A Portion of Dragon and Chips

by Simon Haynes

  "Where are you going?" Islington asked him.

  "Thought I saw a coin stuck on that last jellyfish. The one I chucked in the sea."

  Islington made an exasperated noise, and continued up the beach. Meanwhile, Pentonville did indeed see the finger, and after wrenching it from the claw of a large crab, he set off in pursuit of his fellow guard. He'd only taken three paces when his heart almost stopped as he spied a glint of gold. A mangled head-piece was half-buried in the wet sand, with a heavy metal base and a pair of rabbit ears on top. The thing was buckled and twisted, but melted down it would be worth an absolute fortune.

  Pentonville glanced towards his fellow guard, but Islington had his back turned. So, he hurried over and crouched to inspect the treasure, ready to cover it with sand at any second. Unfortunately, he quickly discovered the item was not fashioned from gold, nor even plated with the stuff. No, it was a worthless piece of junk, with not a single embedded jewel he could prise free and sell. With a muttered curse, Pentonville got to his feet and kicked viciously at the sand, spraying it far and wide.

  Angrily, he turned and paced along the shore. To have such riches snatched from his grasp, twice in one morning, was almost too much to bear. However, his mood changed as he spied a large bank of seaweed floating just past the breaking waves. Seaweed was a common sight along the beach, and was often used as a fertiliser. Unfortunately, it didn't pay well enough to drag it from the ocean and then cart up the long flight of steps to the city.

  However, it wasn't the seaweed Pentonville was interested in. No, he could just make out a bronze-coloured flash of metal amongst the matted green strands. That was odd in itself, because anything metal should have sunk to the ocean floor.

  The matted seaweed rode a wave, and as the angle changed, Pentonville realised the flash of bronze belonged to a figure lying on the natural raft. From the parts he could see, the figure appeared to be armoured from head to toe. Even if it wasn't wearing any valuable rings, its armour might fetch a pretty penny. More importantly, it would be one in the eye for Islington.

  He was about to dash into the sea and pull the matted seaweed to the shore, thus claiming his prize. However, he was still irked at Islington, and he decided they might as well both get wet. So, he blew a piercing whistle, and when his fellow guard turned to look, Pentonville pointed at the seaweed. He saw Islington look, then look again, before hurrying into the surf. The water quickly reached his waist, and Pentonville realised any rings the figure might be wearing could vanish into Islington's pockets first. So, he threw aside his sword and charged into the water, gritting his teeth at the freezing cold.

  They reached the seaweed together, and Pentonville's hopes were dashed. It wasn't an armoured figure lying face down on the raft, it was some battered old statue. Discoloured, dented and worthless, it had obviously been discarded years ago. He took one of its hands in his, raising the arm with effort, and scowled. The thing didn't even have any rings on.

  "There you go," said Islington, with a laugh. "I said you could have the next find, and I'm a man of my word."

  Pentonville shot him a venomous glance. The ring was a far better find, the dented statue so much junk, but he wasn't about to admit it. "Bet it's worth more than that tatty little ring. Hey, maybe it's got emeralds for eyes!"

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  Even so, Islington lent a hand, and together they rolled the statue onto its back. The eyes were yellow, and they stared at the sky with a look of resignation. They were surprisingly life-like, and they certainly weren't gems.

  "I wonder who it belonged to?" said Islington.

  "Who cares?" snapped Pentonville. "And who'd want it back? Look at the state of it!"

  "It's a pity it wasn't rowing a boat. We could have filed our report and got back to the watch house in time for cards."

  Pentonville groaned. Reports! This dented statue would take hours to write up, and then there was the question of carrying the thing all the way up the stone steps to the city. "I wish we'd never found it," he muttered.

  They looked up the beach. They looked down the beach. They were alone.

  "We could bury it," suggested Islington.

  "You're joking! Have you ever tried to dig a hole with your sword?"

  "Sure I have. Do you remember that guy who was sniffing around my daughter?" Islington nodded towards a large rock at the base of the cliff. "He's buried over there."

