Here, There Be Dragons

by LeRoy Clary

  Men scrambled to get ready to move out. A small platoon was appointed to remain and help the people who had been prisoners. They would feed and nurse them to health while learning where they lived so they could be sent home. Most of all, they would assure the people they were going home and not back to the mines.

  The rest followed Bender, who now carried a detailed map he’d found. The journey normally took half a day, in fact, several times people had made the trip to and from, the Cabot home in the same day. Helm traveled at his side, and they planned as they walked. Tyler remained near the rear and talked to the men.

  Most were willing, even eager to march and fight. A few asked if he and Bender were going to continue to fund an army after the campaign because if so, they’d like to join. The idea hadn’t occurred to him, and he found it amusing. “No, this is just a personal thing. We have other things to do, but not lead armies to war.”

  “Too bad. You’re good at it,” one man said. Nobody laughed at his comment, but Tyler decided that was only because they didn’t know him and Bender.

  The march took them uphill until their legs ached. They followed a road with switchbacks that wound around several tall hills and eventually to the very edge of the mountains. The sharp peaks far in front were eternally white, the slopes more purple than blue.

  A building stood on a slope directly ahead on the road, made of bluestone. It stood tall and elegant even at a distance. Colorful flags waved at the corners. Little trails of dirty smoke rose from a few of the dozen chimneys.

  Bender called a halt. He stood on a boulder to address the men and said, “Split into squads of ten and spread out. We’ll take that building with ease if we approach unseen from all directions. If not, we take it any way we can. I want half the squads to circle the building and prevent anyone from escaping from the other side.”

  “What do we do with captives?” Helm asked.

  “We’re not murderers, but I won’t place any of you in harm’s way unnecessarily. Protect yourselves, first. If it comes to a choice between you and one of them, make sure it is them that dies.”

  “Then we try to take captives?” a voice called.

  “There are slaves up there, I’m sure. We don’t know for sure who is a Cabot, or in disguise. Trust nobody. I want the attack to begin and end before nightfall.”

  The eyes of most of the men turned to the building, then to each other. They nodded their readiness, and several splitting into squads with those around them. In most squads, one took the lead. They melted into the underbrush and forest, all leaving the road, but heading in the general direction of the massive building.

  It stood at least three stories high. There were watchtowers and windows with what seemed to be real glass. The walls were gray stone, as they’d heard, sheer to the top, and most windows were at, or near the top. It gave the impression of a fortress instead of a mansion or home.

  Tyler saw no guards on the two watchtowers on the corners facing them. As they moved closer, he saw no guards on the top ramparts at all, and as his squad reached a point halfway around the left side of the palace, and as the sun sank, he noticed no lights glowed in the windows high up on the wall. The temperature had dropped with the setting sun, and he expected to see more smoke start to rise from the many chimneys, but the reverse was true. The few with smoke had decreased.

  He hadn’t seen a single guard, person, or light from a fire or lamp. He couldn’t hear any of the expected sounds from a palace, despite being so close he could almost touch the granite wall beside the oak door standing closed in front of him.

  The air was still. No other attackers were in sight. Behind him were six men, eager to knock down the door and charge inside to slay all who were there. They waited, swords or bows in hand. A coordinated surprise attack had been agreed upon. The sky grew darker.

  “Hello?” The voice came from inside the palace. Not a greeting, but a questioning call, and not directed at them. It came again. And again.

  Then, from almost directly above Tyler, upon the rampart, a man called down to him, “It’s empty! Nobody home!”

  Tyler lifted the rusted iron bolt and swung the door outward with the help of two of his men. Only the gloom of an empty, darkened passage greeted them, with no Cabots, slaves, or people welcoming them or fighting to prevent more from entering. An eerie silence stilled their tongues. He took the lead, his men tiptoeing behind.

