[Hurog 01] - Dragon Bones

by Patricia Briggs

  He glanced down at himself to make sure his clothes were something Erdrick would wear and pulled the yellow scarf off his knee. Then, slouching a little, Beckram paced down the hall.

  There were a lot of people still in the court hall, so it took Beckram a long time to see that Erdrick wasn’t there. When he saw the queen gossiping with one of her ladies, he relaxed. Not that he’d believed his brother could betray him, not really.

  “Erdrick?”

  He was better at being Erdrick than Erdrick was at being him. Beckram didn’t even hesitate in responding to his brother’s name. “Lord Alizon?”

  The older man looked tired. “You don’t usually come to the dances, Erdrick.”

  Beckram gave his brother’s soft, half-embarrassed laugh. “Well, I’m looking for Beckram. He borrowed one of my books to press a crease out of a scarf, and now I can’t find it anywhere.”

  “Ah,” the king’s brother shrugged. “I haven’t seen him here lately. After dinner, he said something about catching some air.”

  “I’ll check the courtyard, then,” said Beckram.

  Alizon nodded. “If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

  When the Shavig boy wandered away, Alizon sipped his water to wash the foul taste of his brother’s business out of his mouth.

  AT FIRST , BECKRAM THOUGHT the courtyard was empty. It was a little chilly, not yet fall but soon. The unease, which had brought him home earlier than his comrades, hadn’t dissipated with the reassurance that Erdrick hadn’t poached his lady.

  He stood in the middle of the courtyard and tapped his toe impatiently. To bed, he decided abruptly. There must have been something odd in the ale he’d had tonight that produced this feeling that something was wrong. The damned palace was too big to search for his brother, who was probably passed out on some forgotten couch somewhere.

  Beckram started for the entrance nearest his rooms but stopped when he smelled blood. As the air brought the rich scent of it to his nose, something within him died as a sudden certainly grew within him. Something had happened to his twin.

  “Rick?” he called anyway, answered only by a faint breeze that made the leaves whisper together.

  A dizzy feeling of unreality swept over him as he stepped through the carefully planted bed and followed the scent of death to the shape that lay half hidden in shadows. Shock was replaced first by grief, then by rage, as he stared at his twin’s dead face. He remembered the pale face of the queen’s last lover after he’d been drowned and cursed himself for asking Erdrick to take his place. He should have known better.

  The urge to kill Jakoven was overwhelming. He knew he could do it, too, despite the king’s reputation as a swordsman. Who would be so stupid as to defeat the high king? Beckram’s sword work had been polished by Stala. Yes, he could kill Jakoven. There were places the king didn’t bring his guards.

  But if he did, his father would lose both of his sons, one to murder and the other to the headsman’s ax. Beckram held that thought and rode the pain it brought: There could be no overt revenge. He would have to hold to the oaths he swore to the king for his father’s sake.

  Carefully, Beckram closed his twin’s eyes. He kissed the cool forehead and muttered a few words of love. Then he slid an arm beneath Erdrick’s shoulders and under his knees, gathering him close.

  It wasn’t easy getting to his feet, for Erdrick weighed no less than Beckram, and neither of them were small men. Beckram staggered a bit, adjusting to the weight, then began to walk.

  BECKRAM STOOD MOMENTARILY UNNOTICED in the entranceway and looked around. His gaze drifted over Haverness and found a dozen more nobles who were just the kind of men he was looking for. Men whose loyalty to the throne could not be doubted nor could their word be bought.

  Satisfied, Beckram strode in with measured footsteps, the beat of his pulse dictating his steps. He could tell when they saw him, the hundred or so people still dancing at this hour, because a hush fell over the crowd. Everyone in this room knew about the queen’s previous lover. Everyone knew Beckram had been her lover. Everyone knew they were watching Erdrick carry Beckram’s body before the king who had killed him.

  The king remained where he was, expressionless. Beckram heard the small sound the queen made, but he had eyes only for Jakoven. When the king was five paces away, the traditional space for fealty swearing, Beckram knelt and set his brother on the white marble tiles. He remained kneeling.

