by David Talon
Chronicles of the Dragon Pirate
David Talon
Copyright © 2013 by David Talon
Publish Green
212 3rd Ave North, Suite 290
Minneapolis, MN 55401
612.455.2293
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.
ISBN: 978-1-62652-210-7
Table of Contents
Cover Page
PROLOGO
PRIMUS
SECUNDUS
TERTIUS
QUARTUS
QUINTUS
SEXTUS
AUCTORIS POST-VERBUM
PROLOGO
From the memoirs of Lord Tiberius, head of the order Draco Magistris in the New World:
It was in September in the year of our Lord 1620 that the Great War can be said to have truly begun. History speaks of the terrible battles fought much later, yet it was in the troubles of the town of St. Augustine that the hand of the Lord began to temper the soul of the one who would change the destinies of so many. Twenty-odd years before, the might of Spain had been smashed by the Red Queen of England and her pirate, the Dragon Francis Drake, while the French had torn themselves apart in wars of religion. The Holy Roman Empire had strove with the Italians for the laurel crown of the Caesars, as the Turks, dreaming of an empire even greater than Rome had ever imagined, saw their own soldiers turn against them as brigands. The great battles of the previous century had finally exhausted the powers of Europe into an uneasy peace.
But 1620 was the year the Dragons led them into war once again. Pope Paul had just died, and the struggle to choose his successor led to terrible nights of long knives, stretching from the marbled palaces of Rome and Venice to the simple dwellings of the New World. Old ambitions took fire in young hearts and golems, long gathering dust and cobwebs, shook themselves and woke up, as the ghosts of old dragons gave them life once more. Ancient powers, long asleep, were stirring, as old things long forgotten were rediscovered. And a pale figure watched everything transpire with eyes cold as the depths of the sea. Like the Kraken of ancient myth, he had begun to stretch out tentacles comprised of ships filled with men neither alive nor dead, and no one knew their true purpose save the Kraken alone.
The Great War had begun.
PRIMUS
September, 1620
“Are you Tomas Rios?” When I said I was, the stout young boy, dressed like a little lord in a blue doublet with matching hose, put his hands on his hips. “Are you a real Dragon?”
My foster mother, Johanna Rios, and I resembled each other, both of us being tall, dark haired and slender, although she constantly chided me about being too slender, with green eyes the color of the deep woods and a mouth always ready to smile. Now Belle-M’ere, as I’d called her since I was a young boy myself, hid her smile behind the hand she raised to her lips as she came around the wooden table. We were in her father’s apothecary shoppe, nestled in a quiet part of the Spanish town of St. Augustine, the air around us fragrant with the scent of peppermint and sage hanging from the plastered white walls, and spicy from the goblinsbane I was grinding into powder with a black mortar and pestle. Wooden boxes filled with more herbs rested on the shelves behind me, along with various tools, all kept in meticulous condition by my foster-grandfather, though he was less meticulous about the cracks in the plaster that got worse every year. To my left a small fire crackled in the brick-lined hearth, taking away the slight chill of the morning air.
The stout, matronly woman, who’d entered the shoppe with her young son, looked nervous as Belle-M’ere kissed her on both cheeks in greeting. “Pray excuse my son,” the woman remarked. “He is as bold as a March hare since coming to the New World.”
The scarred, wooden table made an occasional squeak as I continued grinding the goblinsbane down into a fine powder, watching them through the locks of my black hair as Belle-M’ere smiled in a reassuring way. “Mistress Margaret, no apology is needed. There are so many rumors, so many stories told about Dragons, that I am pleased to tell your son the truth, or at least as much as I know.” Belle-M’ere knelt down next to the boy. “What is your name?”
The boy hesitated until his mother nudged him. “It is Martin, Mistress Johanna.”
