Forgotten, an artist bereft of his art, Three-Chop Nick sat disconsolately upon the block.
CHAPTER 4
SOMEWHERE, VOLKARAN ISLES,
MID REALM
THE COURIER KEPT HIS DRAGON UNDER TIGHT REIN, GIVEN ITS head, the small riding dragon could swiftly outfly the larger battle dragon. But the courier did not dare fly unescorted. Elven corsairs often lurked in the clouds, waiting to snap up lone human dragonriders. And so the going was slow. But at length the torches of Ke’lith vanished behind them. The craggy peaks of Witheril soon obscured the smoke rising from the bier of the province’s fallen lord.
The courier kept his dragon flying near the tail of the nightrae—the battle dragon. It was a sleek black wedge, cutting through night’s gray gloom. The King’s Own, strapped into their harnesses, were so many black lumps upon the nightrae’s back.
The dragons flew over the small village of Hynox, visible only because its squat, square dwellings showed up plainly. Then they passed over Dandrak’s shore and headed out into deepsky. The courier glanced up and down, this way and that, like a man who has not flown much before—an odd thing in a supposed king’s messenger. He could see two of the three Wayward Isles, he thought. Hanastai and Bindistai showed up clearly. Even in deepsky, it was not truly dark—as dark as legend held night had been in the ancient world before the Sundering.
Elven astronomers wrote that there were three Lords of Night. And though the superstitious believed that these were giant men who conveniently spread their flowing cloaks over Arianus to give the people rest, the educated knew that the Lords of Night were really islands of coralite floating far above them, moving in an orbit that took them, every twelve hours, between Arianus and the sun.
Beneath these isles were the High Realm, purportedly where lived the mysteriarchs, powerful human wizards who had traveled there in voluntary exile. Beneath the High Realm was the firmament or day’s stars. No one knew precisely what the firmament was. Many—and not just the superstitious—believed it to be a band of diamonds and other precious jewels floating in the sky. Thus, legends of the fabulous wealth of the mysteriarchs, who had supposedly passed through the firmament, evolved. There had been many attempts made by both elves and humans to fly up to the firmament and discover its secrets, but those who tried it never returned. The air was said to be so cold it would freeze blood.
Several times during the flight, the courier turned his head and glanced back at his companion, curious to note the reactions of a man who had been snatched from beneath the falling ax. The courier was doomed to disappointment if he thought he would see any sign of relief or elation or triumph. Grim, impassive, the assassin’s face gave away nothing of the thoughts behind its mask. Here was a face that could watch a man die as coolly as another might watch a man eat and drink. The face was, at the moment, turned away from the courier. Hugh was intently studying the route of their flight, a fact that the courier noticed with some uneasiness. Perhaps sensing his thoughts, Hugh raised his head and fixed his eyes upon the courier.
The courier had gained nothing from his inspection of Hugh. Hugh, however, appeared to gain a great deal from the courier. The narrowed eyes seemed to peel back skin and carve away bone, and might have, in a moment, laid bare whatever secrets were kept within the courier’s brain, had not the young man shifted his eyes to his dragon’s spiky mane. The courier did not look back at Hugh again.
It must have been coincidence, but when the courier noted Hugh’s interest in their flying route, a blanket of fog immediately began to drift over and obscure the land. They were flying high and fast and there was not much to see beneath the shadows cast by the Lords of Night. But coralite gives off a faint bluish light, causing stands of forests to show up black against the silvery radiance of the ground. Landmarks were easy to locate. Castles or fortresses made of coralite that have not been covered over with a paste of crushed granite gleam softly. Towns, with their shining ribbons of coralite streets, show up easily from the air.
During the war, when marauding elven airships were in the skies, the people covered their streets with straw and rushes. But there was no war upon the Volkaran Isles now. The majority of humans who dwelt there thought fondly that this was due to their prowess in battle, the fear they had generated among the elflords.
