by C. L. Werner
‘Take the list back with you,’ he told his servant. ‘Let them know who it was that fought here this day. Let them know that in the hour of its need, the knights of Bretonnia did not abandon their people and their land!’ Fulkric concluded his speech by dropping his hand, leading the charge into the thick black smoke.
His squire lingered until the last knight had disappeared into the valley, then turned away, riding with all haste back to their camp.
The squire’s list would be used to inscribe the memorial that would stand for centuries at the mouth of the canyon. Beneath it, there was a grave, a single grave for Sir Fulkric and his knights, for the identities of the ash and heat-twisted suits of mail that were recovered from the valley could not be told. As one they had charged into the valley to face the dragon, as one they had died, and as one were they entombed. In Pace Requiescat.
From the top of a small hillock, a group of men watched the smoke billowing in the distance. As they looked on, an enormous shape of crimson and black emerged from the smoke, its leathery wings beating the air with powerful strokes. Beneath the awful shape, a trio of mounted figures rode madly away from the mouth of a narrow canyon. Even from so great a distance, the shine of sunlight upon the armour that clothed the riders announced to the observers that the horsemen were knights.
The huge dragon circled above the racing steeds, then like some fiery comet, came hurtling down upon the earth. Like a hawk falling upon a hare, the immense reptile struck one of the riders, crushing both man and horse into the ground beneath its own tremendous bulk. The other riders did not spare a backward glance at their slain comrade, but spurred their own animals to greater effort. The dragon simply remained as it was, one claw poised above the mashed ruin of the rider it had struck down. It seemed the other knights had been granted a reprieve as the monster made no effort to lift itself back into the air. Then the dragon’s head reared back like a coiling serpent. Flame and fire exploded from the dragon’s jaws, engulfing the two riders as they tried to escape, igniting the hair, cloth and even skin of the stricken men and beasts. The knights fell from their chargers, boiled within their suits of steel plate. The chargers themselves continued to run—living torches that were soon lost behind a tangle of brush and trees.
Even from their vantage point miles in the distance, the watchers could hear the mighty roar of triumph the dragon sent lashing at the heavens. It was a sound to make even the most valiant of men shake and tremble. For the less stalwart hearts that had sworn their services to the Viscount Augustine de Chegney, the terror was even more profound.
Only one man among the small group of watchers seemed undisturbed by what they had seen. Indeed, upon the black-cloaked man’s cruel face, an avaricious smile had formed and a greedy light had entered his eyes. Rudol, renegade wizard of the Celestial Order, pointed a claw-like hand to the spectacle unfolding in the distance.
‘Look upon it, Thierswind! Look upon that magnificent brute!’ Rudol cackled. ‘What may stand before the might of such a monster!’
The man to whom the wizard spoke was a huge figure, easily towering above Rudol and the dozen men-at-arms who stood nearby. Sir Thierswind wore a suit of plate armour much like that favoured by the now vanquished men who had fallen prey to the dragon’s ire. His helm, which he held beneath his arm, bore the likeness of a bull, great horns spreading out from either side. Normally, the dark coloured tabard of de Chegney would have been worn over his armour, but the viscount had called for discretion in this matter and anything that would boldly proclaim the identity of his servants was to be avoided. The knight had served his master long enough to know the danger of disobeying his wishes, even if they chafed at what remained of the knight’s pride.
Thierswind’s harsh, almost brutish, features did not display the same enthusiasm as the wizard, and it was with great unease that the warrior at last spoke. ‘You told his lordship that you could control this monster,’ the knight reminded Rudol. ‘But how is any man able to do such a thing?’ Once more, Thierswind’s eyes strayed to the gigantic reptile, now picking bits of bone and flesh from between its talons.
Rudol laughed, a harsh and mocking sound. ‘When I have the Fell Fang back in my possession,’ the wizard proclaimed, ‘even that fearsome beast will be nothing more than a slave, a faithful dog to obey my every command! Think of it Thierswind! That mighty beast descending from the midnight sky to burn down the homes of my enemies, to grind their bones into dust beneath his claws!’
‘You mean his lordship’s enemies,’ Thierswind warned, reminding the wizard of his loyalty. The knight’s hand was closed around the hilt of his sword. Rudol carefully considered the knight, and his blade, then nodded his head in apology.