  The wide tunnel contained work equipment mounted on one side, axes, chains, shovels, and ropes hung from pegs large and small. Wagons, barrows, and pails waited for their next job on the floor. Torches lined the right side of the wall every ten steps, but none were lit. One of the men grabbed a torch and soaked it in the oil set in jars at the base of the torches. The fire took from the first sparks from his flint. That one torch lit others as men grabbed them when passing.

  The tunnel ended in another heavy oak door, standing slightly ajar. It opened into a workroom filled with iron tools, partially completed ironwork projects ranging from planters to hinges and nails. A small forge stood cold in one corner. The nearest workbench had a thin strip of iron that when hot had been cut into thin strips and worked by a hammer into square nails.

  The only light in the workroom came from their torches. One of the men touched his flame to several candles, but the whole squad moved on to the next door as one unit, their footsteps stealthy although they saw no signs of palace defense. Still, each man acted as if he expected an army to leap out at the next corridor. They pushed out of the workroom and found themselves in a long, stone hallway with dozens of rugs covering the bare stone floor. Again, torches sat in iron holders were mounted on the walls, candles had burned here and there, the wax drippings from the holders reaching to the stone floor.

  “Scarier than if there were guards to fight us,” one of the men whispered.

  There were no decorations on the walls, just utilitarian features in a hall lined with normal appearing doors on both sides, evenly spaced, each pair of doors facing each other. They threw them open, weapons ready, but when there were no occupants in room after room, they simply opened each and moved on, their footsteps echoing in the emptiness.

  But the rooms and hallways showed signs of recent occupation. Not the musty smells of unused buildings. Here and there a plate filled with food that looked fresh and edible, and in one case Tyler touched a slice of bread and found it slightly stale, but not hard.

  Each of the doors concealed a small room with one, two, or three small sleeping pallets and a few personal effects. Some had a worn area rug over the bare floor, or a small chest containing personal belongings, but none had windows or fireplaces, and two or more sleeping pallets filled most. They were cold and damp, obviously where servants had lived.

  At the end of the long hallway stood another door, larger than the others. Tyler threw it open, his sword raised to defend himself. On the other side was blackness and open air. He walked into a courtyard, but not one filled with gardens and fountains. It held clothes hanging on lines strung from end to end, as well as high wooden wash tables and in the center, a well for water.

  “Up here,” a voice called from above.

  Tyler looked up three stories of stone wall and saw a torch held high, waving to attract his attention. The man called down, “Not a soul up here. What’s it like down there?”

  “We haven’t seen anyone,” Tyler called.

  “Is that you, Tyler?” another voice called. “Bender and Helm are passing the word for you to meet them in the main courtyard.”

  “Where is that?” Tyler called back.

  He pointed with the flame of his torch. Tyler turned and walked across the pave stones, past the hanging laundry, while watching for any sign of treachery. The door at the far end opened into the kitchen or one of them. It smelled of delicious warm bread and other baked goods, and the rounded brick ovens suggested their function. The ovens still maintained some warmth.

  Tyler touched one as he passed and mumbled, “How lo
ng will they stay warm?”

  “Days,” the man behind said. “The bricks get warmed all the way through after having fires in them all day and night, day after day.”

  The idea of asking how the man knew that information didn’t enter Tyler’s mind. It had been stated as a fact, and there was probably a backstory for the answer, but he didn’t care. He accepted the knowledge and marched for the only door across the wide room.

  It opened to reveal yet another hallway, one that took them to a heavier oak door like the outside entrances. He lifted the iron bar and pushed. The door swung out on oiled hinges. Torches moved as men turned his way, and his sword came up, but the men were his.

  “Bender,” he called, wasting no words.

  “That way,” a frightened soldier gripping his sword with white knuckles pointed.

  Bender sat in a small alcove, facing five people seated on a stone bench, none of which were soldiers. Tyler strode to his side and listened.

  “Yes, just after the morning meal,” a girl of perhaps eleven said evenly.

