The Captive

by Paul Lauritsen

  “They died,” Garnuk growled, “Trying to save me from the Usurper. And their decision ended their lives as well as his. They have to be avenged, Tarq. Their spirits will not rest until they are.”

  “Their spirits will rest better knowing you are safe.”

  Garnuk scowled. “We are a race of warriors, Tarq. We do not live for safe. We live for battle, and for revenge on those who have wronged us in the past. Like the Keepers and the Sthan.”

  “You will not be swayed,” Tarq observed, sighing. “It was worth the final effort though. Go, general. Do what you must. May the spirits bring you, and us, victory.”

  “They will,” Garnuk assured him. “Just wait.”

  The captain backed away and saluted. “The army will be ready on your return,” he promised. “And Danur will be fully in charge of Shadow Squadron by then. I have been training him to take over in the few minutes I have each day that are not occupied.”

  “Good,” Garnuk muttered, his mind hundreds of miles away, where a Sthan city burned in his mind’s eye. “When I return, we march. We must be in position so that when the time is right we can strike with everything we have.”

  “And if the Sthan are not fooled by your demonstration?”

  Garnuk scowled, then turned and retreated into his personal armory. “They will be,” he promised, shutting the door behind him.

  The Ramshuk took his time getting ready, making sure every piece of armor was perfectly settled and every inch of it was in good condition. There should not have been any issues since it had hardly been used, but Garnuk knew he couldn’t be too careful. After all, this armor would be serving him in a real battle for the first time. This was no raid on a helpless village, but an all-out assault on a defensible position guarded by trained warriors.

  When at last he had donned all the plates except his helmet, Garnuk turned to a large rack where he had been slowly stockpiling weapons for his missions. The oversized sword he had commissioned centered the array. But there was also a massive, single-bladed axe, a war hammer with an enormous spiked head, and additional blades, maces, and other dangerous implements besides.

  Garnuk took the sword, slinging its sheath over his back, then slid the axe handle through a loop on the baldric to secure it. The two weapons hung almost perpendicular to each other, the sword hilt protruding over his right shoulder, the axe head gleaming behind his left. He left the war hammer where it stood, but selected an array of different shaped and sized daggers, strapping one under each arm, one inside his heavy, metal-shod boot, and two more on his belt. Thus armed and ready for a prolonged battle, Garnuk exited the armory and crossed the wall to where Zanove would be waiting for him.

  The guards at the door let him pass without comment, eying the regalia of war. Garnuk could not read their expressions, but there was a gleam in their eyes as they watched him. Was it pride? Envy? Anticipation? All three?

  The Ramshuk pushed through the doors and into Zanove’s lair, clearing the matter of the guards from his mind. Inside, Zanove was waiting for him, surrounded by a small army of vertaga. These were not warriors, though, but craftsmen. The object of their frantic labors over the past weeks stood among them: Zanove, clad not only in scales but also in overlapping plates of mail that flexed and bent as he did.

  “Well?” Garnuk asked. “How did the experiment go?”

  “Ramshuk,” one of the craftsmen replied, bowing slightly. “As you can see, we have succeeded. The wings are still not protected and remain vulnerable, but – ”

  “That can’t be helped,” Garnuk interrupted. “If we were to burden Zanove’s wings with metal as well he would have a hard time flying. As it is, all of this armor will slow us down some.”

  Not as much as I anticipated, Zanove replied, twisting his neck to examine himself. Your friends are really quite good at what they do. I like this armor.

  They are not my friends. But they are mine to command.

  Oh, Zanove said. Sorry.

  Garnuk grunted and moved to the dragon’s side, running a hand over one of the plates encasing Zanove’s belly. The armor had been attached to the silver dragon’s neck, legs, torso, and even his tail. Zanove had shone before, the light of his scales nearly dazzling in a well-lit room, but now encased in reflective metal he was almost difficult to look at without pain. Garnuk turned back to the armorers, who were waiting nervously a little apart from the dragon.