‘Of course, the wishes of the master come first,’ Rudol said, his voice absent of the enthusiasm it had shown only a few minutes before. ‘I fear that I let my excitement overcome me. Please, accept my humble apologies.’
Thierswind continued to regard the wizard dubiously, his hand still closed upon the hilt of his sword. He did not trust Rudol, nor did the viscount. The wizard needed their help, it seemed, in obtaining this artefact, but once it was secured, perhaps he would have no further need of the oath of service he had taken. De Chegney had warned his knight to take no chances with the dangerous sorcerer, to strike fast and true at the first sign of treachery. A master at betrayal and subterfuge himself, the viscount had an uncanny knack for sensing duplicity in others.
As if sensing the turn in Sir Thierswind’s thoughts, Rudol’s face darkened and his voice became stern. ‘I would not use that sword, Thierswind,’ he cautioned. ‘Only I can sense the geas I placed upon the Fell Fang. Only I can lead you to it. Your master will not thank you for denying him such a weapon.’ Rudol smiled as Thierswind released his hold on the sword.
‘A very wise decision,’ the wizard told him. He turned, staring off into the distance. ‘The man we are hunting is near now, but moving again.’ He pointed with a clawed hand, indicating the south. ‘Let us hasten to relieve him of this burden he carries. Then we shall all gain what we desire.’
The handsome bandit was feeling a bit more himself now that he had put the cursed city of Mousillon and the dungeons of his former patron the Duc Marimund behind him. With most of the city cringing within their hovels in the aftermath of the dragon’s attack, leaving Mousillon had been relatively easy. Just the same, he had paid a quick visit on Jacques, the old brigand who had led him to Marimund’s castle, ensuring that he was not unduly harassed by the impoverished and desperate rabble dwelling in the streets. Perhaps Jacques had not known how Marimund’s feelings toward Gobineau had changed. Perhaps his old friend really hadn’t understood what he was leading the outlaw into. Still, Gobineau did not believe in letting any debt pass uncollected, and besides which, he’d needed some decent clothes and some travelling money after his stay in Marimund’s dungeons. Jacques certainly wouldn’t be needing them any longer.
Gobineau watched impassively as the rather plain looking serving wench brought the plate of mutton to his table. The inn prospered chiefly because of its location near the hunting grounds of no less than three local lords, and after a hard day of hounding boars and chasing stags, the knights were often of a mind to stop at the inn and sample its cellar. Fortunately, Gobineau saw no evidence that any of Bretonnia’s chivalrous defenders were about this evening. If the rumours he’d heard were to be believed, they were probably out chasing after his dragon. After what he’d seen in Mousillon, Gobineau didn’t think anyone would be hearing from any knight who found what he was looking for ever again.
The maid set the steaming mutton down before Gobineau, batting her doe-like eyes at him as she did so. The outlaw looked up at her, sucking at his teeth as he considered her charms. Not much to work with, he decided. His stay in Marimund’s dungeon hadn’t been long enough to lower his personal standards quite that much. He waved the woman away, paying her reluctant retreat little mind as he prepared to attack his meal with his knife.
‘Ranald’s cloak!’ the thief cursed as he hastily withdrew the mutton from his mouth. He glared at the serving wench who was now timidly returning to his table, drawn by his outburst. With a violent motion, Gobineau hurled the plate at her. ‘I said I wanted this cooked!’ the outlaw roared. ‘This is as cold as an eel!’
The serving maid knelt, retrieving the spilled mutton from the floor. ‘But it was cooked,’ she protested, cowed by the anger in the outlaw’s voice. ‘Any longer in the flame and it would have burnt.’
‘Then burn it!’ Gobineau snarled back. ‘You mud-grubbing peasants might be used to eating your victuals raw, but I am accustomed to finer things!’ He gestured at the girl with the point of his knife. ‘Now take that back to the kitchen and see that it is prepared properly this time!’ Gobineau let his furious eyes linger on the woman until she had retreated back through the door that led to the kitchens, then turned his gaze on the few other patrons scattered about the inn’s common room, daring any of them to take issue with his harsh tones. Not a one cared to match the outlaw’s eyes.