The courier, considering this, shook his head in disgust at their ignorance. A few humans in the realm knew the truth—among them King Stephen and Queen Anne. The elves of Aristagon were ignoring Volkaran and Uylandia because they had much bigger problems to deal with at the moment—a rebellion among their own people.
When that rebellion was firmly and ruthlessly crushed, the elves would turn their attention to the kingdom of the humans—the barbaric beasts who had stirred up this rebellion in the first place. Stephen knew that this time the elves would not be content with conquering and occupying. This time they would rid themselves of the human pollution in their world once and forever. Stephen was quietly and swiftly setting up his pieces on the great gameboard, preparing for the final bitter contest.
The man sitting behind the courier didn’t know it, but he was to be one of those pieces.
When the fog appeared, the assassin, with an inward shrug, immediately gave up attempting to ascertain where they were going. Being a ship’s captain himself, he had flown most of the airlanes throughout the isles and beyond. They had been taking a negative rydai,1 traveling in the general direction of Kurinandistai. And then the fog had come and he could see nothing.
Hugh knew the mist had not sprung up by chance, and it only confirmed what he had begun to suspect—that this young “courier” was no ordinary royal flunky. The Hand relaxed and let the fog float through his mind. Speculating about the future did no good. Not likely to be much better than the present, the future could hardly be worse. Hugh had done all he could to prepare for it; he had his bone-handled, rune-marked dagger—slipped to him at the last moment by Gareth—tucked into his belt. Hunching his bare, lacerated shoulders deep into the thick fur cape, Hugh concentrated on nothing more urgent than keeping warm.
He did, however, take a certain grim delight in noting that the courier seemed to find the fog a nuisance. It slowed their flight and he was continually having to dip down into clear patches that would suddenly swirl up before them, to see where they were. At one point it appeared that he had managed to get them lost. The courier held the dragon steady in the air, the creature fanning its wings to keep them hovering in the sky in response to the rider’s command. Hugh could feel the courier’s body tense, note the darting, shifting glances cast at various objects on the ground. It seemed, from muttered words spoken to himself, that they had flown too far in one direction. Altering course, the courier turned the dragon’s head and they were once again flying through the mist. The courier cast an irritated glance at Hugh, as much as to say that this was his fault.
Early in his life, primarily for his own survival, Hugh had taught himself to be alert to all that happened around him. Now, in his fortieth cycle, such precaution was instinctive, a sixth sense. He knew the instant there was a shift in the wind, a rise or dip in the temperature. Though he had no timekeeping device, he could tell within a minute or two how much time had elapsed from one given period to another. His hearing was sharp, his eyes sharper. He possessed an unerring sense of direction. There were few parts of the Volkaran Isles or the continent of Uylandia that he hadn’t traveled. Adventures in his youth had taken him to distant (and unpleasant) parts of the larger world of Arianus. Not given to boasting, which was a waste of breath—only a man who cannot conquer his deficiencies feels the need to convince the world he has none—Hugh had always been confident in his own mind that, set him down where you would, he could within a matter of moments tell where upon Arianus he stood.
But when the dragon, at the courier’s soft-spoken command, descended from the sky and landed upon solid ground, Hugh gazed around him and was forced to admit that for the first time in his life he was lost. He
had never seen this place before.
The king’s messenger dismounted from the dragon. Removing a glowstone from the leather pouch, he held the stone in his open palm. Once exposed to the air, the magical jewel began to give off a radiant light. A glowstone gives off heat as well, and it is necessary to place it in a container. The courier walked unhesitatingly to a corner of a crumbling coralite wall surrounding their landing site. Leaning down, he deposited the glowstone in a crude iron lamp.
Hugh saw no other objects in the barren courtyard. Either the lamp had been left in expectation of the courier’s arrival or he himself had placed it there before he departed. The Hand suspected the latter, mainly because there was no sign of anyone else nearby. Even the nightrae had been left behind. It was logical to assume, therefore, that the courier had started his journey from this place and obviously expected to return—a fact that might or might not have much significance. Hugh slid down off the dragon’s back.
