Call of the Dragonbonded_Book of Fire

by JD Hart

  Here was the bait Bandit had been looking for. He had heard being prevented from finishing the Calling could be a powerful fear. He shifted nervously. “Don’t be expectin’ to be out of here soon if you be thinkin’ of walkin’ through that door. The city magistrate is a busy woman these days with all the transients passing through of late. Besides, she is sure to be wantin’ you to be stewin’ in this cell a while. I wouldn’t be surprised if it be one or two fortnights before she be callin’ you in for a ruling.” He let Conner deliberate on this overstretched truth, then continued. “Then again, I suppose since you lost your coin, you don’t be havin’ much reason to be in a hurry to leave.”

  Conner stiffened, eyes hard on Bandit. The boy braced for a tirade of blame. Instead, Conner said, “The magistrate won’t let those guardsmen keep my coins. She’ll make them give my money back.” As soon as he spoke, he realized how foolish the words made him. There had not been much energy behind them anyway. “She will, won’t she? She’ll make them give them back?”

  Bandit let his silence speak what Conner knew to be true. But to be sure, he followed up. “I suspect most of the coin be already spent on Narwalen ale to be fillin’ their bloated bellies while we do be sittin’ here rottin’.” He tossed a particularly bad-smelling clump of straw to the corner of the cell. He had the bait; now, to set the trap. “No matter. Unless you know another way out, you’ll probably be hung shortly after you’re called in anyway,” he lied.

  Conner glared at him skeptically. “They wouldn’t hang me even if I had done all the things they say. Once I explain my story to the magistrate, she’ll have no reason to hold me longer. I have done nothing wrong.”

  Bandit realized he had pushed Conner too far, but pulling back would make him more suspicious. Besides, he had always heard Eastlanders were a bit dimwitted when it came to Realm law. He had no choice but to set the trap here. “Ahh. Yes, you’re right. I’m sure the magistrate will be lettin’ you go. Causin’ a citywide manhunt for the mornin’, disruptin’ the town’s busiest market, breakin’ into a keep of the Realm, and disturbin’ ordermen and the Queen’s Defenders doesn’t sound like any reason to be holdin’ you. Never mind the entire city council, along with the magistrate, will likely be called in to be explainin’ to the countess why their guardsmen were so inept at catchin’ you. I’m sure they’ll be quite understandin’ of your story.”

  Conner blew a sigh through pursed lips, then sank into the straw, stench and rot forgotten.

  Bandit regarded Conner’s dejected look. He wanted to be open with the Eastlander, but could not take a chance that he might not willingly go along with his plan. Getting back to his life hinged on Conner’s assistance. Besides, the trap was set. It was best to be patient and see if the Eastlander took the bait. The two sat quietly through the remainder of the day.

  At what had to be near dusk, Bandit heard a cart rattle to a stop outside the cell. A small hinged slot above the buckets popped open, letting a speck of lamplight into the darkened room. Inquisitive, Conner watched, though Bandit had a good idea what came next. A large tin ladle appeared through the slot, and a thick, gray porridge was gracelessly dumped into the bucket. A moment passed before a guardsman’s eye peered through.

  After scrutinizing the two, the guardsman let out a laugh near to the edge of madness. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he whispered, “Oh, but I do be hearin’ you have got the whole city guard up in a ruckus this afternoon, boy. I do believe the treats you got today won’t be comparin’ much to what’s to happen to you soon.” The slot slammed shut as quick as it had opened, plunging the room once again into darkness. The cart rattled away with the guardsman’s dissolving laugh.

  “Okay, what do you suggest we do?” Conner asked.

  The Mistress of Good Fortune was with Bandit after all. The trap was about to spring. He replied with disinterest, “What ‘we’ are you referring to?”

  Conner jerked at the question. “I thought you had an idea how to get out of here.”

  Bandit waited a moment before he lied. “I am not the one who do be needin’ to get out of here. In a few days, they’ll be releasin’ me, though I really think I prefer it here.” He took in the room admiringly, adding a toothy smile for dramatic effect, though he doubted Conner could see him. “They do be feedin’ me better here, and I don’t be gettin’ rained on. Besides, when I do be gettin’ out, I’ll probably be beat for getting caught. Why would I want to be in a hurry to be leavin’?”