Gobineau turned his attention back toward the tankard of ale sitting on the table before him, one hand reaching up to scratch at his shoulder. Whatever cinder had struck him had certainly done its wicked work well. Examining it after liberating a horse from a peasant farmer a few miles outside Mousillon, the rogue had found his shoulder to be raw and red, as though someone had placed a hot iron there. The skin had peeled away and what lay beneath was wrinkled and slick with pus. Gobineau supposed that it was worry over this ailment that made him so irritable, there were enough diseases running rampant through Mousillon to make an ordained healer from the temple of Shallya shudder. The bandit desperately hoped that he had not contracted one of them.
A loud, bellowing voice thundering from the entrance of the inn snapped Gobineau from his worried thoughts, causing the thiefs sword to leap into his hand, even as he dropped into a crouch that placed the bulk of his table between himself and the doorway.
‘Jean Pierre Gobineau!’ the voice roared. The rogue relaxed slightly as he saw the man who shouted his name. He was a tall, muscular brute with a full black beard where it was not interrupted by the criminal brand that graced his left cheek.
The bearded man strode across the inn as though he owned the place, his face showing that he took a great deal of amusement in Gobineau’s reaction. The outlaw slowly rose, but kept his sword drawn.
‘Hubolt,’ the rogue greeted the newcomer, keeping his voice level and without either enthusiasm or hostility. ‘I should have thought that ugly face would have been sitting in a basket by now.’
‘Not for lack of trying on the part of the king’s men,’ Hubolt grinned back. ‘I’d have imagined you knifed by some woman’s outraged husband.’
‘I still might if old friends see fit to shout my name across public places,’ Gobineau retorted acidly.
Hubolt laughed at the outlaw’s comment. ‘Oh, you don’t have to worry about that here,’ the bearded man assured him. ‘Not with this rabble. They wouldn’t dare tell somebody about one of Hubolt the Black’s friends tarrying here.’ The big man paused, directing his gaze at the low-born patrons of the inn. ‘They wouldn’t dare,’ he repeated in a deep growl. Those who had been observing the exchange between the two rogues hastily looked away, finding the wood grain of their tabletops of much greater interest.
‘Still playing the brigand?’ Gobineau inquired casually as he resumed his seat. Hubolt retrieved a chair from another table and sat down beside the other outlaw.
‘Aye, and a bit of poaching as well,’ Hubolt said. ‘Still a fair bit of money to be made smuggling things into Mousillon too, if you have the nerve and the contacts.’ There was a suggestive spark in the brigand’s voice, one that Gobineau readily interpreted.
‘Not for me, thanks,’ the rogue replied. ‘In fact, I’ve just come from there. I think I’ve seen enough of Mousillon to last me for some time.’
‘Driven off by this dragon everyone is talking about, eh?’ Hubolt laughed. ‘They say it burned down half of Mousillon. Every knight from here to Quenelles seems to have taken it into his head to ride off and kill it.’ The brigand laughed again. ‘Ah well, while the cat’s away chasing shadows, the rats have free run of the mill!’
‘What if this dragon was more than a mere shadow?’ Gobineau said.
Hubolt smiled back at him, as though waiting for the gist of the jest. Gobineau allowed the brigand several moments to wait. An idea was forming in the rogue’s mind, a scheme so audacious it was worthy only of a man of his own boldness and cunning. But he might need to take on a few partners to make it work. Hubolt had been a tractable enough fellow in the old days, neither stupid enough to endanger his fellow rogues nor clever enough to worry about him usurping Gobineau’s schemes for his own.
‘Bah,’ the brigand scoffed, taking a deep swallow of the ale in Gobineau’s tankard. ‘I’ve never seen a dragon, nor met anyone who wasn’t a liar who had!’
‘I’ve seen it,’ Gobineau stated, staring hard at Hubolt, daring the larger man to call him a liar. ‘I watched it smash Duc Marimund’s castle into dust.’ Hubolt was silent for a long moment, digesting this information.
‘Then the knights will be coming back soon,’ the brigand grumbled. ‘Seems the good times are going to be short.’
‘The good times are only beginning,’ Gobineau contradicted him. ‘Any knight that goes looking for that monster is only going to find his own death. I’ve seen it, seen what it can do. The only way those men are coming back is in caskets.’ A sly grin manifested itself on Gobineau’s face. ‘These are times made for men bold enough to take what they want.’
