A Portion of Dragon and Chips

by Simon Haynes

  "You killed them," he breathed.

  "They were going to kill us," said Tiera quickly. "I had no choice, you see that don't you? Just think of all the other people they—"

  "You were amazing!" said Thonn, his eyes shining. "Stab, stab, splash … just like a shadow wraith, only twice as deadly!"

  Tiera realised she'd been mistaken. Thonn hadn't been shocked into silence by the bloodshed, he was awestruck by her deadly talents. She was going to say more, but at that moment the boat grounded on the stony shore, and the halfling leapt ashore with the mule's rope in one hand. With some coaxing, and a lot of pulling, he managed to get it out of the boat, and the mule immediately started cropping the long grass.

  "I am Runt," said the halfling. "Before you speak, I must warn you that any quips about my height will be met with sudden and painful death." He gestured at the bodies floating downriver. "Nice work with the blade, by the way. Am I right in thinking you're a fellow purveyor of the midnight art?"

  Tiera gave him a quick nod.

  "How many?"

  "Five."

  "I kill five a year," snorted Runt. "You're just a beginner!"

  "I meant five hundred," said Tiera.

  Runt just stared.

  "So, where are you bound?" Tiera asked him.

  "The city of Last Hope, to the West. I intend to capture a baby dragon and present it to the queen."

  Tiera and Thonn burst out laughing, and the halfling looked hurt.

  "Wait, you're serious?" said Thonn.

  "Of course!" snapped Runt. "It's not just me. I have valued travelling companions, you know."

  Tiera gestured at the mule. "So I see."

  "I'm talking about a highly skilled fighter and a powerful mage. The two of them are more than capable of stealing a baby dragon."

  "Anyone can steal a baby dragon. It's getting away from the parents … that's the issue." She glanced at the mule. "Is that your bait?"

  The mule raised its head and brayed.

  "Don't you go throwing Happy to the wolves," said Runt. "He's a survivor, he is."

  "Relax, Happy. I'm sure the dragons will eat your owner instead." She glanced at the halfling. "So where are your travelling companions?"

  "They'll be along presently. We got separated."

  Tiera smiled to herself. She'd heard that one before. In fact, she'd used it herself when a travelling companion turned out to be a total pain in the arse. Sure, we'll meet up at the tavern two hundred miles from here. Sure. Still, the halfling looked a decent sort, and she could certainly use another weapon in their party. "Would you like to travel with us?"

  "Why, are you going to snatch a baby dragon too?"

  Tiera glanced at Thonn. What she really needed was to leave Mollister lands, before Lord Varnish got his hands on Captain Spadell and tortured the truth out of him. Once Varnish found out Tiera really had been sent to kill the queen, he'd never rest until his agents got their hands on her. And, to get away, it didn't really matter if they went east, north or further west. "We're heading to Last Hope as well," she said. "Maybe we could stick together until then."

  Runt looked pleased, even though he tried to hide it. "I accept, but only if your farm boy takes charge of the mule."

  Thonn nodded, and patted the mule on the back. "This cage … is it for the dragon?"

  "Yeah."

  "It is not very strong," said Thonn doubtfully. He examined the thin twine holding the door closed. "It will not stop a fire-breathing dragon."

  "Don't you start," growled Runt. "For your information, baby dragons don't breathe fire."

  "No, but their parents do."

  "Son, if a pair of adult dragons breathe fire at us, that cage will be the only thing left standing."

  Runt handed Tiera one of the swords he'd rescued, water still dripping from its scabbard. She drew it, swung it expertly, and pulled a face. The blade was ill-made and poorly balanced, and was about as sharp as a dullard's wit. Still, it would serve as a threat, as long as she never drew it. She laced the belt around her waist, and appreciated the comforting weight of the sword at her hip. Runt did likewise, although his own sword practically dragged on the ground.

  Then Tiera eyed the boat. She wasn't keen on river travel, but the current was steady and it would save a lot of walking. "Do you have paddles for that?" she asked Runt.

  He shook his head. "There were none when I borrowed it."