  “I can’t stay here for a fortnight, Bandit. I have to get out. Now, do you have a way or not?” Conner was growing desperate.

  “It’s possible, but I would have to be goin’ with you. Since I am in no hurry, what do I be gettin’ out of it?”

  “What do you want?” Conner was quick to ask.

  Bandit paused, feigning contemplation of something to negotiate. “I do be thinkin’ it possible, Conner, we can both be gettin’ what we do be wantin’ out of this.”

  “Go on then. I’m listening.” Conner leaned forward, not wanting to miss anything important.

  “As I see it, you be needin’ some coin to purchase your supplies and be on your way.” Bandit could sense Conner nodding. “I will agree to help you get back on your trek if you be doin’ somethin’ for me that will get me back into the Thieves Guild without gettin’ beat.”

  Conner rocked back. “What would I have to do?” he asked suspiciously.

  Bandit leaned closer, his voice soft. “You do be havin’ exceptional abilities, Conner. You would make a great thief. By now, everyone in the guild has heard of you climbin’ the keep’s wall and keepin’ the entire city guard at bay. The guildmaster would jump at the chance to be enlistin’ someone with your talent. I will be helpin’ you if you go back with me to the guild. That way, I can be tellin’ the guildmaster I let myself get captured so I could convince you to join.”

  Conner was doubtful about this. “I have never stolen anything in my life, and I don’t think I am ready to start.”

  “You just be needin’ to take enough jobs to put coins in your pocket and be on the road again, and surely in half the time you be spendin’ rottin’ in this stockade. Not to mention the city don’t be payin’ you to sit here.” Bandit could hear the trap snap closed. Conner moved like a man caught in the trawls of the trap’s bite. “So, what do you be sayin’?”

  “I say I don’t have much of a choice.” Conner stretched the stiffness out of his exhausted muscles. “This trek so far has been nothing but choosing from one option,” Bandit heard him mumble.

  Bandit fought off pangs of guilt—a rather unfamiliar emotion. It was time to skin this animal; he had a pelt to sell. “Good. I suggest you be gettin’ some dinner down. You’ll be needin’ your strength later tonight.”

  An Assassin’s Night

  The dark form, who sometimes called himself Lacerus, waited motionless on a northern mid-level balcony of Cravenrock Keep’s tower. Erebus was but a waxing sliver in the western sky, so the man was certain any passing eyes would not notice him there. Black robes, with their dark Modeic symbols, wavered in the light breeze through the tower hall, cooling the dark stone and bringing its sleeping occupants fleeting relief from the summer heat. The Night Vision spell he had cast illuminated the Narwalen Plains below in an eerie impression of shifting, vibrant grays and greens. Farther on, the outline of the Dragon’s Back Mountains formed the jagged horizon of the night sky. It was, by all accounts, the perfect evening for the work at hand.

  It had been too long since Lacerus had taken up a quarry, so the anticipation was intoxicating. He took several deep breaths to slow his pounding heart. Some bonds could sense the emotional rush of a pending kill. And he could not afford to be thwarted, not tonight. Once settled, the form made a few slight hand gestures and whispered an ancient incantation. “Aerora eftos fotivaros.” His hands and feet tingled in response.

  One last check for any guards along the keep’s wall and the black form placed his palms to the towe
r’s stone, climbing the wall with the agility of a spider. He proceeded first vertically over the balcony entrance, then diagonally upward to the tower’s western face. His eyes fixed on a large balcony above, he moved with singular purpose. Slowing at the balcony railing, the Assassin sniffed the air for any spells of protection.

  In a single fluid motion, the form glided nimbly over the railing and landed with the lightness of a leaf. He waited to be certain he had not been discovered. A shadow’s shadow, he floated through the balcony entrance and drifted through the bedchamber, eyes glowing from his vision spell. The room was sparse. To the left was a cabinet, straight ahead a desk, devoid of material except for a white ostrich-quill pen and a small bottle of ink. A single person lay in the large bed to his right.

