“Spoke? I thought you said he was going to eat you?” Alador eyed his father with a bit of disbelief. He had never imagined his father afraid or weakened. Henrick had always seemed confident and assured, or at least he had the last few years. “Wait, how long ago was this?”
“About four years, and you promised not to interrupt, Alador.” Henrick’s tone became irritated. Alador snapped his mouth shut and nodded sheepishly, hoping that his father would continue.
“He asked me at that moment to give him one reason why he should not eat me. I can tell you that my mind was racing, and for the life of me I could not think of a very good one, so I croaked out that I was bound to be far too bony and stick in his throat. Emboldened by the throaty laugh he gave, I began to point out that to eat a Lerdenian was to risk all forms of different digestive issues. It was a rather long conversation that we both participated in on all the horrid forms of death one might experience by eating a poisonous, bony Lerdenian.” Henrick puffed his pipe. “We have been friends ever since.”
“How often do you get to see him?” Alador asked eagerly. “Can I meet him?” He didn’t know if he’d have had the courage to stand before a large dragon and declare he would be far too poisonous to eat.
“Doubtful you will meet him, as he is rather reclusive. I only see him when it amuses him,” Henrick stated.
“What color was he?” Alador asked excited by the fact that his father knew a dragon. He was far more impressed with this then that his uncle was the High Minister of the Lerdenian people.
“I cannot tell you any more, Alador. I made a promise to never disclose facts about him or where I met him.” Henrick looked over. “I am sure you can understand that a dragon’s resting area is sacred and the fact I live is a rare feat.”
Alador nodded and decided not to press his father for more information. He tried to imagine what it had been like to stand there, discussing one’s possible death with a dragon. As they rumbled down the road, Alador just sat and thought about this new information. His father seemed content to puff on his pipe.
They both rode on in a long silence before Henrick spoke. “I think it is now my turn.” He looked at his son with the same intensity as he had when Alador had woken that morning.
“Your turn?” Alador swallowed; he had a sneaking suspicion that he wasn’t going to like whatever Henrick’s turn was.
“Yes. My question from this morning that I decided was better not discussed in Oldmeadow.” Henrick turned his pipe upside down in the dusty track and knocked the leaves loose. He looked back at Alador as he stuck his pipe back into a pocket. “How do you know the name ‘Rheagos’?” His question was soft.
Alador blinked not sure what his father was talking about. “I don’t.” He frowned at his father. “Why?”
“You were saying it in your sleep. You begged me to speak to Rheagos.” Henrick was now watching his son and not the road they were rattling down.
Alador looked away from his father, still not entirely sure what he was talking about. Then his dream came flooding back, and Alador realized he must have been muttering in his sleep. Inwardly, he cursed. How could he begin to explain? “In truth, I really don’t know,” he offered. It was the truth. He wasn’t totally sure who or what Rheagos was, but he had the idea that he was a reclusive and powerful dragon. “Do you know who he is?”
“Yes,” Henrick answered clearly not happy with his son’s answer.
“Who is he?” Alador asked carefully.
“You were the one asking me to take you to him. Who do you think he is?” Henrick put his boot up on the board before them and handed the reins to Alador.
Alador took them automatically. He considered the dream, or at least what he could recall of it, very carefully. “I would say an ancient dragon.”
Henrick considered Alador’s words as if weighing their merit. “You have dreams, don’t you?” he asked with a low, even tone, and his eyes not leaving Alador.
Alador felt a strange pressure and refused to look at his father. The place where he found his power now felt something coming from Henrick and it rolled in response. “Don’t use magic on me, Father,” he warned with a growl. “If you want to know and we’re supposed to trust each other, stop using magic to compel me to answer,” he continued, venturing out in a guess.
The pressure stopped immediately. “I am sorry. The answer, Alador, is crucial to matters at hand. I need to know the truth.”
“Will you kill me when you have it?” Alador asked still not willing to look at Henrick.