  "The river is not deep. Perhaps poles will suffice." With that, Tiera drew the sword and cut two long, straight saplings. She hacked off the extra branches and tested the poles across her knee, then tucked them under one arm and headed for the small wooden boat.

  The mule took a few last mouthfuls of grass, then followed Thonn on board. The boat rocked alarmingly, but settled, and once Runt followed them, Tiera gave the boat a push and stepped in. She threw one of the poles into the bottom, then used the other to propel the boat into the middle of the river.

  The current gathered them up, and then the oddball party were on their way.

  Chapter 24

  Wiltred was still dazed by the sudden change in his fortunes. One minute he'd been up before the king on a charge of working metal, a charge which carried the death penalty, and the next he'd been installed in a brand new workshop with half a dozen men and women waiting to do his bidding.

  He'd already despatched them to the nearest digging with wooden buckets and wooden shovels, and a wooden cart to fill with ore. He didn't trust them with the truth, so he told them the dense red dirt was a vital ingredient in making clay pots. Meanwhile, Tyniwon was helping him to install the equipment they'd moved from the small shed behind Wiltred's modest home. The heavy crucible had taken six people to carry, and was now in the centre of the spacious workshop. Surrounding it were various pouring moulds, tongs, pokers and other metal implements. There was also a huge, metal-lined oven with a chimney poking through the roof, and a pair of bellows as tall as a full-grown man lying on the floor alongside.

  The oven was already alight, with a thick bed of glowing charcoal. When they'd tested the bellows earlier, the streams of air had forced the coals to glow white hot, generating enough heat to warm the entire workshop to tropical levels.

  "Are you sure they're not going to execute us?" asked Tyniwon, mopping his forehead with the back of his sleeve. He was a strapping lad in his mid-twenties, his leather jerkin stretched to capacity around his V-shaped chest, and he spoke with a slow, deep voice. With his widely-spaced eyes and open, honest face it was clear at a glance why he was in trouble with so many parents in the city.

  "The king asked me to forge metal, and that is what I'm going to do," said Wiltred, his eyes shining. "Hand me my blueprints, for I must prioritise a truly impressive invention as our opening shot in the war."

  Tyniwon frowned. "War? What war?"

  "Our war against the old guard. Against this short-sighted banning of metal. Against wood, Tyniwon. The war against wood!"

  Tyniwon nodded in agreement. He'd spent six months in the Bark kingdom, and while he'd got used to their curious views on metal, he could see their ways were holding the people back. As a Mollister, he supposed he should be sabotaging Wiltred in order to keep the Barks firmly wedded to their wooden age. Queen Therstie would probably reward him for assassinating the inventor. But the truth was he had no time for his half-sister or her quest to unite the Old Kingdom under one ruler: herself. Indeed, he'd be happy if he never met another Mollister for the rest of his life, and he had no intention of returning to the violent, bloodthirsty kingdom.

  Meanwhile, Wiltred was leafing through a sheaf of pages held together with wooden pegs. Reluctantly, he turned the page with his plans for a kettle cart on rails, and he flipped over the drawings for a particularly deadly multi-shot crossbow. They needed something quick and easy to make, yet impressive enough to earn the king's continued support. What was it the monarch needed most? A mug or a bowl, that was simple enough.

  "How about a coin?" said Tyniwon. "A met
al coin with the king's head on it."

  "Falsite," said Wiltred automatically. "Do not use the word metal, not yet at least." He thought about his apprentice's suggestion, then shook his head. "We do not have a suitable mould, nor a die, nor the engraving tools and skills to create one. Time is of the essence too, since the king will be here shortly for his inspection."

  "Then how about—"

  "Wait, I have an idea." Wiltred dug around in a chest, and emerged with a bag of gypsum plaster. "We will take a cast of the king's face, and from that we will create a falsite mask. It will be a daily reminder of our skill."

  "You want to cover the royal visage with plaster?" said Tyniwon doubtfully.

  "Not me, you. While you're busy, I will prepare the casting mould." Wiltred handed Tyniwon the bag of plaster, and added a small wooden bowl brimming with goose fat. "Be sure to work this into his eyebrows and moustache, for we do not want to remove either."