  “You have done well, and in a very short time. Go, rest, take a few days off. You will need to be prepared to go with the army when it marches, but until then you are free. I have declared it so.”

  “Yes, Ramshuk,” one murmured, bowing. He signaled to the others and they began to file out, some shuffling with weariness.

  How long did it take them to prepare you? Garnuk asked Zanove curiously.

  Hours, the silver dragon replied. Or at least, it felt like hours. Can we go now?

  Garnuk nodded gravely, climbing onto Zanove’s back. Yes. It is time to make our presence in this world known.

  Zanove waited while Garnuk strapped himself into the saddle, then walked towards the outer doors and out into the hallway, metal crashing with each step and echoing up and down the hall.

  Armor is not stealthy, he observed worriedly.

  On the ground, no, Garnuk agreed. But in the sky I think it will hardly add noise to your flight.

  Such was the volume and reach of the noises that vertaga began gathering in the nearby corridors, crowding the passages to the outside world. They parted whenever Zanove approached though, gaping at the metal clad dragon and rider.

  Garnuk stared straight ahead, focused on the opening in the side of Dun Carryl. When Zanove paused at the edge, the Ramshuk reached up and settled his helmet on his head, checking to ensure there was no outward sign that his armor-clad figure was in fact that of a vertag and not a human. When he was satisfied that his disguise was complete, Garnuk urged Zanove off the ledge and into open air. The silver dragon complied instantly, dropping for a moment before leveling off and climbing back into the sky.

  They flew west, out racing the sun as they traveled through the mountains. Garnuk was quiet throughout the journey, focused on what lay ahead. The first real step towards his revenge, the first test of his idea of pitting his foes against each other. He had played enemies off of each other before, but not with stakes this high.

  When he had been elected Ramshuk the first time, he had set his challengers against each other, subtly manipulating them into fighting among themselves rather than against him. Then he had played Norkuvad against the southern part of the Sthan kingdom, and ultimately balanced the war just right. The fact his mate and cub had died had not been his fault. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, victims of the Keepers. Their deaths had nothing to do with how he had manipulated the war, although Garnuk supposed he could have tried to smuggle them out of the besieged city sooner, or through a different path.

  But this time, this time his plan would go off without a hitch. The Sthan would never guess the vertaga had found a dragon egg, much less that they had gotten it to hatch and formed an alliance with the hatchling within. They knew of but one dragon, the green monstrosity that had destroyed Dun Carryl. Logically, the blame could only be laid at the feet of one person. Or, one person and one dragon. What form would the Sthan response take? Would they summon the Keepers, lure them into a trap? Pursue them to the ends of the earth, hunt them down? Arm their cities and villages and wait for the next attack, foolishly hoping they could defend themselves?

  While Garnuk ruminated over the endless possibilities, Zanove drifted to the south a little ways, so that they would pass out of sight of the city of men on their way to the ocean. Tarq’s latest intelligence on the green dragon indicated it had flown south from another human city, farther up the coast. It had not been seen ever since, along any coastline, as far as Tarq knew. So, Garnuk planned to fly in from the direction the Keepers were last known to be in. Coincidentally, it would also be the s
ame direction from which the dragon had arrived to break Norkuvad’s siege on Ishkabur.

  Garnuk remembered that day well, the pounding of wings, the dull concussions of air being driven downward, the roar of the flames, and the billowing smoke over Ishkabur’s harbor. And he remembered the utter terror of those moments as he lay face down, exposed and vulnerable on the mountainside, in a weakened state from his injuries. This time would be different. This time, Garnuk was in control.

  They flew onward for hours, the sun reaching its zenith and beginning a gradual descent towards the western horizon. In the early afternoon, the peaks ahead began to thin out, and soon thereafter Garnuk could see endless water on the horizon, white-capped waves marching off into the distance. They flew between a final set of peaks, barely more than tall, steep hills, and found a narrow shoreline.

  Zanove landed on the shore, just beyond the reach of the water, to rest his wings for a few minutes. Garnuk dismounted, stretching his legs, rolling is shoulders and flexing his arms in anticipation of the coming fight. He checked his weapons again, testing the edges of his blades, inspecting them for nicks or chips. But everything was in perfect condition, as ready for battle as Garnuk was.