“There is a time when I might have, but I have reconsidered,” Henrick answered back evenly.
“Why have you reconsidered?” Alador had suspected that his father had weighed the subject of saving him from the noose far too long.
“I have decided that I can trust you. I have decided that you might actually be strong enough to help me outwit your uncle. I have decided that to do so would be far more entertaining than letting my dragon friend eat him.” Henrick answered. The words were so blatantly honest that Alador looked at him.
“It would be faster to let your dragon friend eat him,” Alador pointed out.
“Perhaps, but then there is the matter of restarting the war, and dealing with the mess and chaos that would be left if a dragon ate the High Minister. It would be far more conducive for his fall to come from within,” Henrick stated.
“You trust me with a great deal of information that could see you dead within hours of our arrival in Silverport.” Alador eyed his father, trying to figure out what game he was playing.
“Indeed! I figure I am going to have to give you something as deeply dangerous as the information I seek to drag from that little brain of yours.” Henrick grinned at his son.
Alador slowly grinned back. Despite his fear and the warning to not do so, he decided to trust his father. “I’ve been having dreams since the moment I took the bloodstone from the ground. I dream of a great blue dragon and in this last dream, he mentioned Rheagos. I can’t be sure it was from the stone, though. I was knocked out when I hit my head, and the healer said that I hit it fairly hard. Why is this important?”
“There are two kinds of bloodstones, Alador. One you know well, and have mined since you were big enough to do so. However, there is a type of bloodstone that is exceedingly rare, a geas stone,” Henrick replied slowly. “I do not know of one being found in hundreds of years.”
“What’s a geas stone?” Alador asked uneasily.
“A geas stone is empowered with all the magic of a dragon, usually an elder dragon, often a flight leader. But in addition to all the power of that dragon, it is imbued with a geas that cannot be denied by the recipient.” Henrick stared off into the distance.
The road narrowed and wound back next to the river, and Alador had to pay close attention to the korpen as the wagon barely had a foot on either side. The cliff loomed above them on the right and the river raced by on the left. “What’s a geas?” He asked curiously after a long moment of silence.
Henrick considered the question. “Well, a geas is like a promise. One that must be kept. The problem is, in a geas stone, one does not know what that promise is until they stumble upon it. It is usually formed if the dragon was after something very important to him and, in his death, he declares that geas. Unless one chances upon it, or is present at the dragon’s death, there is no way to know. However, if your stone was a geas stone, every choice you make will press you closer to completion of that promise.” He looked at Alador. “The reason I suspect yours may have been such a stone is that you have those dreams, and vivid dreams of the dragon imposing the geas often act as one of the signs.”
Alador sat on the edge of the seat, his body tense. He gripped the reins tightly, partially as the korpen’s tendency to wander needed close attention and partially because his father’s words felt true. He knew deep down as Henrick spoke that there was something he had to do. And, just as he had said, Alador had no idea what that ‘something’ was
. “What difference will this make for me?” he asked softly.
“I don’t know, Alador. What I do know is that you and I must keep this a secret. You must guard your sleep. You must act as if your uncle is the favored mentor and hang upon his every word. And, you must make it seem as if your power falters until you are ready to resist him. Luthian cannot suspect you have taken a geas stone.” Henrick’s words were urgent.
“What will he do if he learns about it?” Alador glanced at his father worriedly but quickly returned his eyes to the path.
“He will have no choice: he will kill you,” Henrick answered softly.
“Who is Rheagos?” Alador asked after the mage’s words sank in. He realized that in the distraction of other conversation, he did not yet know that answer.
Henrick was quiet for a while and Alador was finally able to look at him. Henrick met his gaze and finally nodded. “He is the last dragon created by the gods’ hands. He is the elder of all the dragons and the only one I know of with golden scales. To know his name, to hear it spoken from a mortal tongue...” Henrick lapsed silent.