“Well, Martin, my son Tomas is not a real dragon, because all the real dragons died a long, long, time ago. But their ghosts remained here with us. Tomas is one of those special people, now called ‘Dragons’, who can touch these dragon-ghosts, and the ghosts can draw strength from Tomas.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“Because whenever Tomas lets them draw some of his strength, the dragon-ghosts can do things in the real world, like light fires, or transmute anything that once lived into an object we call an Artifact.” She pointed at the black mortar and pestle I was using, which shone as if polished. “Do you see that? Once it was made of wood, but Tomas’ favorite dragon-ghost named Smoke transmuted it into an Artifact. So now it works better than before, letting us grind herbs much faster.”
“Can dragon-ghosts get strength from anyone?”
Belle-M’ere shook her head. “Only from people who had a parent who was a Dragon. Dragon-ghosts become very fond of the people they can draw strength from, and like to help them, because the more strength they draw from a Dragon, and the more things they do, the bigger they grow. For example, Smoke was just a little thing when she first found Tomas. But now, she is as large as a wolfhound.”
The boy screwed up his face as he thought about what Belle-M’ere was saying. “Why did all the real dragons die?”
Belle-M’ere made a helpless gesture. “I do not know. There is a legend about an enchanted place called Atlantis, where the real dragons were said to have lived, and a great battle that took their lives. But those are just legends; no one knows the real truth.” She smiled at Martin. “Anything else?”
His mother was going to say no, but Martin jumped in first. “What else can dragon-ghosts do?”
Belle-M’ere shifted to her other knee. “Well, last year when swamp-water fever made a lot of people sick, Tomas helped me cure some of them. Smoke used Tomas’s strength to draw the bad humors out of their lungs, while Tomas and I used herbs to make them better.”
Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “We couldn’t help everyone.”
“You gave everything you had,” Belle-M’ere responded.
Standing over Belle-M’ere, Mistress Margaret said, “Mistress Gomez told me about that time. She says there is lingering resentment of your foster-son among some of the brutish louts who have come here to start a new life, because he would not save them, and some of them died.”
Belle-M’ere gracefully rose to her feet. “Mistress Margaret, did she inform you that her husband gave my father a bag of gold Reales in return for Tomas healing his slaves? By the time he finished, Tomas was so weak he caught the fever himself. I nursed him back to enough health so Smoke could draw strength and cure him. But by the time he was back on his feet, the weaker of the brutes and the whores they had brought with them had succumbed.”
With a satisfied look on her face, Mistress Margaret nodded. “What else could you do? Slaves, at least, are valuable.” She hesitated, but then continued. “Mistress Gomez said young Tomas is registered with the Catholic Church’s order of the Draco Magistris?”
Belle-M’ere pointed at a piece of parchment framed upon the wall, near the door. “His annual license from the main chapter-house in Campeche.” A note of pride entered her voice. “Lord
Tiberius himself came out last year to perform the examination.”
Mistress Margaret’s reaction was everything Belle-M’ere hoped for. “Lord Tiberius came himself?”
“None other,” Belle-M’ere said, “although, to be honest, he admitted to my father that he came to St. Augustine as much as a break from his duties as head of the order in the New World, as anything else.”
“Still,” Mistress Margaret insisted, “it was a great honor.”
Little Martin screwed up his face as he looked at me across the table. “What did you have to do? Show him you could write good, or something?”
“Write well,” I said. The goblinsbane was a fine enough powder to easily dissolve in hot water, so I set the mortar and pestle aside. “No, I had to show Lord Tiberius I was using my dragon-ghosts for good, and not for evil.”
Martin looked puzzled. “How?”
“By confessing my sins to lord Tiberius while his dragon-ghost had her claws dug into my back.” I smiled at his horrified look. “It doesn’t hurt. Dragon-ghosts really are ghosts; they pass through everything, including people, unnoticed, and they can’t hurt you unless a Dragon’s given them strength. But a Dragon can feel them at all times.”
“You say you feel them,” Mistress Margaret said, “yet it hurts you not. How can that be?”
