by Simon Haynes
A Portion of Dragon and Chips
Book 1 in the Robot vs Dragons Trilogy
v 1.07
Copyright © Simon Haynes 2018
Bowman Press
Written and published using yWriter by Spacejock Software
Stock images © depositphotos.com
3D models © cgtrader.com
This novel, like the author, employs British spelling.
Get the first book in my Hal Spacejock series… free!
Warning warning warning!
This is not a standalone novel.
A Portion of Dragon and Chips is the first part of a trilogy. There are many characters, and their plot lines continue across all three books — assuming they survive, that is.
Everything does wrap up in book three, A Pair of Nuts on the Throne.
If you prefer self-contained novels, you should try my Hal Spacejock, Harriet Walsh or Secret War series instead.
Map of the Old Kingdom
Guaranteed to help tourists find the right spot
Chapter 1
Rank Arbumen, High Priest of Chatter's Reach, stood at the window of his opulent apartment, shivering in the night-time cold. He wore the black robes, lead-plated chain, wooden sandals, leather armbands, green sash and bronze-plated head-piece afforded his exalted position, but given the amount of time it took him to get dressed every day, he sometimes wished he'd taken up some other calling … like acting.
The head-piece was fashioned from a single cast, with mounting holes around the base intended, in less enlightened times, to literally screw the heavy device to the wearer's skull. It was supposed to mark the High Priest out in a crowd, something it achieved with a huge degree of success, since the head-piece evoked an oversized pair of rabbit ears, one of them tilted forward to give the impression the wearer was listening intently.
The origins of the device were lost in the mists of time, but apparently a miserly king of the era had sacked all the proof readers in the land, declaring them a waste of money. So, when a motion came before the High Chamber, instead of suggesting a head-piece which would lend an air of gravitas to the High Priest, it instead recommended a head-piece which would lend him a 'hare of gravitas'.
Repercussions of the king's unwise move were not limited to funny headgear. Indeed, the monarch's tomb, slowly crumbling with the passing years, still bore his subjects' well-meaning epitaph:
Here lies king Taipo, beloved of all. May he rest with angles.
Ironically, burial custom of the time required that kings and queens be interred in a sitting position, so the epitaph was more accurate than even the High Chamber intended.
Arbumen shivered again. There was no glass in the window, which wasn't surprising because panes of glass hadn't been invented yet, and thus a strong, salt-laden breeze cut through his ornate robes as though they were fashioned from gauze. He gathered the robes tighter, trying in vain to warm his bones, and gazed out on the city.
His suite was on the top floor of a converted bell tower. The bells were long since gone, melted down to forge weapons for some long-forgotten war, and the view from the window was breathtaking. Torches and lanterns flickered in the darkness below, their dim glow barely illuminating the streets and alleys. Further in the distance he could see the first of the city walls, where moving specks of light revealed the guards patrolling the battlements. He'd often wondered whether that was wise, since it gave a concealed enemy something to aim a bow at, but he'd been assured that statistically speaking they lost fewer guards to stray arrows than they did from guards taking a wrong turn in the darkness and plunging to their deaths. So, the lights stayed.
There was a rustle of bed sheets behind him, and Arbumen smiled. The lass warming his bed had been particularly vigorous, as promised, and he decided she would receive her second tip of the night when she left.
Arbumen shivered again, and was about to turn away from the window and engage in more warming pursuits when he happened to glance down into the town square. An elaborate wooden stage had been constructed in the centre, with lanterns hung from poles illuminating the large chopping block which had been brought up from the cells for tomorrow's executions. The timbers of the stage were fresh and raw, but the chopping block was streaked with dried blood, black and foreboding in the darkness. The lanterns would be taken down at dawn, the poles ready to receive their new and far more grisly decoration as each execution took place.
"I thought this kind of thing was banned for priests?" said the woman suddenly, interrupting his sombre thoughts.
Arbumen knew what she meant, but he shrugged off the question. "It is not written so."
"But the teachings of Zephyr clearly state that fornication—"
"Do you presume to lecture the High Priest on such matters?"
"I've got a copy of the Windfast," said the woman doggedly. "And I can read."
"Is that so?" Arbumen turned to face her. She was sitting up in bed, naked to the waist, and with a sudden stirring he realised she'd probably get more than two tips that eve. "Which edition do you possess?"
"I don't know, do I? It's got half the pages missing, but the bit about priests is pretty specific."
"Does it mention magic, perchance?"
The woman gasped, her chest moving in a most alluring fashion as she raised one hand to her mouth.
"I thought so. You have an early edition, possession of which could lead to your arrest." Arbumen gestured towards the window. "Half the people decorating those poles tomorrow will be executed because of a similar crime."
"I would never attempt … magic," whispered the woman.