  Tyniwon looked like he was going to object most strenuously, but at that moment a pair of guards knocked on the door to announce the king's arrival. Wiltred hurried forward to greet the monarch, who was wearing a hooded robe to blend in with the commoners. King he might be, but he did not want to be seen entering the workshop.

  The workshop was baking hot, and so the king soon discarded his disguise. Then Wiltred spent a happy half-hour explaining the use of various metalworking tools and implements, while the guards waited outside.

  "It is fair warm in this place," said the king at last, for the royal sweat was running down his face in a most common fashion.

  "Indeed, sire. I have been preparing the oven for a pouring."

  "What are you going to make?"

  Wiltred explained about the mask, and the king agreed readily to his plan. It was clear he saw himself immortalised in the falsite mask, and so Tyniwon led him to a side room to obtain the plaster cast of his face.

  Meanwhile, Wiltred placed a crucible with a metal ingot into the oven and worked the bellows. He wouldn't be able to cast the metal for some time yet, but he was keen to get started and he was sure the king would like to see some progress once the plaster cast came off.

  As he puffed and strained with the huge bellows, he was well aware that a cunning man would have tended to the king himself, and left the muscled assistant to do the grunt work. Wiltred, however, saw himself as a smart man, not a cunning one. If the king got plaster in his eyes, it would be the muscled assistant who would be punished.

  Once the melting process was under way, he entered the side room to check on Tyniwon and the king. The monarch's face was completely covered by a hard white mass, and Wiltred nodded as he saw the delicate work. Then he realised something which made his blood run cold. "Breathing holes!" he hissed. "You haven't left any breathing holes!"

  Tyniwon paused, the spatula hovering above the bowl of plaster. "I wondered why he was so still," he remarked.

  Wiltred shoved him aside and clawed at the mask, ripping it clear in one piece. Then he put his ear to the king's mouth and nostrils, trying to detect any breathing.

  There was none.

  "Oh fudd," groaned Wiltred. "You've killed him. You've killed the king!"

  — ♦ —

  "Keep your voice down," murmured Tyniwon. "We don't want the guards to hear about this."

  "Yes, you're right," said Wiltred sarcastically. "As long as we don't tell them you've assassinated the king, nobody will ever find out."

  "Me? You told me to cover his face with this stuff!"

  "Well how did you think he was going to breathe? Through his ears?" Wiltred jabbed his forefinger at the king's very inert nose. "You were supposed to use breathing tubes, you great lump!"

  "You should have explained the process a little better," grumbled Tyniwon. "How was I supposed to know about sticking straws up his nose?"

  "It's just common sense!"

  "All right, keep your hair on. I'll get it right next time."

  "Next time?" cried Wiltred. "Next time? Are you completely oblivious to the situation we find ourselves in?" He gestured at the king. "They won't just execute us for this, they'll use every kind of torture imaginable and then they'll execute us."

  "They won't if you calm down and stop panicking." Tyniwon put his arm around the older man's shoulders. "Before they can accuse us of anything, they have to know what we've done."

  "I'll explain what happened," said Wiltred, ignoring him. "They'll torture us both, sure, but they might only chop your head off. You're the one who killed him."

  "Listen to me," said Tyniwon, giving him a shake. "There will be no explaining, and there will be no torture, and there will be no executions."

  "How? We're metal workers, not magicians."

  "There will be no punishment because there will be no body."

  "What do you mean?"

  Without bothering to reply, Tyniwon gathered the king up and left for the workshop, carrying the expired monarch over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

  "What are you … where are you going?" demanded Wiltred, but the younger man ignored him. Moments later, Wiltred heard the furnace door open and close, and when he looked into the workshop he saw Tyniwon applying himself to the big bellows with all his might. Wiltred stared at the scene, mortified, and then he remembered something pressing. "The guards," he said. "The guards are waiting outside!"

  "Tell them he left through the back way," panted Tyniwon. "How can they prove otherwise?"