  “They just went insane,” a man with hair down to his shoulders and tattoos of wings beginning at the bridge of his nose and sweeping back past his eyes to end in his hairline. His arms swept wide as he explained, and his lip trembled. “Killing and burning. Shouting and people running. It was terrible.”

  “The Cabots did that?” Bender asked softly.

  “And their men. Their guards. They killed the rest of the horses so you can’t use them to catch up with them. And the slaves. They killed most of them. It was horrible.”

  “Slaves?” Tyler asked. He hadn’t seen any since entering the palace.

  “Near the stables. Everyone was ordered to assemble there, even the servants. When they did, the outside doors were locked, and the guards inside the stables attacked them with swords, killing them all.”

  Bender paused. He stroked the chin of his thin beard like Tyler had seen him do a thousand times while he thought, but especially when Bender sensed a lie or evasion. Tyler didn’t dare interrupt the questioning. If Bender wanted to talk to him, he’d seen him approach.

  Bender said softly, “Were you supposed to be there? In the stables?”

  The man hung his head and managed to nod, his chin resting briefly on his chest with each slow bob. His hair was tied with a cheerful green ribbon, his shirt bore expensive ruffles, and even his shoes were green. “Lord Cabot, my master, had sent me to gather a small trunk filled with personal items that he kept under his bed. I heard the commotion of the slaves being rounded up and looked out his window at the stables. I hid and saw it all.”

  “The trunk? Where is it now?” Bender asked quietly, stroking his chin again.

  “On the floor under the window in Lord Cabot’s private rooms. I hid it with a blanket tossed over it.”

  Bender finally looked at Tyler, silent information flowing between them as if they sat beside a campfire and talked for an evening. Tyler wanted to know what a trunk so important that Lord Cabot, whoever he was, would send a slave who was obviously his personal manservant, to recover. Then the slave, during a time when all slaves in the palace were slain, thought it important enough to toss a blanket over the chest to hide it, when it was supposed to hold ‘personal items.’

  Bender glanced at Tyler. “Take him. Go find it.”

  The trunk might contain almost anything, but if it was kept under the bed of Lord Cabot, it must contain something extremely valuable. The use of the word Lord was the first time he’d heard it in connection with the Cabots. Tyler turned, but when he didn’t hear the other following behind, he returned, reached out and took the man by his shoulder and roughly stood him up and shoved him ahead. The man stumbled but caught his balance while trying to recover his dignity.

  The cheerful green ribbon in his hair bounced with each small step. Tyler pushed him again when he didn’t walk fast enough. The flowing hair, the exotic face tattoos, the crisp manner of speaking, and the expensive clothing the man wore, all indicated he held a position of authority, even if technically a slave. If he served the Cabots willingly, he would do well to survive the night.

  He took Tyler to a set of wide, white marble stairs, wide enough for ten men to climb at the same time. His head turned and twisted in jerks as they walked as if he was part bird, or a chicken searching for grain in the dirt. He was scared, but also desperately searching for a way to escape. That told Tyler there was more to his story. Lying can occur with what is told, as well as what is not.

  Tyler reached out and grasped the man’s collar and pulled him closer. He whispered into his ear, “Do it. Escape. I’ll find that strongbox on my own, but first I’ll enjoy running you through if I can. If I cannot, I brought a mad yellow dog with me to track any runners, and he’s never failed to locate, and rip the throat out of anyone I sic him on.”

  “This way, sir, if you please.” The voice now held deference and measured respect, probably the same that he used to pacify the Cabots.

  That flight of marble stairs led to another. Tyler decided that if given a reason, he’d prefer to throw the man in front of him headfirst over the railing rather than getting his sword bloody and having to clean it. At the second landing, they turned right and passed four elaborately carved doors until he paused in front of one.

  The door had an ornate crest in the shape of a C, made of iron and gilded with gold. Inside the door was an apartment, with a large central room. Heavy couches, chairs, tables, sat in groupings, and in the center, a blackened area of the stone floor were the ashes of paintings, shards of beautiful broken pottery, and pieces of ornate statues. The acrid scent of the burned paint filled the air.