  "Really? How long does that kind of thing take?"

  "Well, it depends on the width of the blade doesn't it? That, and the composition of the soil. Take your ordinary garden soil, now. That's easy to shift but the stones are murder on your average blade. Sand now, that's gentle on the blade but much harder to shift in bulk."

  "I can see you've put some thought into this."

  "It's been a rich field of study for some time." Islington shrugged. "I once had a lot of enemies."

  "All right, let's get on with it," said Pentonville. "It's mock dragon stew for lunch today, and I'm not missing out again."

  They hauled the statue to the beach, where they laid it out next to a suitable spot and got their swords ready for digging. Before they could start, there was a hair-raising groan from the statue. Slowly, they turned to look at it, the hairs on the backs of their necks standing on end.

  Before they could run away, chop its head off, or throw it back into the sea, the statue sat up, raised a hand to its forehead, and then studied them with its glowing yellow eyes.

  "Ub glub orsook," it said, and dirty seawater bubbled from its mouth and cascaded down its chest.

  Chapter 5

  It took almost two hours, but Father M finally located a tavern with a spare room. There may or may not have been blackmail involved, and it wasn't much of a room, but at least it was indoors and had a roof on top. After travelling through the countryside, sleeping rough, it was all Father M could ask for.

  Now, having inspected their lodgings, Father M, Hurm and Runt took their places at a long, wooden table. Runt perched on his stool, barely clearing the tabletop, and he took in the dingy tavern with a look of disfavour. In the back, he saw a young man with a mop of dark hair pointing at him, and there was a burst of laughter as the man made a cutting remark to his friends. "Remind me again. Why did we come to this god-forsaken land?"

  "Money. Why else?" murmured Father M.

  "Well if I don't get some cash, and soon, I'll tell 'em all you're a wizard. Then we'll see—"

  Father M made a casual, two-fingered gesture, and Runt clutched at his throat, wheezing and straining as his windpipe was squeezed shut. Once he'd got the message, the wizard released him.

  "Don't be so touchy," grumbled Runt. "I was only teasing."

  "Hurm drink," said the big fighter, whose big, muscled rear was perched on a stool which looked like it was going to collapse at any second.

  Father M sighed and took out a handful of pocket change. "Get a round in. I'll have a peppermint brandy."

  "Beer," said Runt. "And make sure there's no fruit in it."

  Hurm thought on this for a few moments, then stood up. He cut an impressive figure as he strode towards the bar, towering over the other patrons by a head. Unfortunately he was too tall for the thick beams holding up the roof, and his skull went thunk-thunk-thunk as he walked straight into each heavy timber. Completely oblivious, he reached the bar, where the barkeep was looking up at him apprehensively. "Can I help you, sir?"

  "Drinks," said Hurm.

  The barkeep smiled. "Of course, sir. What particular beverages would you like?"

  "Ale." Hurm's brow wrinkled as he tried to remember the rest of the order. Then his face cleared. "Beer with peppermint. Brandy with fruit."

  "Coming right up, sir." The barkeep busied himself behind the counter, then came back with a tankard of ale, a tall glass of ale with a sprig of mint sticking over the rim, and a brandy glass brimming with ale and sliced banana. "Here you are, sir. That'll be a half-crown, a shilling and sixpence."

 
Hurm opened his huge fist and examined the coins in his palm. There were bronze ones, and silver ones, and even a sort of greenish one, and they all had different images engraved on the faces. "Huh?"

  "A half crown, a shilling and sixpence," repeated the barkeep. "Or, if you like, I can take that worthless green one instead."

  "Mine!" said Hurm. He'd never seen a coin that colour before, and he wasn't going to waste it on drinks. He knew you could buy the company of a woman if you had enough money, and the green coin might be enough for two, or even one. He was a little hazy on the math, truth be told, but it was days since he'd last polished his sword, and such a fine weapon needed much care and attention.

  "Okay, okay. If you don't have a shilling, that's thirteen pence extra. And half-crowns are ten shillings each, unless it's a dragonhead, which is worth eleven." The barkeep paused to lick his lips, then continued. "So that's a hundred and fifty-six pence, thanks."