"Of course not. It's banned." Unwillingly, Arbumen's glance travelled over his ample bookshelves, all crammed with tomes on spells, potions and hexes. Most of the spines had titles in the Ancient Tongue, which is why he kept them to hand instead of locking them away. However, just to be on the safe side, the next time he paid for companionship he was going to choose a wench who couldn't read. "It will not surprise you to learn that my knowledge is more extensive than yours," he continued pompously. "Priests may avail themselves of all manner of carnal delights, provided they don't cast spells at the same time. May Zephyr strike me down if I am wrong!" He thought that was a nice touch, then realised he was wasting his considerable verbal skills on a mere courtesan, educated or not. He turned away and quickly forgot the woman as his gaze roved further afield, past the city walls to the edge of the cliffs which protected the city from seaward attacks. And beyond that, out to the horizon, stretched the sea itself, shimmering silver under the light of the primary moon.
He wondered whether there was anything out there, beyond the vast ocean. Scholars insisted the Old Kingdom, huge continent though it was, was the only landmass in the world. Others pointed out that larger landmasses, other civilisations, and treasures beyond compare, could lie just over the horizon. Unfortunately, with gigantic sea serpents roaming the ocean, swallowing everything in their path, there was no way to find out.
There was a flash to his right, far beyond the walls on the opposite side of the city, and moments later it was followed by rumble of thunder. Arbumen frowned at the noise. If the executions were rained off, the peasants would be revolting in the streets. On the other hand, if the peasants got a good drenching they might be a little less revolting than usual.
Praise be to Zephyr.
There was another rumble of thunder, and Arbumen saw a star flickering and flaring on the horizon. The heavens were familiar and well understood, especially by someone in his position, and one didn't want to see new stars popping up unannounced. For one thing, it made it next to impossible to find a stable for his horse.
The light grew brighter, until h
e was forced to shield his eyes from the glare. As it grew larger and larger, Arbumen realised he could actually hear the thing whistling towards him. Wide-eyed, he could only stare as the bright spark of light revealed itself to be a tumbling, glowing boulder as big as a house.
— ♦ —
As the High Priest stood in the window, his companion for the night was calculating the distance from her position in his comfortable bed to a spot between his shoulder blades. It was too far for a killing throw, and Tiera wasn't sure she could make it on foot before he heard her and turned around.
But killing him by the window would be so convenient! She could tip his body out and flee before the guards showed up. Or, if anyone looked in just after the deed, she'd tell them the High Priest had gone to empty his bladder. His bladder and all the rest of his organs, given the long drop to the paving stones below, but she needn't go into excessive detail.
However, such a lie which would be less convincing if the High Priest were lying on the rug in a pool of blood. The city guards weren't known for their mental prowess, but even they knew the difference between the various bodily fluids.
Tiera reached under the bed, her fingers closing on the hilt of a stiletto smuggled in by a serving boy. It had been concealed inside an erotic carving, a carving consisting of twelve inches of polished hardwood, with a removable base into which the dagger fitted smoothly. A carving which, quite frankly, had put the High Priest's manhood to shame.
As she took up the dagger, Tiera considered her escape plans. Some assassins went down with the ship, so to speak, but she always felt that was a criminal waste of talent. Live to kill another day, that was her motto.
She threw off the bedclothes and got up, dagger behind her back. The High Priest was still gazing out the window, and Tiera estimated he'd be dead in twenty seconds. If the stiletto didn't stop his heart, the paving stones of the city square below would certainly finish the job.
In the end, her estimate was out by ten seconds. She'd only taken the first light step towards the High Priest when there was a distant whistle, which grew quickly into a ground-shaking roar. The High Priest was illuminated by an eye-watering glare outside the tower, and then, with an explosion of bricks, shattered timbers and fluttering books, fully half the apartment vanished in the blink of an eye. One second the High Priest was there, the next he'd simply disappeared.
Tiera was thrown backwards, into the bed, and her stiletto went flying. Masonry, rubble and rat droppings rained down on her, and with wide, startled eyes she saw the main supporting beam falling towards her. It was thick and strong enough to support two massive bells, and as it filled her vision Tiera rolled aside desperately. She went over the edge and landed on the floor with a jarring thud, and the bed vanished under the weight of the beam. There was a splintering crash as the floor gave way, and Tiera leapt up, running up the slowly inclining floorboards like a rat charging up the deck of a sinking ship. The floor tilted further, and at the last second Tiera sprang for the nearest window, clawing at the sill with her fingers. She slammed into the wall, the rough stones grazing her naked chest, the impact winding her badly. As the floor collapsed around her, she managed to hold on, until she was dangling from the windowsill with her bare feet at least twenty feet above the next floor.
Slowly, with muscles straining, she pulled herself up until she was squatting on the sill, perched between a twenty-foot drop on one side, and a hundred-foot drop on the other. As she hunched there, shivering with cold and shock, she saw at least one bright spot in the savage destruction. Nobody could accuse her of killing the High Priest, but by Zephyr she was still getting paid for the job.
Chapter 2
Lonta Spadell, captain of the city watch, took the bell tower stairs one by one, making his way slowly to the top. He'd already had several eyewitness accounts on his way over from the barracks, near the main square, and it seemed there was little need to hurry. Some were whispering about a forbidden spell gone wrong, but in a land where dragons occasionally flew overhead — here, he paused to lick his lips — it wasn't unusual for things to fall from the sky. In fact, given the way most dragons were treated, slurp, it was a surprise they hadn't bombed every settlement in the Four Kingdoms to rubble.
