Dragon Rescue

by Don Callander

  In a side room he found a number of stout tables pushed together, laden with bowls, platters, and heaped-up plates of food: loaves of rye bread, bowls of applesauce, stacks of griddle cakes, racks of crisp bacon, pitchers of milk, flagons of strong, sweet tea, and jars of pale amber breakfast beer. The room was already crowded with sleepy-eyed and hungry warriors.

  “Officer?” asked a servant who came to bar his entrance—not a Northman but one of the castle’s staff, Murdan surmised.

  “What do you think?” he retorted brusquely and, not waiting for anyone’s permission, set about assembling the first hearty meal he’d enjoyed since leaving Overhall five days before.

  The servant shrugged and went away.

  Carrying his trencher—a flat, hard round of rye bread the size of a large dinner plate—and a mug of bitter but steaming-hot tea, he found a room nearby filled with enemy officers seated at trestle tables, on chests, straight chairs, and wide windowsills. Their conversation rumbled along like a herd of cattle, punctuated by occasional swearing and sharp exclamations.

  Nobody showed signs of being fully awake yet—some were definitely hungover, Murdan observed—so he made himself at home at one end of a crowded table and began to eat. Either the food was surprisingly good...or he was hungrier than he’d thought.

  “We gotta get out to the field,” said a rumpled, red-bearded scare-crow of a man halfway down the table. “GB’s ordered an assault on the west gate at nine of the clock. Damn! I was just getting to like this place.”

  “How’s the weather out there?” said another.

  His insignia indicated he was a cavalryman. Cavalry didn’t take part in frontal assaults on high, strong walls, of course. He was enjoying his breakfast in a leisurely manner.

  “Cloudy and mild,” growled another breakfaster.

  “Heavy going underfoot. Bad for horses, I’d guess. War Chief should wait until it gets colder to mount this attack, I say. Hard to haul mangonels and heavy catapults over muddy roads and wet slush.”

  Obviously an engineering officer, Murdan guessed. Having tossed down his coffee, the engineer threw his cup to a servant and stomped out, pulling on his sword belt and clutching his white bearskin cap under his arm.

  A coterie of younger men hastily gulped their cooled coffee, shoved bits and pieces of food into their pockets, and followed him through the door, chattering like magpies in spring.

  “Do you have a spot in the line?” the youthful cavalry officer asked Murdan.

  “No, actually I’m a prisoner,” Murdan answered honestly. “Captured last night. Good bread, isn’t it? Brevory always had a good bak-ery and a better cellar.”

  “I wouldn’t know about the cellar,” snorted the horse soldier. “GB

  has it under lock and bar, I hear. We get nothing better than this here watered-down, wretched, bitter beer! Fine way to repay our assistance in his little adventure.”

  “You’re not Relling, then?” asked the Historian. “Of course not! I recognize your insignia. Bear Totem, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, exactly!” the other said with some pride. “Our Queen hired us out to this Grand Blizzardmaker—Great Windbag, we calls him—

  for his war. We get minimum pay and maximum looting, but there’s been pitiful little of looting so far.”

  “Yet you’ve borne the brunt of the fighting, eh?”

  “We Bears led the march all the way from Frontier! He didn’t even attack Frontier. Passed it by—although I guess that was a smart move.

  The garrison was holed up behind their stockade. The Relling rear echelon will starve ‘em out eventually, I imagine. Is that real butter I see? Where’re you from?”

  “The midwest,” replied Murdan, pushing a butter crock nearer to his companion’s elbow. “I was on my way to the capital on business when I was taken by a Relling patrol near the southwest gate.”

  “Note the Rellings are in all the quiet sectors,” the other snorted derisively. “If Bear Totem horses could climb walls, we’d be halfway up the ladders right now.”

  Murdan moved on to chat with several other table mates, most of them Rellings, who seemed more willing to fraternize with their enemy than socialize with their allies.

  “Bear Totem cavalry,” snickered a loquacious supply officer. “Blue Ice pioneers. Bluewater boatmen from over to Foundlay Bay. I don’t trust any of ‘em! GB has contracted for their services for a year with an option to renew for another year. Good terms, at least on paper!

