Call of the Dragonbonded_Book of Fire_The Dragonbonded Return

by JD Hart

  Since the botched heist two days before, Conner and Bandit had been forced to stay in the sleeping room they shared to await some decision by the guild. They were not prisoners. But the guild was in crisis and the city above was alight with activity to find those responsible for the theft. The moonless night had kept the two guardsmen from getting a good look at them, but it was not a challenge even for the city guard to link the sketchy features of the thieves to the earlier events of the scaled wall and the two that had escaped the stockade. It was too risky for the two to leave the undercity.

  The guard was in such an uproar, Conner was beginning to wonder if he was ever going to get out of the city unhindered. Too bad the guild had not spent as much time deliberating his last heist’s plans as they were in dealing with its unfortunate aftermath. A well-tilled field in spring saves the well-toiled farmer in summer, his father was fond of saying.

  It occurred to Conner that the guild might be considering how to make him a scapegoat, maybe even by throwing him to the wolves above to appease the city guard’s lust for retribution. But several guildsmen had visited, hoods pulled forward to hide their features, telling him how they admired his conduct and giving him reassurances that all would be set right in quick order.

  At least the time locked away permitted Conner and Bandit to get better acquainted. Bandit appeared interested enough to know about Conner’s life on an Eastland farm. And though talking about home and family made him homesick, he found comfort in sharing his experiences with someone whose company he enjoyed. But Bandit was not so engaging when the plow was turned. The boy seldom offered more than what he had told Conner while they were in the stockade. Weary of turning conversations into interrogations, Conner finally gave up and sat in silence.

  It was not long, however, before he was tired of being alone with only his thoughts to occupy his mind. Unable to take the silence any longer, he asked, “What is your real name, Bandit?”

  Bandit glanced up from the hole he was attempting to bore through the floorboards with his eyes, weighing Conner with an intense stare. Conner had an odd feeling the boy was looking at him for the first time. “I don’t be rememberin’ much before the guild, Conner, so I don’t be rememberin’ what it was. I guess my real name died with my parents. Besides, I go by Bandit.”

  Conner was pondering Bandit’s answer when a tall figure in the usual drab gray guild cloak appeared at the door. “We have been called to a conclave of the guild. You two are to accompany me.” The figure walked away, making it clear the statement was not open for discussion.

  This time, Conner’s head was not covered, a possible foretelling of Pirate’s decision. Within a few minutes, he was led through the familiar antechamber and corridor. As before, a circle of twenty cloaked figures lined the walls of the chamber. However, this time, the octagonal room was lit by two torches. A figure near a stone sarcophagus pointed at the floor near the entrance. The two stepped to the designated spot.

  “Has the Scribe of the Guild sealed the room for the conclave?” Pirate asked.

  The thief who had shown Conner where to stand responded, “All are present. All is as it—” The woman’s voice choked off in surprise.

  Movement at the entrance across from Conner drew everyone’s startled attention. The two torches flickered, and a figure in a pitch-black cloak silently floated into the chamber. Without pause, it moved stealthily to the middle, the outline of its cloak shimmering like smoke in the torchlight. The black form examined the frozen gray figures, their hooded heads bowed, hands clasped before them. Conner decided it best to mimic them, even though he wore no cloak. Even intensely studying the floor in front of his feet, Conner could sense the eyes beneath the black hood pass over him, then pause. Conner’s eyes watered, and he fought to keep them open. His body quaked violently, though he did not understand why he should fear the cloaked figure so.

  It was an eternity before the figure asserted in a low, raspy voice, “For nearly five hundred years, those of the Assassins Order have been the guardians of the Thieves Guild, guiding and helping those unfortunate enough to be born into poverty and cruelty to make for themselves meaningful lives. I have given this clan everything you need to carve out a reasonable living on those who would otherwise quite happily prey upon you.”

  Conner could feel the black-robed figure moving about the chamber, could feel it float by. An Anarchic Assassin! Conner’s stomach lurched. His head reeled at the thought and he shrank back.