Maybe it was true. Maybe they really were extinct in this part of the Old Kingdom. Maybe they really had seen the last of dragon pies, dragon steaks, dragon burgers and dragon kebabs. By now Spadell's mouth was awash with saliva, and he spat noisily on the steps. He couldn't help it, none of them could, because dragon flesh was the most succulent, tasty, fulfilling morsel ever to melt on a human tongue. Just the thought of it, never mind the heady smell, was enough to have Spadell stumbling up the stairs in a dream, barely noticing where he was going. When was the last time he'd tasted dragon, he wondered. Two years ago he'd ridden four days from the city, chasing rumours of an inn selling dragon broth. The thin, watery soup had been diluted so much it was impossible to tell whether it was real or fake.
Well, if a dragon really had destroyed the bell tower and killed the High Priest, he, Lonta Spadell, captain of the watch, would be happy to pack a portable oven and make it his sworn quest to hunt the dragon down and eat it to death.
His thoughts were interrupted as he came across a heavy beam. It had fallen through the ceiling, jamming the stairs, and he realised it was going to take some pretty impressive machinery and a lot of muscle to shift it. Or, he could climb over it.
The obstruction passed, Spadell reached the remains of the top floor, where a freezing wind ruffled the pages of fallen books, which were scattered around like a flock of dead seagulls.
"Help!" said a voice.
Spadell glanced across the gaping pit where the floor used to be. On the far side, huddled on the window sill, was an athletic-looking woman in her twenties. She was naked, and he could see old wounds on her arms and legs, wounds he recognised all too well, as he'd collected the same in various battles over the years. Sword fights. Knife fights, perhaps. The winners always bore scars. The losers were just … dead.
Spadell judged the distance. Most of the floor was missing, but the heavy beam was sticking up like a drunken tree. If he climbed to the very top and laid a plank across the gap to the sill, the naked girl might be able to cross to safety. Or she might fall to her death, but since he was going to have to execute her anyway, it didn't really matter. When someone important died, all bystanders were put to death as a matter of course. Even if they weren't responsible, they still should have done more to prevent the tragedy.
"You're under arrest," he said. From the look in the girl's eyes, it was pretty clear she knew her fate already. In fact, he saw her take a long look through the window, at the ground far below.
"I wouldn't," said Spadell gently. "The axe will be much quicker, and you'll get a hot dinner in the cells tonight."
The girl turned to him, her face tear-stained. "I didn't do anything!" she sobbed. "He … did things to me, and I'm c-cold, and the wall just blew up, and …"
Spadell's heart went out to her, but the law was specific. All she could hope for was a cell on her own, instead of being bunched up with a dozen drunken murderers. If he could, he'd see to it. "You there," he said to one of his men. "Fetch that plank down there. The long one." The rest of his men were gathered in the doorway, all five of them, dressed up in leather armour, with their hands on their sword hilts. What they expected to fight wasn't quite clear. "The rest of you go with him. You can start tidying up."
They left without a murmur, and Spadell smiled to himself. They were well-trained and obedient, which wasn't surprising because the punishment for arguing was death. In fact, the punishment for pretty much everything was death.
Spadell watched his men shifting the falling timbers, and he frowned as he spotted something. It glinted in the lantern-light, and he put his fingers to his mouth and blew a piercing whistle. Everyone froze, staring up at him, and he pointed to the object. "Bring that to me. Quick, now."
Seconds
later, one of his men handed him the object. It was a stiletto, about ten inches long, with a barrel-shaped handle and a long, well-used blade. It wasn't a foppish play-dagger, or some expensive letter opener. This was a tool … an assassin's tool. He dismissed his man, then turned to the window. Eyes narrowed, he studied the naked woman. "Yours, I presume?"
"It's a fair cop," said the girl, and she gave him a smile before looking down at the square far below. "Thanks for the offer of a meal and all, but—"
"No, wait!" said Spadell urgently. There was a clatter as the first guard showed up with the thick plank, and Spadell took it from him and sent him away also. He needed to speak with this woman, and he didn't want to be overheard. Carefully, he climbed the angled roof beam, sliding the plank ahead of him. All noises below had ceased, and he realised everyone was watching, holding their breath. "Back to work, you laggards," he snapped. "Twelve lashes for the first slacker I lay eyes on!"
The cleaning up noises resumed immediately, louder than before, and Spadell continued to inch forwards with his plank. When he reached the end of the beam he angled it over the gap, the end just reaching the windowsill.
"You expect m-me to run a-across that?" asked the woman, her teeth chattering. "I can't even f-feel my legs."
The captain stood up, balancing on the roof beam, then stepped onto the plank. It wasn't quite square and it wobbled underfoot, but it seemed secure enough. With a few light steps, he crossed the plank to the windowsill, where he stood on the end of the plank and braced himself with his hands on the rough bricks above the window. Then he looked down, and saw the woman eyeing him curiously. "You're an assassin, right?" whispered Spadell.
"Sure."
"Good, because I may have a job for you."
