn drew nigh, the rain passed, and slowly the wind fell. Last to settle was the ocean, but ere the noontide the skies cleared and the whitecaps vanished, leaving behind high-rolling billows beneath a September sun.

  Now Egil swung the craft to a southerly course, the wind abeam, and he and Aiko raised the top- and stay-and foresails. With all canvas gathering air, down the wide channel between Jute and Gelen they fared.

  Delon, wan and weak and trembling and holding onto whatever he could, made his way out from the cabin and onto the deck and plopped down on a side bench in the cockpit. The bard
was yet dressed in his gaudy silks, now rumpled and stained, though no longer wet. A polished obsidian stone on a golden chain dangled down from below the silver collar ’round his neck. Aiko took one look at his pallid face and said, “Fear not, Delon, the nausea will pass eventually.”

  “Adon,” groaned Delon, gripping the bench, his knuckles white, “let us hope it is sooner than later. I’ve lost everything there is to lose. My stomach itself is next.”

  Egil smiled grimly. “There’re clothes in the lockers below. Some of mine will do, though they may be a bit overlarge on you.”

  “Alos’s would fit better,” said Aiko, “though he has but few.”

  Delon looked about. “Where are we? I see only rolling waves.”

  “Somewhere ‘tween Gelen and Jute,” answered Egil.

  “Whence bound?” asked Delon.

  “Pendwyr,” said Egil.

  Now Delon looked at Aiko. “Why did you free me? Oh, not that I am complaining, mind you, for I was headed for that madwoman’s pyre. But still, why did you free me?”

  Aiko smiled and reached out and plucked at his iridescent garb. “Because you are the rutting peacock, Delon, and we need you on our quest.”

  Delon raised an eyebrow. “Peacock? Quest?”

  Before Aiko could respond, from the cabin there came a howl and a string of oaths. Cursing, Alos appeared in the opening to the ship’s quarters and clambered onto the deck. Holding his aching head, he looked about and confirmed his suspicions, then demanded, “What is the meaning of this? I told you I wasn’t going any farther than Jute, but like the skulking press-gang you are, you have thrown me onto the ship and dragged me out to sea again…against my will, I might add.”

  Aiko snorted, but Arin said, “We couldn’t leave thee behind, Alos. Thou wert one of our party and would have been slain, mayhap tortured—the queen would have so commanded.”

  “If she survived,” added Aiko. “If no one aided her, she might be dead from loss of blood.”

  “Even so,” said Arin, “Alos would have paid with his life had we left him behind. The chamberlain and others would have seen to it.”

  Delon nodded. “Even though she was mad, regicide is a crime no realm will allow to go unpunished…though in many a case it should be encouraged and rewarded instead.”

  Alos, squinting against the sun, looked puzzled. “What happened to the queen?”

  Delon stared at the old man. “You don’t know?”

  Alos shook his head, then winced from the movement. “I, ah…”

  “You got drunk and passed out,” said Aiko, accusingly.

  Alos glared at her. “So that’s when you dragged me to the ship against my will, eh?”

  Aiko turned away in disgust.

  “Ha, I thought so,” accused the oldster, his white eye glaring.

  “’Twas for thine own good, Alos,” protested Arin.

  The old man looked at the Dylvana, then at Egil, who nodded and said, “’Tis true, helmsman.”

  Barely mollified, Alos grunted, then turned to Delon. “What’s this about the queen? Why would she have had me killed?”

  “Well,” said Delon, grinning, hauling the silver chain and cuff out from his shirt, the links still affixed to the argent collar ’round his neck, “Lady Aiko cut off her hand and set me free.”

  “Møkk!” spat Alos. “I know these Jutes. They’ll pursue us to the ends of the world.”

  “Especially if the queen lives,” agreed Delon. “She’ll not rest till we are dead…and the bloodier, more painful the means, the better she’ll like it.”

  “Hng,” grunted Egil. “It’s not as if we can simply disappear into the crowd. I mean, look at us: a Dylvana, a yellow woman, and two one-eyed men.”

  “And a rutting peacock,” added Delon, “whatever that is.”

  “Maybe they’ll not know we are at sea,” said Aiko.

  Egil shook his head. “As soon as they speak to the harbormaster, they’ll know.”

  Aiko nodded glumly, then said, “That means they’ll send out ships to run us down.”

  “Not just any ships,” replied Egil, “but Dragonboats swift.”

  “Mayhap they’ll head north, chier,” said Arin. “Toward Fjordland, for they know that is thy home.”

  “Likely,” replied Egil. “Yet they’ll scour southward, too. And west. I think it best if we stand well out to sea and hope they believe we flee along the coast, sailing at night and holing up in coves by day to avoid detection.”

  Aiko looked at Egil and said, “If on the other hand they deduce that strategy, then we are at risk should they run us down at sea. They will be many to our few, and we will not be able to outrun them.”

  Egil canted his head. “Aye, Aiko. Yet we have the vast sea to shelter us. It will be like searching for a grain of wheat in a field of chaff.”

  Arin nodded. “I agree. Had they known our destination, then the odds would be much shorter. Yet they do not, and so, indeed, we will be hidden in the brine, our ship steered by good helmsman Alos.”

  “Perhaps they’ll think we’ve sunk,” said Delon, “drawn down by last night’s storm.”

