Dragon Sacrifice (The First Realm Book 3)

by Klay Testamark

  “I’m glad,” I said. “What would you have done if it were not in order?”

  The half-elf laughed. “I have strong lungs and fast legs. I’d call half the city down on us before you caught me.”

  I saluted him and we walked on. I said to Cruix, “See, there are perks to being on a lord’s retinue.”

  “Easy for you to say, you like your official position.”

  “Angrod’s my friend. I’d fight for him even if I wasn’t his bodyguard. There’s nothing wrong with being the jester, Cruix.”

  “Do I look like a clown? Don’t answer that.”

  Cruix, as usual, was dressed all in white. There’d been arguments early on about the importance of clothes. The dragon didn’t see any point to wearing them. As a Northlander I didn’t, either. As long as it’s not too cold, why bother? It’s a point of pride for us to go shirtless in winter. Some tribes even scorn all manner of armour, fighting without any clothes at all.

  But this is Brandish, not the Northlands, and when one is in a foreign land one must accommodate local customs. I said as much to Cruix. Mina told him it would weaken us politically. Angrod pointed out that Cruix’s elf body was a copy of Angrod’s, and he really didn’t care for all that advertising.

  “I’m a grower, not a shower,” Angrod had said. Whatever that meant.

  So Cruix compromised by owning just one suit of clothes. It’s a little formal for most occasions, but I’ve gotten used to it.

  “Being the jester gives you license to speak your mind,” I said. “You know how you like to speak your mind.”

  He nodded. “You may have a point there. But you’ll never find me wearing a cap of bells.”

  Drystone was beautiful at night. The wide avenues were filled with rich young elves. Well, they all looked young. They seemed to be competing to wear the frilliest, silliest, most impractical outfit that money could buy. Their sleeves were too long, to show that they never worked with their hands. This also made it difficult to draw their jewelled blades, which hung too high anyway. The fingers had long nails and heavy rings, the ears and noses had elaborate piercings, and the hair was extravagantly styled. All of these things would be bad in a fight. Some of them couldn’t even move properly, they were so tightly corseted.

  And that was just the men.

  We Northlanders love our jewelry and our tattoos. They’re almost as good as scars. But we’d never wear anything that compromised our fighting ability.

  “What’s the occasion?” I asked Cruix. “I’m glad for the company, but you usually disappear until morning.”

  He shrugged—he’d picked up that gesture from me. “Dragons are social creatures, believe it or not. Occasionally I find myself craving the fellowship of another thinking being, such as it is.”

  I rolled my eyes. I don’t always understand how he’s making fun of me, but I recognize the tone.

  “Does this mean you’re going to start training with me?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Heavens, no. Why get all sweaty?”

  “How about for massive gains?” I curled my right arm to show him what I meant. I was born with full, peaked biceps that responded well to training. No one could deny that I’d put in the work, however. Heads turned to look, so I flexed my other arm.

  “You got all that from swinging a sword?” Cruix asked.

  “There’s conditioning too,” I said. I put my arms down, pressed my fists into my waist, and spread wide my upper back muscles. Several elf-women licked their lips. Their escorts weren’t too happy.

  I was about to turn to give everyone a view of my back when Cruix caught my arm. “Let’s get inside before you start a riot,” he said.

  Elrond’s is not your usual Brandish pub. Most of the places on Restaurant Row are meant for elves, half-elves, and people who can pass as elves. That rules out dwarves and most humans. But Elrond doesn’t care about those things. He doesn’t even care if you don’t like wine, so long as you don’t say bad things about it.

  Walking through the door, I wasn’t greeted by glares or silence. They glanced at Cruix and me, then returned to their drinks. We made our way to the bar.

  Elrond was the second elf I’d seen today who was noticeably old. He had to be in his tenth century at least. His grey hair was receding, giving him a pointed hairline. His moustache and beard weren’t trimmed so much as neatly sculpted. He was polishing a glass.

  “Your usual, Heronimo?” he asked.

  “Please,” I said. “And an extra glass.”

  “You have a usual?” Cruix asked.

  “This is Angrod’s favourite pub. You’d know your way around too, if you weren’t always disappearing.”

  He looked away. “For a long time I wasn’t comfortable in the company of… non-dragons.”

  “Well, you’re here now!” I clapped him on the back. “Let’s go find a table.”

  “Oi, Heronimo!”