  Not a really good Snowfield campaigner in the lot! What good are horses in snowdrifts, I asks you?”

  “Well, you won’t find too many deep drifts in these parts, except in the dead middle of winter,” Murdan pointed out reasonably.

  “Ho! Dead of winter is right! Give me Relling snow-sloggers and their long polar bear spears for this kind of work! Horses may be good for hauling supplies and carrying messages, but not much else.”

  Fortunately the Bear Totem lieutenant had already gone off to look after his precious mounts or there might have been a fistfight then and there.

  “The ones give me the creeps,” said a subaltern to the Historian,

  “is these wicked, slippery, soft-talking ice wizards hanging about old Blizzardmaker, you know. Don’t see where they’ve done anything but take up space and gobble down the best provisions since we left the North Country a month ago!”

  “Wizards and mages are better left to their gobbling and swilling,”

  Murdan recommended. “Maybe Grand Blizzardmaker keeps them around for show.”

  “Show, it certainly is! What kind of real man would wear lacy aprons and talk in singsong chantings? Remind me of the traveling-through medicine shows come to entertain us in summertime. Nasty-tasting medicine but pretty dancing girls with almost nothing left to the...”

  As the hour approached nine o’clock, the dining room emptied rapidly. Murdan gathered a second trencher of cooling food and carried it back to the Great Hall, where Sergeant Spring was just reawakening, rubbing his eyes and looking about somewhat worriedly, thinking perhaps his prisoner had flown.

  “I’d have run for it, given your chance,” he said pleasantly as he greeted Murdan. “Thank you, sir! It’s better commons than we’re used to in camp. The good stuff seems to go to the other guys.”

  “Other? Oh, you mean Grand Blizzardmaker’s allies?”

  Spring dived with both hands into his breakfast trencher but spared a moment to nod.

  “We could’ve done it all ourselves, you know. I think His High and Mightiness just wanted to show off for the neighbors. They’ve never liked us much.”

  Murdan watched him eat for a while.

  “I take it you aren’t fond of your allies, either?”

  “Oh, I suppose they’re perfectly good fellows, in their place. I’ve got a sister who married a Bluewater fisherman. He only beats her when the fishing’s slow and the liquor’s quick. Spoiled rotten, she is, Sir Historian! Bluewaters are a womanly bunch, for all their brave boasts of the dangers of seagoing.”

  A man in full armor clanked into Great Hall, stopped, and looked around. Spotting Murdan, he came over, pushing his heavy helmet up on his forehead and extending his right hand.

  “Lord Murdan! A strange place and time to meet you again!”

  For a moment Murdan was puzzled, but his excellent Historian’s memory came to his rescue.

  “Ah, yes! Captain Basilicae, isn’t it? Mercenary Knights?”

  “The same, Lord Historian! Are you in with this Relling mob?”

  “No, I’m just a prisoner of war, I suppose,” said the Historian, shaking the hired soldier’s hand. “I’m more surprised to see you here than you should be to see me. I understood you had departed Carolna for good and all, after Sir Thomas and Retruance Constable rescued my Overhall people from you at...what was its name?”

  “Plaingirt,” supplied Basilicae. “Well, sir, we had every intention of never setting foot on your fair land again. Two defeats at your hands made for a
bad resume.”

  “You were offered a contract by this Blizzardmaker person?”

  “It’s business! His terms seemed generous. My men voted to accept it, and I had to go along. We needed the cash after Gantrell reneged on our fees.”

  The two chatted beside the fire while Sergeant Spring wolfed down his food and toasted his bread over the coals, broke it into pieces, and stuffed it into a pocket for later consumption.

  “I advise you to tread carefully with this lordling from the Far North,” Murdan told the mercenary. “There’s reason to believe he’s allied with or even subservient to your former client, Peter of Gantrell.

  It may be that Peter’s behind this whole thing.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me, and I’ll take your warning seriously. Peter Gantrell was bad news for us! I’ve attended this Relling War Chiefs councils for months—more than a year, in fact—however, I’ve never once felt Gantrell’s presence or even heard his name.”