  “In return, we ask only for your fealty, to follow a few basic rules we have set before you, something any protective parent would expect from the children they have been bound to nurture.” There was a sound, like the rustling of dry leaves on an autumn breeze. “But what should the parent do when there is an ungrateful child in their midst? What should be done when there is one who willfully disrespects the parent, who disregards the safety of its siblings, all for personal gain?”

  A long silence hung about them. A morbid fascination gripped Conner’s imagination, so he glanced up. The black figure loomed before Pirate, who cringed fiercely. Then the form blurred like thick, ebony smoke. Within a heartbeat, it crossed the length of the chamber, coalescing on the other side. The Assassin’s ringed hand clutched the neck of a particularly bulky thief, whom it lifted easily into the air. The thief clawed at the black figure’s wrist, feet jerking wildly in a failed attempt to pull away. The gray hood fell back, revealing face filled with such horror that Conner was compelled to do what the man seemed incapable of: to cry out in frantic terror. Other cloaked figures did as well, some falling to their knees, whimpering uncontrollably.

  The black figure seemed completely unaffected by the grotesque efforts of the large man to break free, his focus instead on judging each guild member’s reaction. “Here is the snitch who caused the heist of the magus’s scroll to be nearly thwarted. It seems Hook felt it was not in his best interest to share the profits with yet another guild member. Maybe Hook has a point. Maybe there is one too many members.” Hook’s movements were becoming more exaggerated as he struggled for air.

  A short, thin sword appeared in the Assassin’s right hand, orange torchlight flickering off the highly polished blade. Carefully placing the tip of the blade under Hook’s chin, the black figure pushed the blade upward, piercing first the thief’s lower pallet and tongue, then his upper pallet. Hook stiffened, legs convulsing violently, dull eyes rolling back. Red foam escaped his gurgling mouth. None of this affected the Assassin as he pushed the thin blade into Hook’s brain, stopping only when the silver tip reappeared from the crown of his skull.

  The Assassin continued to hold Hook high in the air until the twitching ceased. The slow rattle of the dying man rose above the groans and wails of his comrades. The Assassin removed the blade and dumped the lifeless body in the middle of the chamber. The bloodied sword vanished. Without another word, the Assassin floated from the chamber.

  Lacerus was quite satisfied with how his demonstration had gone. It was all he could do to keep from humming a favorite tune as he walked spryly from the Thieves Guild chamber, the members still inside quivering in pure horror. He especially enjoyed the effects of the Fear spell, something he had added to the drama only at the last minute. While it seldom had an effect on a seasoned orderman, it could turn a grown man into a whimpering mass of blubber for several hours. He had had the good fortune to use that spell on several occasions that would have otherwise required he fight his way to freedom. Why exert energy when there was so much pleasure in the fine art of Assassin finesse?

  From all indications, Hook had not acted alone, but this did not bother Lacerus. He did not have time or will to root out any accomplices. Besides, Hook had been the leader, and that problem was no longer a concern. He was confident his little display would force the other participants of Hook’s sedition to reconsider before going against his instructions again, or those of the guild.

  In the adjacent antechamber, he retrieved his falcon bond from a perch sh
e had taken before the show. He tried to calm her, stroking her ruffled feathers lightly with each measured step. “Easy, Carnia,” he soothed. Sadly, she had never gotten used to his true profession.

  A Ranger’s Lesson

  Before the Ranger could offer the necessary curtsy, Veressa crushed Annabelle in a hug, enthusiasm bubbling over with complete abandon. “I am so glad you are back. I have truly missed your company.”

  After so many years together, the two had long since established an unspoken rapport. Annabelle had been yeoman raised. And though being of an order had elevated her in status to just below nobility, she refused to forget Veressa’s place as royalty. Rules, especially those of social etiquette, had a purpose. To break a rule once only meant it became easier to do so again, then again, until rules had no meaning. That was the road to Anarchic life. For this reason, she kept a formal line with Veressa that she had never crossed in eleven years, no matter if there was a connection that transcended the rules of Harmonic society. The love and trust between them was as strong as if they were sisters. Words were not needed; both knew it to be as true as the sky was wide.