  We made our way to Sandahl’s table. My fellow Northlander sat with a three familiar dwarves.

  “What’s up, big man?” Kodo asked. Or maybe it was Lodo.

  “Yeah, what’s up, big man?” Lodo asked.

  “Fellows, I’d like you to meet my friend,” I said. “Sandahl, Jodo, Kodo, and Lodo, this is the dragon Cruix. Cruix, these are my drinking buddies.”

  Cruix shook their hands, even Sandahl’s. Her dress showed off her shoulders and back, which rippled and swelled with muscle. Cruix’s eyes popped.

  “Sandahl teaches wrestling,” I said.

  “You look pretty strong,” Sandahl told Cruix. “What do you do?”

  “Mostly stretching,” he said. “I do a lot of flying. It’s good for my wings.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “That’s when I’m a dragon,” he said. “I’ve actually never exercised in this form. Never needed to. This is an exact copy of Angrod’s body as it was sixteen years ago.”

  “It never loses muscle tone?” Sandahl asked. “Wait, an exact copy?”

  “He’s a grower, not a shower,” I blurted. “... what does that mean?”

  Everyone bent over laughing.

  My usual order arrived, a pitcher of beer and a platter of smoked oysters. It was served by

  Elrond’s nephew, I don’t know his name.

  “Thanks,” I said, and started pouring for me and Cruix.

  “So your elf form doesn’t age?” Jodo asked. “You just put it on, like a jacket?”

  “Essentially,” Cruix said. “The pattern is complex and cannot be modified.”

  “How long can you be an elf?” Lodo asked. “Is there like a time limit? Do you risk getting stuck?”

  Cruix shook his head. “I can maintain this form for as long as I’m awake. To become an elf permanently, I’d have to give up my dragon body, and I’d never do that.”

  “I have heard of shapechanging in my country,” Sandahl said. “The witches, they do this. It is said to be dangerous and painful.”

  “Shapeshifting is basically replacing your morphic field with another, then forcing your body to conform to it.” Cruix said. “It is painful.”

  “You’re growing an entire new asshole,” Kodo said. “That’s gotta hurt.”

  “I’ve… never thought of it that way,” Cruix said.

  Kodo and Lodo high-fived. “New perspectives, yeah!”

  Someone was making his way to our table. He was about fifteen, and from those ears, a half-elf.

  Sandahl looked up. “Oh, hey kid. Have a seat!”

  He sat down and nodded.

  “It’s his birthday,” she said. “I promised him a pint.”

  “Your son?” Cruix asked.

  “My girlfriend’s,” she said, tousling his hair. “Greg here is an apprentice mason. He’s already helping his mother with the household expenses.”

  The boy blushed. “I carry bricks, is all.”

  “I thought elven buildings were constructed in one piece,” Cruix said.

  Greg shook his head. “Not in the Old Quarter. To
o expensive.”

  Elrond’s nephew came by again.

  “All right, all right, let the birthday boy have his pint,” Sandahl said.

  “Happy birthday, kid.” Jodo patted Greg on the back. Jodo’s brothers murmured agreement.

  Someone touched Cruix’s arm. We turned and a beautiful halfling woman pulled her hand back. I wanted to throw her over my shoulder and take her back to my ship.

  “I’m sorry, do I know you?” Cruix asked.

  “Sorry. I thought we did,” she said.

  “Mother!” Greg said. He had a beer moustache.

  “This is your mother?” I asked, and mentally kicked myself. Sir Obvious, that’s me.

  Introductions again. Mariel was a roofer. She had wavy auburn hair, which I like, and a magnificent cleavage, which I liked even better. It was hard to keep my eyes on her face.

  “I didn’t know there were women in construction,” Cruix said.

  “We do the shit jobs, mostly,” Mariel said. “Carry water, dig ditches, that sort of thing. I was lucky to be good at thatching roofs, and it just went from there. I work with copper now.”

  “She’s quite in demand,” Sandahl said. She had an arm around Mariel.

  “That’s great!” I said. Halflings had trouble learning a trade. Because their lives were so short it didn’t seem like a wise investment. Why teach someone a skill that they’ll never get really good at it?

  “Plus, she’s got an edge,” Sandahl said. “Show them, luv.”

  Mariel picked up a fork from her plate. The tines waggled like fingers and the whole thing curled in on itself. It straightened, then twisted like a noodle.