I shrugged. “It’s difficult to explain, mistress. I suppose you could compare it to being touched, except a dragon-ghost can touch me anywhere inside my body, including her fangs when she draws strength, and it doesn’t hurt. The worst that happens when she draws strength is that I get cold and hungry.” Mistress Margaret nodded thoughtfully, and I turned back to Martin. “Anyway, a dragon-ghost knows if you’re telling the truth by the way you feel to her, so even though as a Dragon I can’t lie, Lord Tiberius knew I wasn’t leaving anything out. When I was finished, Lord Tiberius gave me my penance and renewed my license for another year.”
Martin stared at me in horror. “You cannot lie?” I shook my head and he added, “Ever?”
“Tomas cannot tell a direct lie,” Belle-M’ere said, a touch of a smile playing at her lips as she added, “He has, however, become very good at avoiding certain subjects...like what those sins he did penance for might have been.” I kept my eyes off Belle-M’ere, hoping she’d never find out, either. Lord Tiberius had told me the worst of my sins was a temptation all young Dragons fall prey to, for a well-crafted air golem can almost resemble a real person...and dragon-ghosts are fond of us. But Lord Tiberius said it was still a sin to be avoided, and since his visit I’d tried to be good. I really had.
Now, Mistress Margaret frowned at me. “Pray forgive my lack of comprehension, but I thought it was the dragon-spirit, as they say in polite company, that determined whether a Dragon did good or evil.”
“The truth is more complex than that,” Belle-M’ere answered. “Lord Tiberius explained it to us as more an issue of the nature of dragon-spirits. As he said, dragon-spirits like to fight, and at times will kill each other in combat.”
“But...they are already spirits. How can they die?”
“You have the right of it,” Belle-M’ere answered, “they cannot die again. But they lose all their power and all their knowledge, like two men dueling, and the man who loses becomes a small child with no memory of who he was except for his name. Needless to say, this is distressing for the dragon-spirits. So, over the years the wiser of them have allied themselves with groups like the Draco Magistris, the dragon-spirits cooperating with each other for the betterment of all.”
Belle-M’ere lowered her voice, and Mistress Margaret leaned towards her to catch her words. “On the other side are the chaotic ones, the dragon-spirits who only seek to fight, to destroy. They live like rabid beasts, killing any dragon-spirit unwise enough to come near, and they corrupt the men and women they draw strength from into becoming rabid beasts themselves.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “There are even those who can turn ordinary men into living golems, who trade life for a un-life existence, blood drinkers and eaters of human flesh.” Her voice returned to normal. “Lord Tiberius said this was the true purpose of the Draco Magistris, to protect mankind from such evil.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes, but only just. “He also said there aren’t very many of that sort, mistress. Most dragon-ghosts are like my Smoke, who likes to fight, but always listens to what I tell her. I needed another dragon-ghost to help out, so when a little one named Tiger made herself known, I asked Smoke to let her stay. Now they’re like a big sister with her little sister.”
“Because you gave them direction,” Mistress Margaret said. “I begin to see with more open eyes. Pray tell me, are there any of the dragon-spirits here in the room with us?”
“They’re always with me, mistress, unless I need them to be somewhere else.” I glanced at Belle-M’ere. “I could let Tiger animate the golem and play for a while.”
From the opposite side of the table, a young girl’s voice pleaded, “Oh yes, please let me.”
Martin and his mother both gave a start, and a hundred years ago I might’ve been burned alive as a warlock, accused of dealing with evil spirits, as dragon-ghosts were then thought to be. Instead, Martin began tugging on his mother’s dress. “Mama, I want to see the golem.”
“It is only a small one,” Belle-M’ere said. “Master Gomez had a slave named Jeremiah, who was an exceptional woodcarver. He carved the pieces then fastened them together so the golem would articulate, and Tomas had Smoke transmute it.”
Mistress Margaret gave a tentative nod, and I held out my right arm. “Tiger, you may animate the golem.”
“A quarter-hour,” Belle-M’ere said, “no more.”
“For a quarter-hour. And play nice with Martin, if he wants to.”