  Drifting closer, he examined the body as it emitted light snores. He removed a small vial from his breast pocket then broke the seal, letting its contents mix. One ingredient was a rather mild sedative powder made by grinding the dried leaf from a marbleblade. The other was a tasteless, inert liquid extracted from gin root. Combined in the proper proportions known only by those of the Necromancers Order, the two items created a deadly, though painless, poison. The potency of the poison lasted only a few minutes, making the source of the victim’s death impossible to trace. Working quickly, the black form held the vial over the sleeping body’s lips. Two drops, the vial’s entire contents, fell into the large man’s mouth.

  The Assassin watched the poison take effect with curious fascination. He could sense the slowing heart rate and slight cooling in the cheeks. But he could not tarry; the man’s bond would wake when it sensed its human’s reclamation. Reluctantly, he pulled away from the seductive drama. The dark form who sometimes called himself Lacerus slipped over the balcony and evanesced into the night as Garren awoke next to Palastar’s bed and howled a mournful cry.

  Escape

  Despite Bandit’s growing frustration, Conner had the young boy go through the escape plan a third time, searching for any flaws in the plan’s logic. He had to believe it was fully thought-out to have the steely confidence he needed to pull it off. But truth be told, his lack of confidence had nothing to do with his abilities or the plan. There was no real challenge in the tasks Bandit described. He simply did not trust Bandit. Something about the boy ate at him, but he was helpless to pinpoint what it was. Conner did have a second option. Knowing the plan, he could leave the boy in the cell and be on his way, never to look back. But in his heart, he knew he could not.

  Yes, he blamed Bandit for having put him into this situation, but Conner had made a promise. Now it was a matter of Eastlander honor. Besides, the thought of the trapper leaving Bandit with thieves tore at Conner’s compassion. It would never come to that, no matter the cost. He would carry through on his part of the bargain, even if Bandit might not do the same.

  Bandit slipped close. “It’s time,” he whispered.

  Conner inhaled deep and stretched, grimacing at the bruising on his ribs. He had tried eating some of the porridge, but between its foul smell and the nervous stomach knots he had developed while they discussed their escape, he could not get the slop past his nose. He would try this tired and hungry. But one thing was certain—if he failed, he would not have enough energy to attempt the escape again until the next night. He had but this one opportunity.

  He stepped to the back of the cell and ran his fingers up the keep’s wall to find the narrow spacing between the stones, as he had done that morning. He tested his grip. Raw fingertips throbbed, stabs of pain shot up his hands, arms, and shoulders. As before, he cleared away all anxiety, retreating to a place away from the physical world and his body’s pain.

  He focused on how impressed he was with Bandit, more streetwise than any twelve-year-old he had ever known. That, of course, concerned Conner, but since he could not plan for betrayal, he would deal with such events as they came. He thought about how he missed Pattria’s reassuring smile. He could have used it now. He thought of Pauli, who would enjoy nothing more than to hear Conner relate his tale, entertained by his misadventures. All this sharpened his nerve. He would return home, if for no better reason than to see the astonished looks on all their faces.

  His eyes level with the top of the cell wall to his left, Conner cautiously reached over. Immediately, he knew he had made a mistake. His other hand would not take the added weight. In desperation, he twisted and lunged. His left palm struck first, but cramping fingers refused to respond, and his hand clawed past the lip. Still, his body jolted to a stop, his numb right hand all that held him in place. Shaking the cramps from his left hand, he reached up and gripped the edge, then clambered atop the wall.

  Bandit’s impatience grew with each agonizing moment. Alone in the darkness, he could not help but wonder if Conner had left him there. Given that he was using the Eastlander, he deserved it. He did not realize how distressed he was until the knotted end of his rope belt struck his shoulder. Near to tears of joy, he reached up with shaky hands.

  Conner hung silently, hand and calf hooked over the lip of the wall. He had suggested using Bandit’s belt to get the younger boy up the wall. But as he hung there awkwardly, the rope wrapped securely around his wrist, he was starting to reconsider. If he had miscalculated the length, Bandit would not find the other end in the dark.