  “It’s magic,” I said. A halfling was doing magic. “Impossible!”

  “And yet she’s doing it,” Cruix said. He had that intense look that meant he was using his Sight.

  “So… how…?” Lodo asked.

  “It started after I had Greg,” Mariel said. “It’s like part of him stayed with me.”

  “Awwww,” the dwarf brothers said.

  “She’s got an aura,” Cruix said. “It’s a close match with her son’s, although not as strong.”

  “So having a magical baby makes you magic?!” Sandahl said. “How can I get in on this?”

  “Technically, you’re already magical,” Jodo said.

  I leaned closer to Cruix. “Exactly how does this work?” I asked.

  “What she said. Her entire body is full of traces of Greg’s foetal tissue. It’s in her blood, her brain—everywhere!”

  “I actually understood that,” I said.

  “I used the smallest words possible.”

  Greg was talking with the dwarves about his plans. He was going to join the builder’s guild, work his way up to master. He grinned a familiar grin when he talked about eventually putting himself through mage school.

  “I know it’s going to take a while,” he said. “I might be well into my second century before they let me into their club. But this is what life gave me.”

  I coughed and stood up. “Would you take some air with me, Sandahl?”

  Chapter 8

  We walked out of the pub and sidestepped under the awning. It had started to rain.

  “Smoke?” she asked, offering a cigar.

  “Thanks, but no,” I said.

  We were silent while she lit up. When she spoke, it was in the Norse tongue.

  “It is good to speak our mother tongue,” she said. “The alfr language is beautiful, but I am not at ease with it.”

  “You speak it well,” I said. “I often am teased. They say to me, Heronimo, how can you still sound like that after all these years? I tell them I take lessons to keep my accent.”

  Sandahl laughed. “Where would I go for such lessons? It seems every year I become less a Northlander.”

  “Do you miss the fatherland?”

  “Parts of it. But overall, I like where I am. The Alfr is arrogant but peace-loving. The Dvergar is a stout drinking companion, as you see.”

  I laughed. “They work as hard as they play. I am fond of them.”

  “Your girlfriend is a dvergar,” she said. “Can I trust you, given who your friends are?”

  “I merely wished to ask if Greg knew his father. It is well known that alfr reward women who give them heirs, and that the children lack for nothing. The boy and his mother may not need to work so hard.”

  Sandahl frowned. Thunder rolled in from the distance. The rain fell in torrents.

  “First, she is not certain who the father is,” Sandahl said. “If she contacted one of her ex-lovers, there is a chance the others would find out. She wants no blood on her hands.”

  “Oof,” I said. Heirs were serious business. Elves would fight to the death over the custody of a baby.

  Sandahl went on. “Second, she does not want her son taken from her. In these situations, how often will a halfling mother raise her own child?”

  If the elf was married he’d raise the baby as his wife’s. If he wasn’t, he still wasn’t likely to keep the mother around. That would advertise the kid’s half-elf status.

  “Then can I trust you?” she asked.

  I nodded. “But call on me if the boy needs something.”

  “Agreed,” she said. “Also, there is a third reason. She did not want Greg to grow up into an arsehole.”

  I laughed. “They are not all like that!”

  “What’s this I hear? Is it the snarling of wild dogs?”

  Four elves had stepped up to the door. They looked like university students.

  The elf-woman spoke again. “I am mistaken: These are not dogs. Dogs would know to come out of the rain.”

  “Now, listen here—” Sandahl started. I put a hand on her arm to stop her.

  “Let’s just go inside,” I said.

  They followed us in, though. I could smell the alcohol on their breath. They were very drunk. I pulled Sandahl to our table and sat down to watch.

  “Barkeep!” The elf-woman waved a banknote. “A bottle of your finest!”

  “You look like you’ve had a few already,” Elrond said.

  “It’s my birthday. My fiftieth birthday. And I want a fucking drink!”

  “That’s enough, young lady. You may sit, but the only drink you’ll get is coffee.”

  She stamped her foot. “So our money’s not good enough, but theirs is?” She pointed at us.

  I realized that our table was the most diverse, with three dwarves and two humans. Everyone else in the pub was either an elf or a half-elf. They all kept their heads low.

  “It’s not fair.” The elf-woman said. She wore her hair long, but the front half of her scalp was shaved, giving her an extremely high forehead. On it was tattooed a snake, or a thunderbolt.