  “Hmmm! That’s interesting. What would move Peter to hide his light from the world, I wonder?”

  “If I hear any word of him, perhaps I could slip it to you, Lord Historian. Professional courtesy, shall we say?

  “Or a bit of revenge? In case things get too sticky here, I mean.”

  “Good enough!” agreed the Historian. “It’ll be remembered, I assure you.”

  “A suit for our full fee was still in court last Sessions, you know.

  We could use a friend at law. Where will you be, do you know?”

  “It depends on what GB intends to do with me. Prison? Maybe even execution? Who knows? At the moment, he seems to have forgotten me.”

  “I wouldn’t lay bets on that!” the mercenary snorted bitterly. “He has a mean streak down him that’s fair broad...like everything else about him.”

  “What does he do with important captives, then?” asked Murdan.

  “I know of several he set out on floes in Blue Ice without food or even clothing. That’s considered a merciful death by our dear GB, they say. I’ve heard some say he chained his most important enemy to an iceberg in the Strait of Athermoral. It’ll slowly float south until it melts or breaks up as the waters warm, so the victim will suffer first from the cold, then hunger, and then drowning when the ice melts all away.”

  “Pleasant man, this Relling War Chief!” exclaimed Murdan.

  Spring had finished his meal, wiped his hands on his coattail, and stood listening to their conversation.

  “Oh, Rellings’re all right as such things go,” Basilicae conceded.

  “We get along with them fairly well.”

  “Well, Sir Mercenary,” put in the sergeant, “it may be because he pays you better than others.”

  “What do you mean by that?” the knight asked, surprised.

  “Most of these so-called friends came along for minimum pay promised and a free hand at...er...”

  “Loot, rape, and plunder, I suppose,” furnished Murdan. “I’ve heard that already this morning.”

  “We Mercenary Knights refuse to fight on a contingency-fee basis,” claimed Basilicae stoutly. “Bad business! Cash on the barrelhead; half in advance, or we don’t lift a finger. Learned that from old Gantrell!”

  “A business policy with much to recommend it,” agreed the Historian. “But I still suggest you watch your step. If Gantrell is involved...”

  “Do you suppose he supplied the capital for this venture?” asked Basilicae. “I wondered where GB got his stake all along.”

  “Peter may have had hidden resources somewhere over the border,” murmured Murdan. “It’s possible.”

  “The state prisoner I spoke of—the one set adrift on the iceberg?

  They say he was a major participant in the early stages of the planning to invade Carolna, but GB turned sour on him.”

  “Who is he, then?” asked Murdan.

  “Never heard him called anything, save ‘state prisoner,’ “ claimed the Mercenary Knight. “You’ll have to excuse me, m’lord. I’ve a meeting with my officers. We’re expected to provide follow-up after the Lexor wall is breached, later today.”

  “I won’t wish you good luck, then, but say to you, be careful!—not of your foes, but of your client.”

  “We don’t trust him further than we could toss his vast carcass,”

  Basilicae assured him, grinning, and he clanked off at a fast pace to gather his men.

  “State prisoner, eh? I’d like to talk to him myself, actually,” mused Murdan aloud.

  “It’d be suicide, sir!” cried Spring. “You’d have to be sent to his ice island and share his cold and wet fate.”

  “Still...” began the Historian, thoughtfully.

  The be-furred Colonel Fraggle appeared, lashing a swagger stick against his boot and scowling darkly.

  “Still here, Sergeant? Get you back to your company at once!”

  “Yes, m’lord! But the prisoner, m’lord?”

  “I’ll take him in charge,” said Fraggle. “Begone, sirrah!”

  “Well, that’s the end to being warm and well fed,” Spring said, sighing in an aside to Murdan. “Good fortune to you, sir! You’ve been a gentleman where few are found.”

  He snatched up his pack and pike and clattered out of Brevory Great Hall.

  “Now!” said Fraggle, impatiently. “Come with me, Lord Murdan.

  His Majesty has asked for you. He will decide your fate this morning.”

  “At your service, sir,” said Murdan.