  Hurm put two of the silver coins on the counter.

  "And a bit more," said the barkeep.

  Three more coins joined the first, one of them etched with a dragon's head. The barkeep swallowed, then smiled encouragingly. "Almost there."

  Hurm added all the coins except the green one.

  "That's it!" said the barkeep. "Enjoy!"

  As he reached for the coins, Hurm took his wrist with a grip of steel. "Wait!"

  "Y-yes?"

  "Change!"

  "Oh, you're right, silly me." Carefully, the barkeep separated one of the copper coins from the rest, and handed it back. "There you go."

  Satisfied, Hurm gathered the drinks and took them back to the table, where the reception was less than enthusiastic. Runt sniffed his beer, tossed the mint spring away, and took a tiny sip with his tiny mouth. "I've drunk better ale from the bottom of a toilet bowl," he remarked, after pursing his tiny lips.

  Meanwhile, Father M fished a brownish slice of banana from his 'brandy' and held the glass to the light. He'd never seen brandy with a full head on it, but every land had their own local variety, and perhaps this fizzy brew would be the most memorable beverage he'd ever tasted.

  It was.

  Father M spluttered as the banana-flavoured ale hog-tied his tongue and administered two dozen lashes to his taste buds. They weren't the wishy-washy lashes you got from a lover with a whip fetish, these were the kind of lay-open-the-flesh and expose-the-bone lashes you got from a bosun with a bad temper and a thick right arm. To scour the awful taste from his soul, Father M fished around on the sawdust-strewn floor until he located Runt's sprig of mint, then chewed on the herb like fury.

  He was so intent on cleansing his palate, he barely looked round as a group of men entered the tavern. Vaguely, he noticed one of the men was of generous proportions, to put it mildly, and was squeezed into a set of bronze armour which made him look like a metal-plated egg. The armour was immaculate, without so much as a scratch or a dent, and Father M knew instantly this man had never seen combat.

  The men accompanying him were another matter. They were hard-faced veterans, with an impressive collection of scars, and they wore battered armour which was in complete contrast to that of their master.

  "Make way for Sur Cumfrence!" shouted one of the men. He had a stern face, bisected by an ancient scar which ran from temple to chin, and his tone brooked no argument. His armour was of better quality than the others, his sword longer and more pointy, and it was clear he was the leader of the bodyguards. The tavern patrons obliged by clearing a path. A very wide path. "Barkeep, a keg of ale and twelve of your best pies."

  "And what are the rest of you having?" called some wag from the shadowy depths of the tavern.

  There was a sudden hush.

  "Who said that?" demanded Sur Cumfrence. He spoke with a breathless, high-pitched tone, and he sounded like a petulant child. "Step forward this instant!"

  Nobody moved.

  "Half a crown!" shouted Sur Cumfrence. He delved into his generous purse and came up with a silver coin. "Half a crown to the man who identifies the trouble maker."

  Still nobody moved. The bodyguards were growing restless, their hands on the hilts of their swords, their gazes roving the tavern as they sought out the wag … or a scapegoat. One of them studied Hurm's huge muscled torso and gigantic two-handed sword, quickly moved on to Father M, then … stopped on Runt. "There, sir. The tousle-headed imp sitting beside the circus performer. He has the look of a troublemaker, and no doubt about it."

  Runt lowered his minty beer. "Me?" he said, aggrieved. "How could it be me? The voice came from the back of the tavern!"

  Father M would have leapt to his defence, but he was still in shock at being called a circus performer, and the sprig of mint was making his tongue tingle in a most peculiar fashion.

  "Titch has a point," said Sur Cumfrence mildly. "I distinctly heard the voice coming from over there."

  "Sire, I know his kind," said the bodyguard urgently. "They're tricksy little blighters. He probably used a magic ring or something."

  There was a gasp.

  "I mean, not … m-magic," said the bodyguard quickly, all flustered. "That doesn't exist, of course. But perhaps an optical illusion?"