“Yet you know it,” Alador pointed out. He failed to see why knowing this name was so important to Henrick. He glanced back at the road, relieved to see it widening back out.
Henrick sighed softly. “Yes, I know it. I had thought never to hear it spoken till you were muttering in your sleep. To hear it from my own son is something I am struggling to fathom.”
“Why do you know it?” Alador looked at his father curiously. “Is it because your friend is a dragon?” He eyed Henrick and shifted uneasily in his seat.
Henrick hesitated. “Yes; yes, that is it. I heard my friend speak of it,” he muttered.
Alador watched Henrick and, for the first time, knew his father was lying to him. He had been about to challenge his words when a low, deep rumble interrupted him, alarming the korpen. Alador looked up to see huge rocks tumbling down from the cliffs above.
“Rock—” was all Alador could get out before the cliff cascaded down upon them.
Chapter Four
The rain fell with its usual steady drizzle. To those that lived in the trenches, rain was a welcome thing. Most of Silverport’s sewage was brought down into the trenches and flushed out into the bay opposite the port. There was a slight angle to the trench to allow for drainage, and a small flow of water had been diverted from the falls in an effort to keep the waste from stagnating. The attempt hadn’t been successful, relief from the constant stench only came when it rained. Those who made the trenches their home were so used to it, though, that they usually didn’t notice.
Though Silverport was the symbol of the grandness of the Lerdenian people, the trenches were its dark and evil heart. Every city had a trench, but only Silverport, as the Lerdenian capital, had a full six levels above the trench, whereas most Lerdenian cities only had three. Regardless, every city had a Trench Lord; a leader of sorts who’d risen from the hierarchy built out of the outcasts, half-breeds, and those without magic that were forced to live in squalor.
The Trench Lord would always be someone of strength and intelligence who managed to work his way to the top, and once he rose, he was met by the leader of that city to make arrangements. Then, he would be left to rule the trench as he desired, as long as certain city needs were met. If they were not, the ruling mage would see to his immediate removal. There was no retirement from the role of the Trench Lord.
A home had been made over time for the Trench Lord, just a little above the trench, overlooking it but not quite on the first tier. Its interior was as fine as the High Minister’s, though the house was smaller; the Trench Lord skimmed the goods coming into the city, and often had first pick on many of the new arrivals. Despite the house’s grandeur, however, no one of the trench welcomed an invitation into its fine marbled halls. Few returned.
Aorun stood at the small balcony that overlooked the port. He preferred this spot as the outcropping for the balcony was technically outside the trench, and for a short while he could enjoy fresh air and the beauty of a fine morning. He sipped his tea laced heavily with smalgut, a bracing alcohol he favored. It was the way he began every day, with a moment of silence before a reign of blood and violence.
A ship had come from one of the port cities across the sea. It would have on it a shipment of silks, wine and other luxuries. Aorun preferred the feel of leather for his own clothes, but he had to admit he loved running his hands across a woman’s body when it was clothed in the liquid sheen of silk.
Aorun was a cold man. His muscular figure, deadly swordplay, and cruel nature made sure that most stood well out of his path. He had no mercy or concern for those he ruled over; his pleasure, his pocket, and his power were all that concerned him. He saw those within the trenches as toys for his pleasure and minions in his service, while those above him were little more than spoiled fools that did not deserve respect. Fortunately for Aorun, he didn’t have to give it until he stepped above the third tier. Those in the first three tiers considered the Trench Lord as necessary and respected his position. Without his goodwill, certain goods became expensive and difficult to obtain.
He stepped back into the room. His personal office had the typical stone walls of any trench dwelling, but his floor was a beautiful tile work of blues and greens. Aorun’s fireplace drafted properly and the room didn’t smell of soot the way most trench homes did. His favorite possession was a beautiful, ornate desk that stood impressively across from the door, its deep, rich color was not typical for wood from around the isle. It was clearly intended to draw the eyes of visitors that stepped into the room. Aorun approached his desk and set down his cup, then moved to open the door and beckon his two men inside.