The courier lifted the iron lamp. Returning to the dragon, he stroked the proudly arched neck and murmured words of rest and comfort that caused the beast to settle itself down in the courtyard, tucking its wings beneath its body and curling its long tail round its feet. The head fell forward on the breast, the eyes closed, and the dragon breathed a contented sigh. Once asleep, a dragon is extremely difficult and even dangerous to wake, for sometimes during sleep the spells of submission and obedience which are cast over them can be accidentally broken and you’ve got a confused, irate, and loudly vocal creature on your hands. An experienced dragonrider never allows his animal to sleep unless he knows there is a competent wizard nearby. Another fact Hugh noted with interest.
Coming close to him, the courier raised his lantern and stared quizzically into Hugh’s face, inviting question or comment. The Hand saw no need to waste his breath in asking questions he knew would not be answered, and so stared back at the courier in silence.
The courier, nonplussed, started to say something, changed his mind, and softly exhaled the breath he had drawn in to speak. Abruptly he turned on his heel, with a gesture to the assassin to follow, and Hugh fell into step behind his guide. The courier led the way to a place that Hugh soon came to recognize, from early and dark childhood memories, as a Kir monastery.
It was ancient and had obviously been long abandoned. The flagstones of the courtyard were cracked and in many cases missing entirely. Coralite had grown over much of the standing outer structures that had been formed of the rare granite the Kir favored over the more common coralite. A chill wind whistled through the abandoned dwellings, where no light shone and had probably not shone for centuries. Bare trees creaked and dry leaves crunched beneath Hugh’s boots.
Having been raised by the grim and dour order of Kir monks, the Hand knew the location of every monastery on the Volkaran Isles. He could not remember hearing of any that had ever been abandoned, and the mystery of where he was and why he had been brought here deepened.
The courier came to a baked-clay door that stood at the bottom of a tall turret. He fit an iron key into the lock. The Hand peered upward, but could not see a glimmer of light in any of the windows. The door swung open silently—an indication that someone was accustomed to coming here frequently, since the rusted hinges were well-oiled. Gliding inside, the courier indicated with a wave of his hand that Hugh was to follow. When both were in the cold and drafty building, the courier locked the door, tucking the key inside the bosom of his tunic.
“This way,” he said. The direction was not necessary—there was only one possible way for them to go, and that was up. A spiral staircase led them round and round the interior of the turret. Hugh counted three levels, each marked by a clay door. All were locked, the Hand noted, surreptitiously testing each as they ascended.
On the fourth level, at another clay door, the iron key again made an appearance. A long narrow corridor, darker than the Lords of Night, ran straight and true before them. The courier’s booted footsteps rang on the stone. Hugh, accustomed by habit to treading silently in his soft-soled, supple leather boots, made no more noise than if he had been the man’s shadow.
They passed six doors by Hugh’s count—three on his left and three on his right—before the courier raised a warning hand and they stopped at the seventh. Once again the iron key was produced. It grated in the lock and the door slid open.
“Enter,” the courier said, standing to one side.
Hugh did as he was told. He was not surprised to hear the door shut behind him. No sound of a key turning in the lock, however. The only light in the room came from the soft glow given off by the coralite outside, but that faint shimmer illuminated the room well enough for the Hand’s sharp eyes. He stood still a moment, closely inspecting his surroundings. He was, he discovered, not alone.
The Hand felt no fear. His fingers, beneath his cloak, were clasped around the hilt of his dagger, but that was only common sense in a situation like this. Hugh was a businessman and he recognized the setting of a business discussion when he saw it.
The other person in the room with him was adept at hiding. He was silent and kept himself concealed in the shadows. Hugh didn’t see the person or hear him, but he knew with every instinct that had kept him alive through forty harsh and bitter cycles that there was someone else present. The Hand sniffed the air.