  “My king,” he said, using his voice as his father had taught him so it carried to the far corner of the room. “Hurogs have served the Tallvenish rule since there have been high kings. My father, his brother, their father before them served you. It is my intention to do the same. Haverness?”

  O, brave man, thought Beckram as he saw the Oranstone nobleman approach out of the corner of his eye.

  Haverness waited to answer until he stood behind the king. We are all doing this by tradition, thought Beckram with that same eerie calmness that had claimed him from his entrance into the dance room.

  “Hurog?” asked Haverness.

  It startled Beckram to be called that; he’d always been addressed as Iftahar, after his father’s holding, but it was appropriate. Surely his soul was encased in the cold black stone of Hurog.

  “How many men go with you, Haverness?” Beckram asked, not taking his eyes from the king.

  “Eighty-four.”

  “And you leave when?”

  “Ten days’ time.”

  “Would you consider taking me?”

  “Hurogs are rare men. I would be honored.”

  For the first time since he’d entered the room, Beckram looked away from the king. He stared at his twin’s gray face and black blood. No more dusty books, he thought.

  Beckram returned his gaze to the king’s face, wanting to watch his reaction. “Then you may put down the name of Beckram of Hurog on your list.”

  A gasp of surprise traveled around the room.

  “First though, I must take my brother Erdrick to Hurog for burial. He met with an accident in the courtyard—or maybe it was suicide.” Beckram looked at the gaping wound, then looked around the room. “No, I suppose it was an accident. He tripped and cut his throat on a thorn in the garden.” Beckram scooped his brother off the floor—the body seemed much lighter—and strode to the nearest door. It wasn’t until he was in the corridor that he realized Haverness and Garranon paced beside him.

  “When are you leaving?” asked Garranon.

  “Now,” Beckram replied shortly.

  “Do you have enough gold to hire horses along the way?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Garranon pulled his belt purse loose and tied it to Beckram’s belt. “That should be enough.”

  “I’ll have two of my men ride honor guard,” said Haverness. “They’ll meet you at the stables.”

  “I won’t wait.”

  “If they’re late, they’ll catch up.”

  They left him then, and he walked the rest of the way to his rooms alone. He had to set Erdrick down to open the door, and it was harder to pick him up again this time. The strength of anger was seeping away, leaving only guilt.

  Beckram lay Erdrick on the bed while he packed. He took Garranon’s pouch and put it in his saddlebags, then stared around the suite at a loss. What was appropriate to pack?

  In the end, he just wrapped Erdrick in the top quilt of the bed and staggered out with near-empty saddlebags. He didn’t bother waking the grooms but settled his burden on a pile of hay and saddled both horses. The Hurog-bred geldings snorted a bit at the dead body, but Hellebore, Erdrick’s war-trained mount, stood steady while Beckram heaved the wrapped body over the saddle and secured it with rope.

  Mounting his own steed, Beckram started out. He passed a couple of men wearing Haverness’s colors running to the stable, but he didn’t stop. He would spend no more time than he had to in the home of the man who murdered his brother. He didn’t even notice it was Garranon and Haverness who
opened the palace gates and let him through.

  “HAVERNESS, I NEED TO ride with you,” said Garranon hoarsely. “If I stay here longer, I’ll slit Jakoven’s throat myself—which fool act would do Oranstone no good at all.”

  Haverness gave him an odd look, then shifted his gaze to watch his two men galloping after the Shavig lordling. “Foolish indeed. Very well, Garranon, ride with us for Oranstone.”

  “Oranstone lives.” Garranon made a sign with his fingers, an old sign of the Oranstone rebels.

  Haverness returned the signal easily and switched to his native tongue. “Oranstone free.”

  Garranon wondered if everyone hadn’t been a little too certain of Haverness’s loyalty to the king.

  BECKRAM’S RENTED HORSES WERE staggering by the time Hurog appeared, dark and foreboding in the morning skyline. Two days and three nights of riding, eight changes of mounts, and most of Garranon’s gold had gotten him this far. He hadn’t seen Haverness’s men since the second night.