  With a furled knot in his stomach, Wiltred went to the front doors. He was about to open them when someone hammered on the wood, almost causing him to faint. "Who is it?" he asked, with a quiver in his voice.

  The door opened and one of the guards looked in. "This is taking too long," he grunted. "The king should be well done by now."

  "He soon will be," said Wiltred truthfully, recalling the hot coals in the furnace.

  "Then fetch him to us, for it grows late."

  "You cannot hurry a king, as I'm sure you know."

  "We have to." The guard gestured towards the palace. "He's gotta be back before they miss 'im."

  "Miss him?"

  "Yeah, this is a secret visit. Clandestine, like. Nobody knows we're here."

  "Is that so?" Wiltred thought for a minute. "You know, we've been taking a mask of the king's face, and the rest of the material is only going to waste." He looked at the guards. "Would you like me to take a mask of your faces too?"

  "Well, we don't really—"

  "Nonsense. Step this way and you'll be finished in no time."

  Chapter 25

  Tiera sat in the prow of the small wooden boat, the soft breeze blowing the hair back from her face. She was also upwind from the mule, which was a plus given its less-than-appealing scent.

  Just two nights ago she'd been on the point of killing the High Priest, and if anyone had told her she'd be sailing down-river with such a rag-tag party she'd have laughed in their face. She was a notorious loner, and she couldn't ever recall setting foot in a boat before.

  Still, here she was, and she had to admit sailing down the gentle river was better than walking … as long as someone didn't take pot-shots at them from the banks. She felt exposed in the open boat, and the mule was her only cover. Hopefully nobody would bother wasting arrows on them, since the boat would still go sailing by even if all the occupants were dead.

  Tiera glanced at the sky, trying to estimate their heading. She'd studied a map when she first arrived at Chatter's Reach, and she was trying to recall the loops and bends in the river. She knew there were many, with occasional settlements along the banks before the river eventually reached the ocean. Despite the meandering course, the general direction was to the west, even though they were currently heading south-east by her calculations.

  "Do you have any food?" asked Runt suddenly, his voice loud.

  "Thonn might have a crust." Tiera eyed the farm boy, who was asleep in the bottom of the boat. "I will ask when he wakes."

  "Don't bother. I already
went through his pockets."

  Tiera frowned at the halfling. "Do not take such liberties with me, or I will skewer you."

  "I know. I only pick on the weak and the helpless."

  "Thonn is neither, and you would do well to remember it."

  Runt eyed the skinny lad with an amused expression. "What, him?"

  "I witnessed his powers first hand."

  "One of my travelling companions is a mage. Don't talk to me about magic powers."

  Irritated, Tiera rounded on him. "Thonn is more than a match for your creaky old conjurer."

  "My wizard would crush your farmboy with a blink of his eye," snapped Runt. "Why, with his magic wand—"

  "Thonn doesn't need a magic wand," said Tiera. "He draws his power from the rocks themselves!"

  Woken by the argument, the subject of their dispute sat up, rubbing his eyes. Runt took a step back, forgetting he was standing in a boat, and promptly fell over the side with a big splash. The mule was startled by the noise, and as it side-stepped, braying, the whole boat capsized, throwing Tiera and Thonn into the river.

  Fortunately the water was not deep, and they stood up again with streams running from their clothes. Runt splashed frantically nearby, until he realised the water only reached his chin. Meanwhile, the mule was upside-down, still tied to the big metal cage with its legs pedalling in mid-air. Thonn hurried over to right the beast, then soothed it while Tiera dragged the boat to shore.

  When they reached the nearest bank they wrung out their clothes and emptied the water from the boat. As they squelched around, cursing under their breath, the mule took advantage of the lush grass, seemingly unaffected by the swim.

  Tiera waited until the others weren't looking, and quickly checked her boot for the slim purse of gold. Fortunately it was still there, jammed into the concealed sheath which normally held her spare dagger. Her main killing blade was still in its sleeve holster, and the spare was in her other boot.

  Having checked her cash and the tools of her trade, Tiera herded everyone back into the boat.