  “Highness, it is good to see you again as well,” Annabelle replied with a welcoming smile. Though they were alone, she was relieved to hold the girl at arms’ length to get a better look. Two fortnights away had given Annabelle a new appreciation of the girl too quickly becoming a woman. She had always been pretty, but there was now a radiant look about her. Piercing blue eyes set on a sculptured face of light complexion would melt any impassioned heart. But if her eyes did not catch a man’s attention, her smile and disarming laugh would. Blond hair covering much of her shoulders framed the sides of her face, accenting the color in her cheeks and the line of her jaw.

  Annabelle admired her pupil until she noted Veressa reading her like a book. The Ranger let the veil descend once more. The smile vanished as she searched for words to redirect them to the business at hand. “At least you have not broken any bones while I was away. That in itself is nothing short of a miracle of the Cosmos.”

  This truly delighted Veressa, who waved the crumpled parchment in Annabelle’s face. “Sooo?” she purred with anticipation.

  Glaring back, Annabelle plucked the letter from the princess’s hand. “I thought you would know better than to leave our correspondence lying about, Veressa. If this had fallen into another’s hands, you would have been brought before the queen and I put to the inquisition to extract the details of its meaning.” Queen Izadora could be unrelenting if she discovered important information was being withheld from her, especially if it concerned her only daughter.

  “The letter hasn’t left my person since yesterday when it arrived,” Veressa quipped, undeterred. “So, what did the council say?” The girl gripped Annabelle’s hands tight with hers, crushing the letter more; her eyes sparkled with expected delight.

  Some thought Veressa selfish and willful. But the few who knew the girl as Annabelle did knew her to be caring and open to sound reason, if one was persistent. True, the girl had a way that infuriated all who opposed her. She could strip a nobleman bare faster than a starving vulture could strip a carcass, or send the Royal Chamberlain Nantree from the room fuming with her verbal appraisal of his latest dress design. No, her confidence and determination were born out of gifts from both her parents, gifts that granted them many sleepless nights, but would also ensure the girl’s place as a noble and worthy queen. Nine times in ten, the girl got her way either through her mother’s tenacious spirit or her father’s unmatched cunning. The other one in ten was through pure luck of the Cosmos. It was Cosmic luck that was with her this time.

  After Annabelle had sent a message to the Rangers Council that she had been secretly training Veressa on basic skills and was requesting approval to continue with advanced training, the council had responded not with an answer, but with a harsh rebuke, threatening to reassign Annabelle to Dreadcreek, the Rangers’ hold in the farthest northeastern region of the Narwales fiefdom and close to the Borderlands. Annabelle had nearly given up hope of receiving an answer when, after more than a fortnight of silence, she received a second message from the Rangers Order’s Sovereign Lady Kyles herself approving Annabelle’s request. This had been a shock. However, Lady Kyles also made it quite clear no one else was to know of this training. Further, the Rangers Council would deny any awareness of Annabelle’s actions if the queen found out. In truth, the council’s decision was political; it had nothing to do with Veressa’s interests or demands. Something more was afoot, and that left Annabelle on edge. But with nothing more to hold her back, she would proceed with Veressa’s training.

  Annabelle reflected on how best to break the news to a girl so overly self-confident. With pursed lips, she folded her arms in front of her, scrutinizing the girl in the Rangers cloak. “Isn’t it a little presumptuous of you to think you know the council’s answer?”

  Veressa’s smile vanished until the ends of Annabelle’s lips turned up slightly. The princess grabbed Annabelle’s folded arms and shook the woman excitedly. “I knew they would approve my training. They had no choice in this matter. You know it,” she added smugly.

  Annabelle glared back, trying to bring some control to the situation. “Neither the Council of Rangers, nor her Lady Kyles, are so easily swayed, even by the demands of a future monarch of the three Harmonic Realms. It is as likely they want you indebted—a debt they will most certainly ask to be repaid at the least appropriate time. As much as you may think otherwise, a good lesson from this is to never underestimate the motives of the Rangers Council, or the council of any order, for that matter.”

  “Then that is a problem I will deal with when it arrives.” Veressa beamed. “So, can we start my training?”