  This is our time, Zanove rumbled. I am ready to begin the battle when you are.

  You know the plan?

  Fly out over the ocean, loop back, bring down the city in fire and smoke. Simple.

  In concept, Garnuk agreed. In execution, it will be a little more complicated. There may be archers and such.

  I will manage. Besides, I have my new armor.

  It is not indestructible, and your wings are exposed.

  I will tuck them and role so they cannot be hit. And no puny arrow will pierce my armor.

  What about a ballistae?

  A what?

  Garnuk sighed. A ballistae, a device which shoots long, heavy javelins at high speed. The city may have some of them on the walls, and the Sthan could shoot at you with those.

  Oh. Are they dangerous?

  They can be, but they are not as accurate. If they do find their mark though, they could very well pierce your armor. So be wary of those machines.

  I will watch for them, and burn them first, Zanove decided.

  A good strategy, Garnuk agreed, climbing back onto the silver dragon’s back.

  Ready? Zanove asked eagerly, turning towards the sea.

  More than ready, Garnuk replied. Take us out to sea a ways, then bend back north. We should hit the city in the late afternoon and come straight out of the sun. They will not see us at first, and even once they notice us they will have a hard time understanding what they are seeing.

  And by then, it will be too late for them, Zanove growled enthusiastically. They will burn! And the traitorous Keepers will be blamed for our deeds.

  Yes, Garnuk agreed. They will. As long as we leave some survivors to spread word. That means we shouldn’t destroy all of the ships, nor should we flame all of the humans. But the city must be destroyed, so the humans will scatter to other places with the news.

  I understand, Zanove said impatiently. We go now?

  Whenever you are ready.

  Zanove took a few bounds towards the sea then strained skyward, his back feet brushing the crest of a wave as he took off. In moments, they were far above the sea, flying west at a leisurely pace. Garnuk watched the path of the sun, gauging when they should turn back to have the proper effect on the people of Ishkabur. When he judged the moment was right, he signaled Zanove and the silver dragon whipped around, turning almost in his length, and began barreling back towards land.

  The sun warmed Garnuk’s back, its soothing rays filtering through cracks in his armor, reflecting off of Zanove’s armor and all of his scales that were exposed. In the setting sun, the dragon was not silver, but orange, gold, and red, patterns of light changing and shifting constantly so that Zanove’s own color seemed to change as well.

  The western shore came into sight in minutes, but they were now farther north than the point they had set off from. Ishkabur was directly ahead, its high walls and large harbor standing proudly in the narrow vale that stood between the mountains and the sea. There were ships coming and going, their sails swelled with the strong wind, their prows slicing through the waves.

  A few more minutes, Garnuk murmured. Remember, watch for ballistae, and archers. The city falls completely, but leave survivors. Eliminate soldiers, then knock things down.

  I know, Zanove assured him. It is a big city, he added a moment later, his mental tone more than a little surprised. Far larger than the villages we burned.

  Yes, but we can handle it, Garnuk promised it. Only another moment now.

  They fell silent, both fixated on the rapidly approaching western wall of the city. No horns sounded yet, no cries of alarm. Garnuk picked out a few sentries standing on the wall, but nothing out of the ordinary. As they drew within a hundred yards of the city, he signaled Zanove to begin the attack.

  With a roar, the silver dragon dove from on high, jaws spread wide, fire kindling between his fangs. An instant later, a ravenous plume of flame leapt forth, splashing across the western ramparts, consuming four sentries before they realized they were under attack. Zanove turned his head slightly, blasting several timber buildings standing just inside the walls, then scooped up two more sentries in his front claws and soared out over the harbor. He tossed the screaming men into the sea, then dove once more and flamed the ships docked in the harbor.