  Just in front of the gate, Beckram drew his horse to a halt. When he’d ruined a friend’s horse by jumping it recklessly over a fence too high for hurdling, his father had paid for the animal. This time there was nothing his father could fix.

  Exhausted, Beckram laughed, though there was nothing humorous about it. He’d been bringing his brother to Hurog for his father to fix, and he hadn’t even realized it. He let the horses plod ahead.

  The sound of hooves on the pavement in front of Hurog alerted the sentries, but they recognized him and opened the gate. Although it was barely dawn, his father was in the bailey talking to one of the farmers when Beckram rode in.

  “Erdrick?”

  Beckram blinked stupidly, wondering how his father had jumped across the bailey so fast. Then it occurred to him that he’d closed his eyes for a bit.

  “Erdrick? What’s wrong? Who’s . . . who’s on the horse?”

  Beckram slid off his horse and continued to fall until he knelt on the cool ground.

  “I’m Beckram,” he said clearly. “Erdrick’s dead. My fault.” He stared at his father, waiting for the news to hit, waiting to be punished as he deserved.

  “SO THE KING KILLED Erdrick because you were sleeping with the queen? After he’d all but ordered you to do so?”

  Beckram wondered that his father’s voice was so calm. They sat in a small antechamber, where no one could hear.

  Beckram was still tired, but he’d slept, drugged with mulled wine and exhaustion, until the dreams had driven him from his bed. For the third time he said, “The king killed Erdrick, thinking he was me. If I hadn’t talked Erdrick into taking my place, he would be alive.”

  Duraugh closed his eyes. “I saved that young fool’s life once, did you know? Saved it so he could kill my son.” He sighed. “We’ll bury Erdrick tomorrow. Your mother’s here.”

  “She’ll want to bury him at Iftahar.”

  His father heard the need in his voice. “He’ll be buried here unless you wish it differently.”

  “Here. Hurog will protect him from murderers and fools.” He hadn’t meant to say that, it sounded silly aloud.

  His father merely nodded.

  Beckram relaxed a bit. “I’ll leave the next day for Estian.”

  “You’re still set on joining Haverness in his fool’s errand?”

  Beckram picked at the table covering. “I need something to do. If I don’t, I’ll kill him.”

  Duraugh’s mouth tightened. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it. If it were fifteen years ago, I could do it. Young Alizon was popular, and the world was used to war. But Jakoven has gotten rid of most of the men who could stand against him, and Alizon’s a useless fop outside the battlefield.” He sighed. “Very well, go. But I won’t send you alone. I’ll talk to Stala. She and fifty men will accompany you, fighting under your command.”

  “I can’t take them,” said Beckram. “Haverness only has leave for a hundred men. I believe I’m the eighty-fifth.”

  “You’ll take them,” said Duraugh, standing up. “The Blue Guard’s motto is ‘We fight as one.’ You will only be one.”

  “The king won’t accept that.”

  Duraugh smiled coldly. “I’ll talk to him. Leave it to me.”

  10

  Wardwick

  Death is a wretched business, and rain only made it worse.

  SEVERAL WEEKS INTO MY quest, my search for glory seemed fruitless. We looked for Vorsagian raiders as we neared the southern reaches of Oranstone, but only came upon a few more groups of ragged bandits and the burnt-over villages where the Vorsag had been. It rained all the time—except when it hailed or sleeted. Oreg’s gelding and one of the packhorses had developed hoof rot, despite the oil we used. Everyone’s temper was short from being constantly cold and damp.

  Tosten, as always, was the worst, seldom speaking except in answer to direct questions. The cold damp caused an old wound in Penrod’s shoulder to act up, making practice visibly painful, but he didn’t allow me to release him. When Axiel forced him to stop, he and Penrod almost came to blows—would have, except for Bastilla’s intervention. Axiel, son of the king of dwarves, watched me like a sheepdog watching his shepherd but said little. Even Oreg was subdued.

  We stopped at a village one midafternoon for provisions. It wasn’t much, but I sent Penrod to find the headman and talk to him. Oreg took the opportunity to wander off, exploring.