Hubolt nodded his head. ‘I can’t say I’d miss the knights, but I also can’t say I believe in this knight-slayer of yours. There may have been dragons before, there might even be one now, but in every legend I’ve ever heard, its always been the dragon that came out worst.’
Gobineau reclaimed his tankard, taking another sip of his ale. ‘If you’d seen what I have seen, you’d know that there is a great discrepancy between legend and fact.’ A cunning light gleamed in the outlaw’s eyes. ‘But let us tarry in the land of legend for a moment. What if I told you there was a way to call this dragon? A way to make it do what you wanted?’
Hubolt laughed again, grabbing back the tankard. ‘I’d say you’d been drinking something a lot stronger than this swine-piss!’
Gobineau smiled back. That was the reaction he’d expected to hear.
‘Ah, but there are some people who might not find the possibility so funny,’ the outlaw stated. ‘They’d take it very seriously indeed. Might do anything to keep a bad man from whistling for his dragon. They might pay anything too.’ Suddenly Hubolt’s face was entirely serious.
‘You’re saying a clever man might use these dragon stories to line his own pockets?’ The brigand rubbed his hairy chin as he considered the prospect.
Gobineau leaned forward, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. ‘We tell them that if they don’t pay us, we’ll call the dragon down on them. Burn their crops and their homes and their plump little children.’
‘But what do we do if they won’t pay?’ the brigand pointed out. ‘They’ll need some convincing.’
‘Why, we call up the dragon and burn down their village,’ Gobineau said. ‘Then the next village will require less convincing.’
‘Call up the dragon,’ Hubolt snickered. ‘I like that, Gobineau. Of course, you mean that you have me and my boys set a few fires in the middle of the night, eh? Burn ‘em out while everybody is sleeping and leave none to tell the tale?’
‘Something like that,’ Gobineau grinned back. He looked away from Hubolt, watching as the serving wench emerged from the kitchens with another platter of mutton.
‘Sounds like a fine scheme!’ Hubolt agreed. ‘Especially with all the knights busy chasing after their tails! Might make a tidy profit before folks get wise.’
&nbs
p; The brigand gave a sour look to the servant girl as she set the plate down before Gobineau and hastily retreated. ‘Where do we start?’ he asked, returning his attention to the outlaw.
‘I was thinking we might start with Quenelles,’ Gobineau told him, eliciting a boisterous laugh from Hubolt as the brigand imagined the preposterous magnitude of working such a deception upon an entire city. Gobineau left him to his laughter, attacking the blackened mutton with his knife. Once again, he spat the meat from his mouth.
‘May the Dark Gods rot your cook’s soul!’ the rogue snarled. He rose to his feet, impaling the larger portion of mutton on the length of his sword blade. Hubolt watched in perplexity as Gobineau strode to the roaring fireplace that rested against one wall of the room. The rogue thrust his sword into the fire, letting the flames crackle and claw at the mutton. For long minutes, he concentrated upon his task, ignoring the whisperings and mutterings his actions evoked from the peasants watching him. At length, Gobineau retrieved his blade and marched with it back to his table, sliding a blackened chunk of charred ash onto his plate. Hubolt watched in morbid fascination as his friend began to eat the almost cremated mutton.
‘It’s so hard to find people who know how to prepare food properly these days,’ Gobineau complained between crunching mouthfiils of charred meat.
CHAPTER TEN
The trail the bounty hunters followed was a grim one, a path of ash and ruin, littered with the wreckage of human bodies. The smoke that had beckoned them away from the south had been rising from a small box canyon, the fire still chewing away at whatever brush and twisted trees yet remained. The floor of the valley was a blanket of ash, reminding Ulgrin of the volcanoes that sometimes misbehaved in the southward stretches of the Worlds Edge Mountains. Poking up from the black cinders were broken bones and slabs of heat-ravaged steel. The devastation was obvious, the power of the force that had wrought it almost beyond belief. Brunner quickly tired of the morbid game of counting helmets in an attempt to decide how many knights had fallen here. Much of the armour was so warped and blackened by the dragon’s fire that it was difficult even to determine sometimes if what he thought to be a helm might not instead be a breastplate or a piece of barding. The far end of the valley was heaped with the bones and burnt carcasses of hundreds of cattle.