  Egil looked at him and shrugged. “They’ll search regardless.”

  For a moment none said aught, then Delon cleared his throat. “And we go to Pellar, you say?’

  “Aye, to Pendwyr,” replied Egil.

  “But no farther, y’ hear,” declared Alos, tasting his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I’ll go with you that far, but then we part company.” Grumbling, Alos moved to the tiller and plopped down across from Arin. Shielding his eye and glaring up at the sails, he said, “You’ve not quite caught the wind, Dara.” He turned to Egil. “And the sails need trimming. Here, let me take the helm and we’ll get there all the faster and then I’ll be quit of this insanity. You can then chase the green stone on your own. I’ll no longer be part of this mad mission.”

  Delon’s gaze shifted to Aiko. “Green stone? Hmm. Ever since I was a lad in Gûnar, I’ve wanted to be part of a grand adventure. You’ll have to tell me of this quest of yours.”

  Aiko shook her head. “It is Dara Arin’s vision we follow, not mine.”

  Delon turned to the Dylvana. “Tell me what you seek. Tell me, too, why Lady Aiko calls me a rutting peacock, though I think I know the answer. And isn’t there some way we can get this blasted collar off my neck?”

  * * *

  “Ah, so that’s it,” said Delon in the late afternoon sun, the bard feeling much better now that his nausea had passed. “Well then, count me in. I can make a sweeping saga of it whether or no we succeed.”

  “Hold still,” snapped Aiko, pressing and rocking the keen edge of her blade of steel against the remaining fastener of the silver collar. “I’m nearly through.”

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  The blade clove through the last of the soft silver rivet and the collar fell free.

  Delon took a deep breath and slowly let it out, then rubbed his neck all ’round and stretched it side to side. “Adon, but it’s good to be shed of that thing at last, and I thank you, Lady Aiko.” Laughing, he took up the collar and chain and bracelet and weighed them in his hands. “Paltry wages for what I was put through.”

  Egil looked across at him. “Which was…?”

  Delon glanced at Arin and Aiko, then said, “It was mine to keep her, um, satisfied.” He shook his head. “She was too much even for me.”

  “Hah!” barked Alos. “Then how did you keep her content?”

  Delon tilted his head and smiled wanly. “There is more than one way to pleasure a woman.”

  Alos cackled aloud, then sobered and turned to Aiko. “I hope you haven’t made a mistake. I mean, we left the real peacock behind, and I don’t want to go back after him. And as to the rutting: he’s probably back there doing the ducks even as we speak.”

  “Nay, Alos,” replied Aiko. “Fowl seem destined to remain true to their kind.”

  “Then how did you know Delon, here, was the rutting peacock?�
��

  Delon looked at her, smiling slightly, awaiting her answer.

  Aiko shrugged. “The balcony was open to the queen’s bedroom, and she wasn’t silent in her copious and repeated indulgence. As to the peacock—”

  “As to the peacock,” interjected Delon, holding out his arms wide and peering down at his clothes, “look at me. What else could I be but Gudrun’s peacock? As if I were one of her creatures on display, she garbed me in apparel so gaudy it’s a wonder no one went blind.” Delon nodded to Aiko. “Indeed, Lady Aiko, I am the mad monarch’s rutting peacock—just one of hundreds, I understand—yet I am most grateful you set me free ere I met their fate.”

  “How did you, um”—Alos grinned his gap-toothed smile—“come to serve her?”

  Delon laughed and said, “I like this dirty old man.” Then his expression grew solemn. “As to how I came to serve her, well, I walked into it with my eyes wide open….”

  * * *

  Delon whistled as he disembarked from the Gelender ship making port in Königinstadt. If the rumors were true then he would soon be living in endless luxury as the queen’s favorite lover, of that he had no doubt. He would first make love to her with his eyes and his voice—

  Delon fingered the amulet at his neck, given over to him by his father, Elon, who had gotten it from his own father, Galon, and so on back into the mists of time. Where the amulet had come from originally, none now living really knew, though ‘twas said that long past it was a gift from the Mage Kaldor for a service well performed. In any event it seemed to have the power to enhance the voice, and when coupled with bardish training, it made one sing like the Elves.

  —and when she had accepted him, he would make love with his hands and lips and whispered endearments and his entire body. That he could pleasure her, Delon was certain, for he had spent much of the last fifteen years in the company of women, primarily in their beds, and he had yet to meet a woman he could not satisfy. And the rewards had been substantial: the best of foods and wines and added delectations of taste and olfaction, rich clothing, engaging books, small treasures and trinkets rare, and other delights throughout every day—oh, not necessarily physical pleasures, though they were considerable, but pleasures of the mind and spirit and heart and soul as well. And travel and adventure: these too were his to choose, though as of yet he had avoided anything strenuous, for he loved luxury too well. Certainly, there were times when he had to flee the comfort of a woman—when her father or brother or husband or betrothed came unexpectedly to her chamber—and there were times when he had to fight his way clear, for he was skilled in the use of a rapier, though mostly he talked his way free. But on the whole he strayed from one place of comfort to another when his appetite for a particular locale or abode or woman waned. And from mansion to manor to estate to chateau to villa he drifted, seeking pleasure, seeking…he knew not what else.