  Annabelle sighed at the girl’s perpetual impatience. “Unfortunately, I am exhausted from my travels, so we must keep this lesson short. But we can cover enough to quench your thirst.” She locked eyes with her pupil before continuing. “But first, let me make this clear. What you are about to learn have been secrets of the Rangers Order for forty generations. You must not, under any circumstances, describe this to anyone. You are as order-bound as any other orderman. Do you understand?”

  Veressa smiled at Annabelle alluding to her as a member of the order. “Yes, of course.”

  “There are no exceptions. Not even for a princess.”

  Veressa puffed out her lips. “I said I understood.”

  “Good. Let us begin by covering what you know a little about, but have not yet put together. This will serve to show you where we will be going with your training.” Annabelle squatted and drew a four-pointed star in the dirt with her short knife. At the left point of the star, she drew a ring. At the opposite point, she drew three horizontal wavy lines. At the top, she drew three vertical wavy lines; then at the bottom, a solid point.

  Veressa blinked at Annabelle, having expected something more profound from her preceptor. The ring symbol Annabelle had drawn on the left was the ancient Modeic symbol for the Fire elemental. The three horizontal wavy lines on the right were the ancient symbol for the Water elemental, Fire’s repelling force. The three vertical wavy lines at the top represented the symbol for the Air elemental. And the solid point at the bottom was the symbol for the Earth elemental, Air’s repelling force. Combined with the star, the drawing was the Modeic symbol of the Cosmos, something that could be drawn by any child in the Harmonic Realms by the age of six. Some, such as those in the Paladins Order, held to the ancient Modeic belief of using the symbols in their writings to refer to the Cosmos, believing that even uttering the word Cosmos was improper.

  Annabelle ignored the girl’s disgruntled expression as she continued. Next to the symbol of Fire, she drew a square, the symbol for magical combat. Next to the symbol for Air at the top, she drew two vertical lines, the symbol for missile combat. Continuing around the star, she drew two horizontal lines, the symbol for hand-to-hand combat, next to the Modeic symbol for Water. Finally, she drew a di
amond, the symbol for clerical combat, next to Earth’s symbol.

  Veressa knew there were four elementals and four basic forms of combat, but she had never made the connection between them. She studied the symbols more closely, her eyes widening as the implications became clear.

  Annabelle drove the point of her knife into the dirt next to the symbols of Air and missile combat. “Your basic training focused on the use of missile weapons: bows, crossbows, throwing knives, stars, and such. But as you know, these are not the sole weapons of a Ranger. Missile weapons are also used by those of the Warriors and Mystics Orders. So what distinguishes the fighting styles of a Ranger from these other two?”

  Veressa pondered their differences. “The fighting style of a Warrior is in combining hand-to-hand combat with missile weapons; Mystics use magical missile weapons—bolts of lightning, fireballs, and ground tremors, allowing the Mystic to fight from a distance.”

  “Good. So how is a Ranger’s fighting style different?”

  The connections to Air came to Veressa as she studied the dirt drawing, tying Warriors to the symbol for Water and Mystics to the symbol for Fire, leaving only one elemental—Earth. Veressa squatted next to Annabelle, excitement building. Her finger traced along the wavy lines of Air. “A Ranger combines missile weapons with those of the cleric.”

  Annabelle studied her pupil’s face. “In a way, yes. But what are the weapons of the cleric?”

  Veressa had known a few true clerics. Most disavowed the use of violence and weapons, as had the Modei, but she did recall one jolly friar who believed in the heavy hand of the Cosmos ... and a touch of the fermented brew. She smiled as she fondly recalled him. “They are of Earth—a wooden staff, for example.”

  “They are so much more, Veressa. A master cleric understands the significance of the Physical, as well as the other planes of existence. Her mastery is spiritual, as she works to perceive how all things are connected. This is where clerics draw their true power, not in weapons such as those of sword or arrow.” She touched the bow strapped to Veressa’s back for emphasis. “Through this understanding, a cleric communes with the spirits of all that live in the Physical plane, plant and animal. With practice, the cleric can see, even manipulate, that which is beyond. Master clerics have a myriad of spells at their disposal—spells of protection, restoration, command, and divination. These are a cleric’s greatest weapons.”