“Yes, Tomas,” Tiger’s voice answered from in front of me, and a moment later I felt her claws grasp my forearm as her delicate fangs pierced my flesh. There was no pain, only the usual coldness seeping into my arm as she drew my strength into herself. Then her fangs withdrew, and I absently rubbed my forearm as a clattering sound began coming from the far corner. A moment later the golem jumped up onto the table.
It was a small dog resembling a terrier, crafted so it could move like a real dog and open its mouth, black as obsidian and just as hard and shiny. Belle-M’ere smiled at Mistress Margaret’s look of amazement. “An Artifact is harder than steel, which is why Jeremiah crafted it to have no rough edges, but light as the wood it is crafted from.”
“It’s more brittle than steel,” I had to add. “Artifacts will shatter where steel will bend, but they take a lot of punishment before that happens.” Tiger made the dog’s head look up at me as the tail began to wag. I smiled. “Go get your ball and show it to Martin.”
The dog-golem jumped off the table with a thump and ran back to the far corner, returning a moment later with a sewn leather ball in its mouth, which it dropped at Martin’s feet. He got shy until his mother nudged him, then he picked up the ball and threw it. Tiger chased after it and brought it back. Martin threw the ball through the open doorway into the rear courtyard, chasing after the dog-golem as Tiger ran after it. “Do not get yourself dirty,” Mistress Margaret called after him. “And be careful; golems are expensive!”
Belle-M’ere briefly touched her arm. “Pray do not worry about the golem breaking.”
“Mistress Johanna, you have not seen the way Martin plays. I...also heard Master Gomez had to sell Jeremiah, so there will be no more golems.”
Glancing at me, Belle-M’ere sighed. “I fear you have the right of it. Jeremiah and Tomas were fast friends, despite Jeremiah’s situation, and Jeremiah’s sister was like an older sister to Tomas. Rebekah caught swamp-water fever so bad, everyone thought she was going to die, but Tomas refused to give up on her.”
“And caught the fever himself,” Mistress Margaret said. “I heard a month later several of the louts set upon your adopted son and beat him.”
“I fought them as best I could,�
�� I said.
“Tomas has had to fight quite a lot in his almost seventeen years,” Belle-M’ere said as she shook her head. “After it happened, and Tomas was out of danger, Jeremiah set upon the ringleader, an uncouth drunkard named Seth, and beat him so badly that Tomas had to have Smoke save his life.” Belle-M’ere lowered her voice again. “I knew Jeremiah, and he would have waited for Tomas to heal so Tomas could have challenged Seth himself, as Tomas wished. But Master Gomez was outraged.”
“And had Jeremiah teach Seth a lesson, so to curb any more attacks upon someone proving so useful to St. Augustine,” Mistress Margaret said. “I heard that rumor, not from Mistress Gomez, of course, and that her husband sold Jeremiah to keep him from hanging. But then turned around and sued this Seth for the loss of the slave’s worth to Master Gomez.”
Belle-M’ere smiled in a satisfied way. “The royal governor took Master Gomez’s side in the dispute, and now Seth is working off his debt as Master Gomez’s indentured servant.”
Mistress Margaret smiled back in the same, satisfied way. “Was there not some scandal involving the sister?”
“Rebekah? Indeed, there was.” Above us the floorboards creaked, and Belle-M’ere looked at me. “Oh dear. Tomas...”
“I’ll have the mixture done in a thrice,” I said, reaching behind me to grab a pewter tankard off a shelf then walking quickly to the water cask, which I’d refilled from the well before the sun had risen. I dipped the tankard then replaced the top, walking over to the brick-lined fireplace where a small fire crackled. I extended my right arm. “Smoke, will you heat the water?”
A young woman’s voice answered, “Anything for you, Swamp-rat.” I smiled as I felt her claws curl around my arm, like fingers, and her delicate fangs pierced my flesh. This time I felt my forearm grow cold but I’d expected it, for Smoke often took more of my strength than she needed, so she could come to my aid without my having to ask.