  The officer spun on his heel and stalked away toward the far entrance, sweeping lesser men from his path with his swagger stick and his unhappy frown.

  Grand Blizzardmaker looked rather frazzled around the edges, blinking painfully in the morning light through the high windows and wincing at sudden noises.

  Murdan stood at ease before the desk where the War Chief, looking rather green and uneasy, lolled.

  “Mordock of Overhill, Royal Historian of Carolna and friend of the cowardly Eduard Ten,” growled the War Chief, referring to a sheaf of papers before him.

  “Murdan, rather,” the prisoner corrected him mildly.

  “Eh? What?”

  “My name properly is not Mordock but Murdan,” repeated the Historian.

  “Bloody incompetent scribblers! No matter! After this morning your name will really be ‘history,’ believe me, bucko!” snarled the War Chief.

  His heavy humor set his attendants to snickering.

  “You’re a dangerous enemy, and must be eliminated at once.”

  Murdan nodded.

  “It will be an honor to die for my King and my country,” he announced, rather sententiously, for all to hear.

  “Bosh, tosh, and mealy rot! Neither your King nor his lousy little kingdom will exist much longer. You might as well die.”

  “I welcome it, however,” said Murdan, affecting a sad look of resignation.

  “Oh, don’t make me sick!” snapped the War Chief. “You’ve considerable wealth and influence in Carolna, I’m told.”

  “I cannot deny that,” replied the Historian.

  “Then why not foreswear your silly allegiance to this snowflake Eduard? Join me—I mean us! Bring your people over to my—our—

  side, eh?”

  “Oh, I think not, really, old Rell,” said Murdan evenly. “I have better regard for my King and my fealty oath to him than that!”

  “So be it, sirrah! I’ll enjoy your...what do you people call them?

  Achievements! I’m about to order your execution by strangling!”

  “Better that than set out to freeze in your chill country, like some!”

  said Murdan, eyes downcast.

  “Ha! Aha! A quick, easy death’s too good for you, Murdam of Coverhall! It occurs to me it may be amusing to keep you alive for a while, although suffering.”

  “No, please, sire!” cried the Historian in a shrill voice. “A quick, honorable death, I beg of you! I’d go insane in prison—especially a cold prison! I cannot abide bein
g cold! I implore you...”

  One of the advisers behind the fat War Chief leaned forward to whisper in his crumpled right ear. Blizzard-maker suddenly roared with coarse laughter that shook his entire, obese body like a molded jelly. He caught his breath and began to cough, then choked and spat upon the floor beside his couch.

  “Yes! Yes! I’ve got just the place for you, sniveling scrivener! My judge advocate here reminds me that we have a nice, very cold place reserved for important prisoners like you.”

  “No, good, dear sire! I beg of you...!”

  “Silence! Take him,” rasped GB to an officer in black fur standing nearby, “to the nearest seaport and send him by ship to the ice floe and maroon him there. No need to chain him as the other was chained.

  The berg’s too far out in the strait by now for him to swim ashore.”

  He pointed a stubby and dirty forefinger at Murdan, chuckling wickedly.

  “I hope you do try to swim, Burdock! Three minutes in those pleasant waters and you’re an icicle, I promise. Drag the yellowed slush out!”

  The black-furred soldier, who was not at all looking forward to a sea voyage to the stormy Strait of Athermoral, saluted glumly and gestured to underlings to lead Murdan after him as he stalked out.

  rs

  Only a half-grown polar bear witnessed Murdan’s marooning on the iceberg. Three beefy Relling soldiers simply lifted the Historian between them and dropped him onto the edge of the ice alongside the sloop’s low midship rail.

  The sloop’s helmsman turned her away at once, the crew hoisting her mainsail despite the near-gale winds, and the little ship fled the ice-clotted strait as fast as she could safely go.

  The polar bear considered investigating the mealtime possibilities of the dramatically cursing Historian but some slight taint in the air pulled him up short.

  Sniffing once again, the white bear decided to let well enough alone and dived with a thunderous splash into the icy chop and began to paddle toward the low, white hills of the mainland some distance away to the east.

  “Thanks for even small blessings!” gasped Murdan, watching him go.