  Behind his full-face helm, Garnuk smiled triumphantly. Alarms were just now ringing out over the city, and Zanove had already destroyed most of the harbor and cleared half of the west wall. The battle was off to a good start, but the real test was coming soon. Even as they swung back towards the wall, Garnuk saw archers and swordsmen racing through the streets, buckling on their armor and climbing the staircases to the walls.

  Set more fires in the city, Garnuk commanded. Scatter any soldier you see, make them terrified to leave their barracks. And watch for archers.

  Zanove swooped low, knocking two archers off the wall with his tail as he passed, and loosed another jet of flame at a row of buildings. The structures caught instantaneously, and the billowing clouds of smoke spread, casting a thick pall over the city of men.

  As Zanove flew around the city, starting fires and picking off soldiers where he could, Garnuk surveyed the battle from above, trying to keep track of everything that was happening. From this height, he could see sections of the city which were already charred and blackened, ruins left over from Norkuvad’s siege the previous year. The inner and outer walls had been largely repaired though, shored up and resealed where siege engines had gouged holes in the stone. The condition of the walls was of no concern for Zanove though. A dragon was not bound by such problems as negotiating physical obstacles on the ground.

  The silver dragon swerved abruptly and Garnuk ducked, just as a stream of arrows flashed through the space where he had been. The people of Ishkabur were finally retaliating, but it was likely too late. Zanove had started his fires in strategic locations, each a little apart from the others, and the patches of flame and smoke were spreading, consuming the city, cutting people off. But the Sthan soldiers had gained the walls and were firing up into the sky, hoping for a lucky shot that would bring the dragon down. They had little hope of succeeding, shooting at such an angle. If they really wanted to cause problems for Zanove, they should have set archers up on the central tower.

  Even as Garnuk had the thought, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he saw a small group of armored men storming onto the roof of the keep, a figure in shining mail with an icy blue shield emblazoned with a wolf’s head in their lead.

  Drop me at top of the tower, Garnuk said immediately. I will deal with them.

  We fight better together, Zanove said uncertainly. I will have a harder time keeping track of the battle without you, and if you get into danger, I will not be able to assist.

  I am not in any
danger, Garnuk snapped. Just get me close enough to the tower to jump.

  Zanove fell silent, but adjusted his course as Garnuk demanded. They glided in swiftly, arrowing straight towards the soldiers, who retreated quickly as they saw the dragon approaching. A few were trying to nock arrows to their bowstrings, but they were trampled by the soldiers who did not carry ranged weapons.

  Zanove flared his wings, pulling up slightly as they came to the edge of the tower. Garnuk vaulted off the silver dragon’s back, landing in a crouch with a crash of metal on stone. Zanove was gone again in an instant, roaring and spitting flame as he assailed the soldiers on Ishkabur’s outer wall.

  Garnuk stood slowly, pulling the two-handed sword from its sheath and holding it at the ready. The soldiers on the tower made no move to approach him, watching warily from the far side of the roof. They clustered around the man with the wolf’s head shield. This man wore no helm and carried a long sword, and his armor was augmented by a long cape hanging from his shoulders.

  “Who are you?” the man shouted. “What are you doing here?”

  Garnuk made no reply, merely advanced a few paces, still holding his sword at the ready. The Sthan soldiers shuffled uncertainly, casting anxious looks at their leader.

  “Answer me!” their leader shouted furiously, stepping forward a few paces. “What foul creature are you, and where did you come from? How dare you attack these people, after all they have been through, how dare you turn against us!”

  Garnuk lunged forward with his sword, forcing the man to jump back hastily. As soon as he moved, the Sthan soldiers leapt into action themselves, archers drawing back on their bowstrings, swordsmen and pikemen falling into defensive stances. There were at least twenty of them, all intent on Garnuk. So the Ramshuk did the natural thing, and charged right into their midst.

  He hacked left and right with the oversized blade, clearing a space to fight, scattering the broken forms of three men over the rooftop. Bowstrings twanged, but the shots went awry, most missing harmlessly, a pair of them striking Sthan soldiers instead as the archers tried to follow Garnuk’s sudden movements. They quickly gave up and threw down their bows, drawing short swords and daggers and wading into the fray.