  A slight tug on the belt put Conner’s worries to rest. But relief turned to alarm when he was forced to take Bandit’s full weight. Legs, arms, and back ached as Bandit climbed. Bricks bit into Conner’s calf and palm.

  Suddenly, Bandit stopped, dangling from Conner’s back.

  Conner’s first thought was that they had been discovered, but when he heard nothing but snores from the other cells, he risked asking, “What is it?”

  “Uh, Conner, I have a problem,” came a soft whisper.

  Conner’s muscles shook violently. “What?”

  “My pants do be hangin’ about my ankles.”

  Conner stifled a groan. “Will you get up here? We’ll deal with that later.”

  Bandit started to climb again, then paused. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one losing his pants.”

  Half an eternity later, Conner lay sprawled across the top of the brick wall, legs dangling loosely over the sides, while Bandit looped his recovered belt around his waist. He was grateful Bandit had not lost his pants. He was not sure he could stand to look at the boy’s bony hips. He was thankful for one thing. If Bandit had weighed one stone more, they would have tumbled back into the cell before they cleared the wall.

  Without a word, Bandit stepped lightly atop the side wall in the direction of the stockade’s hallway.

  Quietly as possible, Conner rose, shadowing Bandit’s silhouette on shaky legs to the wall above their cell door, then followed Bandit across one of the large roofing crossbeams. Once on the other side, the slanting thatched roof forced them first to bend, then crouch, and finally, to crawl along the brick wall separating two cells on the stockade’s northern run.

  This was where Bandit took charge. A lifelong resident of Cravenrock, he knew the guardsmen assigned to watch the stockade at night. Conner waited. Once the route was clear, Bandit slid forward under the loose thatching. Conner followed close behind and reached the edge in time to watch Bandit drop five paces to the ground. They would have only a few moments before the next passing of the guard, so he moved with urgency. He wriggled between wall and thatching, ignoring the sharp straw scraping his legs and back, then dropped next to his escort.

  Bandit immediately gripped his shirt and yanked him down, raising his hand as a signal to wait. There was enough light from nearby buildings that Conner could make out moving forms in the distance, but he could not tell if they were guardsmen or city folk. He would have to trust Bandit on this, so he waited. After several stressful heartbeats, Bandit released him. Squatting low, he moved northward away from the stockade. Conner mimicked the boy. Moments later, they were at the dark edge of a nearby building. The boy flashed him a g
ratifying smile, then turned and strutted calmly northward up a narrow alley. Conner had no choice but to follow close behind.

  Thieves Guild

  Conner woke with a start, Bandit’s dirty face shoved up close to his. His stomach grumbled, and Bandit poked it. “I told you to eat some porridge. Maybe next time you’ll listen to me.” Bandit suddenly reminded him of Pauli; Conner groaned.

  Conner’s second groan came as memories he would have preferred to forget flooded back. After Conner and Bandit had escaped the stockade, they had spent what remained of the night on top of a tall building with a slanted slate roof still warm from Hemera’s rays. He rolled to his side and surveyed his surroundings, then let out a third more audible groan as he contemplated his current predicament.

  This won him a scathing look from Bandit. “Maybe you should try again. I’m sure the city guard will be hearin’ you soon.”

  Conner half ignored the boy, stifling yet another groan when he tried to move a body that had given up on him. He stretched his arms and legs to bring them back to life while Bandit instructed him on a litany of things he hoped would keep him from finding his way back into the stockade while the boy went to the Thieves Guild. Before Conner was fully awake, Bandit disappeared over the edge of the roof.

  Every muscle ached from the previous day’s abuse, worsened by pangs from an empty stomach. Deciding a walk could not hurt, he moved stiffly about the city, staying mostly on rooftops, all while watching the streets below. It did not take long to realize the city guard was desperate to catch him again, and quickly.

  Pirate waited in the pitch-black room, knee and hand pressed to the cold stone floor. He could hear his master’s fingers drumming on the large desk as he considered the information Pirate had delivered. He kept his eyes on the floor; Night Vision was forbidden by Thieves Guild rules while in the presence of a member of the Assassins Order, those who oversaw the guild’s activities.