  "I was holding a glass of beer!" protested Runt. "How could I possibly sneak across the tavern, call out an insult, and sneak back here again without spilling a drop? And all in under ten seconds!"

  Sur Cumfrence realised they were getting nowhere. So, he raised a meaty arm and gestured towards the rear of the tavern. "Round them all up, and take 'em to the holding pen. We're short of heads today, they'll be most welcome."

  There was a chorus of protest from the condemned men. "I ain't done nuffink!" shouted an elderly, one-legged man, as he was grabbed by the bodyguards. "It weren't me what insulted yer honour, it were Ralph the Mouth."

  "Wait!" shouted Sur Cumfrence. He raised his hand for silence, and was mostly obeyed. "Take this Ralph person to the pen. The others may go free."

  "What about my half crown?" demanded the old man, as a youngster with a mop of black hair was dragged protesting and struggling from the tavern.

  Sur Cumfrence shrugged and tossed him the coin. "Now, where are those pies? I grow weary of this theatre."

  Father M watched the party settling at an empty table, then turned to the others and lowered his voice. "A narrow escape, my friends. We shall have to be more careful in future."

  "You're not wrong," said the glass of banana ale on the table.

  Father M scowled at Runt. "Quit that before any more innocents lose their heads," he muttered.

  "Innocent? He was mocking me to his friends." Runt drew a grubby thumbnail across his neck. "Let's see how he likes being shorter than everyone else."

  Chapter 6

  Tiera's cell was on the ground floor of the barracks, the tiny window open to the town square. By standing on the slops bucket she could just see the executions taking place, with a rising oooooooOOOOOOHHHH from the crowd as the axeman raised his weapon for the killing blow. Then, a split second of silence as he hesitated, followed by a whoosh as the axe came down. Then there was a loud thud as the blade sank into the chopping block, a quieter thud as the head dropped clear, followed by wild cheering.

  The pattern was repeated over and over, with the axeman playing to the crowd by hesitating longer and longer, the axe poised above his head as the crowd stretched out their ooohs until they were red in the face.

  She heard someone shouting near her window, and craned her head to see a man in a tattered hat taking money and handing out tickets. "Place yer bets, place yer bets. Closest to the mark takes all. You sir, what'll you have?"

  "I'll take an 'I didn't do it!' for number sixteen, and a prayer to Zephyr for the one after."

  "I'll give you ten to one on the denial, evens on the prayer."

  "Evens!"

  "Seventeen is a priest. You're lucky to get that."

  There was a grumble, money changed hands, and the punter left with his betting slip.

  "
Come on, come on. Place yer bets! Winner takes all!"

  The next prisoner was hauled to the stage, and as he was pushed roughly to his knees he started shouting that he didn't do it. Tiera heard the bookie swearing under his breath.

  There was an ooh, a thud, and the bet was settled.

  Sudden death didn't prey on Tiera's mind, which wasn't a surprise, her being an assassin and all. But even so, she turned from the window and her view of the wanton bloodshed, and stepped down from the slops bucket.

  "Psst!"

  The sound came from the door, which was a thick wooden affair with a small window. Tiera's sombre mood improved as she realised help was there at last. She'd begun to doubt the Captain's promise to set her free, especially as the line for the axeman's block had shortened considerably since she'd been watching, but now it seemed things were finally moving. She crossed to the door, expecting a hand to appear through the tiny barred window, perhaps holding a weapon, or a disguise, or a key. Instead there was another hiss.

  "Psst! What are you in for?"

  With a sinking feeling, Tiera realised the youth in the next cell was about to waste his last few breaths trying to chat her up. She'd seen the lad on her way to her cell the previous night, the lithe young man in his loin cloth having been chained to the wall with rusty manacles. He had long dark hair and a cheeky grin, despite his dire surroundings, but Tiera had passed by him without a second glance. Not that she had anything against teenagers, since they were invariably willing and vigorous, but this simply wasn't the place. "Murder," she replied, not even bothering to keep her voice down. With the racket outside, there was no point.