Sordith and Owen had been with him since he’d killed his predecessor. Aorun trusted them both as much as he dare trust anyone, and let no one else close to him. He had others in his employ and protection, but only these two knew most of what Aorun did, and only they were allowed to stand beside him in the trench. Their position meant that both of them slept in the Trench Hall.
“Sordith, since you have a head for numbers and do not mind it, I want you to oversee the collections today. Review the warehouse reports and inform me if you see any discrepancies.” Aorun indicated the pile of reports on his desk, his tone one of unquestionable order. He waited until Sordith gave his usual brief nod. Sordith did not speak overly much, but he had a sharp eye and was good at catching errors in figures. Aorun had some education with numbers, but had to belabor them with difficulty. He was a man of the sword and hated anything that required him to sit behind a desk with paper.
“Owen.” Aorun paused, waiting for the man to look to him. “The wench in my bed has little skill and giggles far too much. Deliver the slut to Madam Aerius down at the brothel and make sure you tell the Madam to put the girl into training for at least two weeks before she is offered up to any tiers.” Owen nodded and turned to head for Aorun’s bedroom. “Oh, and Owen.”
Owen turned back and looked at Aorun. “Yes, m’lord?” he asked. His deep voice usually brought plenty of his own wenches, and his commanding tone was what made Aorun look him over the first time when assessing men to move up to his side.
“Feel free to test her yourself, but I found her sorely lacking in any skills.” Aorun smiled at his man, knowing that to use the Trench Lord’s woman in his bed would be a pleasure he would not have to offer Owen twice.
“As you command, m’lord, so shall it be.” Owen grinned wickedly, already unbuckling his sword belt as he walked out the door.
Aorun caught Sordith’s disapproving glare at Owen’s departing back before Sordith could mask it. “You have got to get rid of that sense of honor of yours, Sordith. While it leads me to trust you with my books, I swear one day you will get yourself carved up for some wench who deserved her lot.” He shook his head, chuckling softly.
Sordith had already schooled his face to its usual casual blandness. “They can try,” he answered with some arr
ogance.
Aorun just shook his head. When the door behind Owen shut, his demeanor became more serious. “What time is the stable lord due to visit us?”
Sordith moved forward on that question. “I again beg you to reconsider helping this man. This army he plans to build…what if it is you they seek to dethrone?” Sordith frowned at Aorun. “I do not like this breeding of people like they are dogs.”
“Sordith, most of those sent to the stables are little more than dogs. Look at it this way, if it bothers you so much: those that are accepted and keep their mouths shut are given a chance to leave the sewers. It will help some better their lot.”
Sordith leaned onto the desk as Aorun sat down behind it. “Maybe the half-breeds, Aorun. Maybe their lot is better, but Lerdenian women are free. They should not be rounded up as slaves.” Sordith spoke with passion; he was one of the few that could speak to Aorun so honestly.
Aorun’s eyes hardened as Sordith spoke. “Even if I agreed with you, which as a point of fact I do not, the High Minister himself has commanded that I work with the stable lord. I am not going to be the one who irritates that man. There are few that give me cause for concern, but he is one of them.”
“So you are afraid to refuse,” Sordith shot back, his anger at such injustice flaring up.
Aorun’s temper flashed and he rose up to lean across the desk. His eyes narrowed, and he drew his face within inches of Sordith’s. “Say that again,” he hissed dangerously to Sordith.
The two stood eye-to-eye for a long moment. The only sound in the room was their breathing and the bells from the ships below the window. Finally, Sordith dropped his gaze a half measure. “I apologize, m’lord, it was not my intent to call you a coward. It is just upsetting that the man I serve, who should be treated with the respect he is due, is treated by the upper tiers as little more than a puppet master.” He took a step back from the desk.
The Blackguard (Book 2) Page 5