  “They say they haven’t seen any raiders, nor heard of any,” said Penrod when he returned. “They also say that they’ve no grain for sale, nor any other foodstuff.”

  We’d heard that often enough. If it hadn’t been for Luavellet’s provisions and our own woodcraft, we’d have been starving. Oranstonians had a long memory.

  “Did you tell them that the village east of here was burned to the ground when we passed it?” asked Tosten.

  “I did,” said Penrod. “I’m fairly sure they think we’re the ones who did it. Where’s Oreg?”

  “He went to look at Meron’s temple,” I said. “I think he went to ask her to stop the rain.”

  “It’ll just sleet, then,” said Axiel sourly.

  This village was larger than the last we’d been in, but that was all to be said of it. There had been people going about their business when we came. Upon seeing us, they’d sought shelter in the small stone and thatch huts that were set in circles off of the path that served as the main road.

  The temple of Meron the Healer, goddess of growing things, was a little larger than the other buildings, and some time ago someone had painted it; there were still flecks of blue and white on the orange stone. It had no door, just a bit of ragged oilcloth hung from the doorframe.

  “He went to look at the artifacts. Meron’s temples are filled with them,” explained Bastilla. “I don’t feel much magic from the temple, though.”

  We had gone from being mercenary warriors here to save Oranstone from the evil Vorsag to being unwanted tourists. I rolled my eyes at the thought.

  “There isn’t very much magic in Meron’s temples,” I told her. “Not really. Most of the nobles worship Vekke, the god of war. Meron’s priests might demand magic as tribute, but that usually means homemade charms from some hedgewitch. Peasants can’t afford real magic.”

  “Silverfells is not far from here,” said Axiel, “I recognize that rock formation.” He pointed toward an outcropping on a hill. “I think we passed just west of here last time we came. If you’re looking for interesting magical items, Silverfells has a stone they claim was once a dragon.”

  Penrod snorted. “The Hurogmeten said it was as much a dragon as he was a horse when we stopped by there.”

  Axiel shook his head. “I don’t know. It was steeped in magic, I could tell that much.” I hadn’t known he could detect magic.

  Oreg ducked under the cloth door of the temple and sloshed his way to his horse. “Where do we go next?”

  “Silverfells,” I said. Let’s go be tourists, I thought bitterly.

&n
bsp; “To see the dragon?” asked Oreg. “Splendid.”

  PANSY’S BIG HOOVES SPLASHED water from the puddles high enough to splatter my already soaked boots. It was hard to say if there was a creek running through the path or a path running through the creek.

  At least Pansy was happy. I rode in the lead where he liked to be rather than with the rest of them. The last time I tried to cheer Tosten up, he made a few nasty comments, and I thought I’d better stay by myself until I was able to control my tongue.

  The rain didn’t bother the stallion, as it did some of the other horses. Pansy ignored it as if he were too arrogant to be troubled by such a little thing as weather.

  I wondered if I should send everyone else home. Penrod needed to be back in the dryer climate of Shavig, where his shoulder wouldn’t bother him. Ciarra was too young for this, and Tosten was too soft: not in body, but in spirit. He felt the death of every body we burned, whether it was a bandit we’d killed or a villager killed by raiders. Even Bastilla would be better off elsewhere. She had claimed to be a poor wizard. I was no judge of such things, but although she was certainly not as good as Oreg, she was far better than Licleng, Father’s mage. She lit a fire every night with wet tinder and wetter wood while Oreg dried our bedding. She could make a living in any noble’s house, especially in a wet climate. She didn’t need me.

  Oreg belonged at Hurog where he and Hurog were safe. It was almost painful to be around him; he was my daily reminder that Hurog was not mine nor, I’d come to believe, would it ever be.

  That left only Axiel, my father’s man, the dwarven king’s son. Of us all, he was most suited to doing something other than wandering aimlessly through this godsforsaken swamp: Any noble would hire him as arms master. But, according to Aethervon, Axiel was here to save his people because his father had had a dream. Axiel had been with my father for at least sixteen years, maybe longer, but he thought I was the reason he’d been sent to Hurog.