“Are you an animal? Can you smell me?” queried the voice—a male voice, deep and resonant. “Is that how you knew I was in the room?”
“Yeah, an animal,” said Hugh shortly.
“And what if I had attacked you?” The figure moved over to stand by the window. He was outlined in Hugh’s vision by the faint radiance of the coralite. The Hand saw that his interrogator was a tall man clad in a cape whose hem he could hear dragging across the floor. The man’s head and face were covered by chain mail, only the eyes visible. But the Hand knew his suspicions had been correct. He knew to whom he was talking.
Hugh drew forth his dagger. “A hand’s breadth of steel in your heart, Your Majesty.”
“I am wearing a mail vest,” said Stephen, King of the Volkaran Isles and the Uylandia Cluster. He was, seemingly, not surprised that Hugh recognized him.
A corner of the assassin’s thin lips twitched. “The chain mail does not cover your armpit, Majesty. Lift your elbow.” Stepping forward, Hugh placed thin, long fingers in the gap between the body armor and that covering the arm. “One thrust of my dagger, there …” Hugh shrugged.
Stephen did not flinch at the touch. “I must mention that to my armorer.”
Hugh shook his head. “Do what you will, Majesty, if a man’s determined to kill you, then you’re dead. And if that’s why you’ve brought me here, I can only offer you this advice: decide whether you want your corpse burned or buried.”
“This from an expert,” said Stephen, and Hugh could hear the sneer if he could not see it on the man’s helmed face.
“I assume Your Majesty requires an expert, since you’ve gone to all this trouble.”
The king turned to face the window. He had seen almost fifty cycles, but he was well-built and strong and able to withstand incredible hardships. Some whispered that he slept in his armor, to keep his body hard. Certainly, considering his wife’s reputed character, he might also welcome the protection.
“Yes, you are an expert. The best in the kingdom, I am told.”
Stephen fell silent. The Hand was adept at reading the words men speak with their bodies, not with their tongues, and though the king might have thought he was masking his turbulent inner emotions quite well, Hugh noted the fingers of the left hand close in upon themselves, heard the silvery clinking of the chain mail as a tremor shook the man’s body.
So it often was with men making up their minds to murder.
“You also have a peculiar conceit, Hugh the Hand,” said Stephen, abruptly breaking his long pause. “You advertise yourself as a Hand of Justice, of Retribution. You kill those who allegedly have wronged others, those who are above the law, those whom�
��supposedly—my law cannot touch.”
There was anger in the voice, and a challenge. Stephen was obviously piqued, but Hugh knew that the warring clans of Volkaran and Uylandia were currently being held together only by a mortar composed of fear and greed, and he did not figure it worth his while to argue the point with a king who undoubtedly knew it as well.
“Why do you do this?” Stephen persisted. “Is it some sort of attempt at honor?”
“Honor? Your Majesty talks like an elflord! Honor won’t buy you a cheap meal at a bad inn in Therpes.”
“Ah, the money?”
“The money. Any knife-in-the-back killer can be had for the price of a plate of stew. That’s fine for those who just want their man dead. But those who’ve been wronged, those who’ve suffered at the hands of another—they want the one who brought them grief to suffer himself. They want him to know, before he dies, who brought about his destruction. They want him to experience the pain and the terror of his victims. And for this satisfaction, they’re willing to pay a high price.”
“I am told the risks you take are quite extraordinary, that you even challenge your victim to fair combat.”
“If the customer wants it.”
“And is willing to pay.”
Hugh shrugged. The statement was too obvious for comment. The conversation was pointless, meaningless. The Hand knew his own reputation, his own worth. He didn’t need to hear it recited back to him. But he was used to it. It was all part of business. Like any other customer, Stephen was trying to talk his way into committing this act. It amused the Hand to note that a king in this situation behaved no differently from his humblest subject.
Stephen had turned and was staring out the window, his gloved hand—fist clenched—resting on the ledge. Hugh waited patiently, in silence.
Dragonwing Page 4