  With hardly a glance, the man with the long hair tied back with a green ribbon strode past that blackened pile to a small door, as if he knew exactly where he was going and had been there hundreds of times. That told Tyler he’d probably lit the fire that destroyed a fortune of art, as well as the rest. His eyes hadn’t lingered on the blackened pile long enough to indicate anything but guilt. An innocent man would have stumbled to a stop at the tremendous loss.

  The next room was a smaller dressing room, the walls on all sides struggled to hold clothing of every color and style, but every nook was filled with lace, small-wear, hats, and shirts. At least a hundred shoes, slippers, boots, and soft footwear were displayed in pairs on small shelves. Hats filled the shelves above, tall ones, flat ones, some red, others blue or green, with brims of different styles and sizes. A large block of wood had holes drilled at angles, and feathers of every color, height, and type filled them, presenting a rainbow fan of beauty waiting to be inserted into the slits of the hats.

  But the man didn’t hesitate in the dressing room. He went directly to the next door and threw it open with the confidence of one who had been inside regularly. The room was dominated by a huge bed large enough for eight or ten people, with posts at the corners and thin sheer material draped over the top and posts, so the bed and people sleeping in it were surrounded and protected from insects.

  The walls stood bare, but lighter colored stone showed where tapestries and paintings had hung earlier in the day. There was no other furniture present. And there, under the window, below a rumpled blanket, lay a small box with a rounded top.

  “What’s in it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Tyler kept himself positioned between the man and the door as a precaution. He reached out his foot and shoved the door closed, then touched his torch to the candles placed on an iron rack. When a few were burning, he pointed to the box. “Put it on the bed.”

  The man leaped to obey. While he brought the box, Tyler looked under the bed and found two more chests. When he looked up, the man now wore a guilty expression, his face tinged pink. He knew they were under there but didn’t want me to know.

  “Get those two on the bed, also.”

  The actions of the man became slow and resentful, although he didn’t say anything. When all three were on the bed, Tyler t
ried the lids and found all three locked. He raised an eyebrow in question.

  “I don’t know where Lord Cabot keeps the keys and the locks were made by a master locksmith.”

  Tyler had played too many games of Blocks to miss the slight twitch at the corner of his lip, the set of his shoulders, and the shift in his eyes, any of which revealed the man lied. He’d also moved his left hand slightly, just a slight tic, to his waistband.

  “He hid the keys,” the man said, hurriedly. “Nobody knows where.”

  The three boxes were made of very old blackened wood, probably a hardwood like oak or ash, with straps of black iron that circled them to form the hasp for the lock. They were small chests. All of them were slightly different in make, size, shape, and decoration. When the thickness of the wood was calculated, the interior space might be only as wide as his hand and twice that long.

  Tyler said, “I saw axes in the workroom when I entered this palace. I can make short work of those boxes with an ax, but I don’t feel like walking all the way back down there with a prisoner who might try to escape.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, fully understanding the emphases Tyler put on the end of his statement.

  “I mean that I believe you are a liar, sir. You wish to escape with at least two of those lockboxes, but you have just figured out that you will not live out this night unless you please me. Those wings tattooed on your face will need to function well to fly you away, or to keep you alive when I throw you out that window behind you. Then, I’ll go for the tools I need and break the boxes into pieces.”

  The man almost vaulted away from the window to stand where the candles burned, as he said, “I believe I may have once seen some keys hidden over here.” He turned his body to shield the hand pulling the keys from his waistband. He pretended to find them near the candles with a flourish. “Ah, yes, here they are. I don’t know if these are the right ones, of course.”

  Another lie. The tone was as smooth as lamp oil. Tyler accepted the three keys and fumbled through two before he opened the first box with the third. Inside were letters, documents, a map, and a few gold coins. The second held many more coins, rings, loose jewels, gold chains, and earrings. The last, the one that had been near the window, contained more papers, all legal in appearance, written by several skilled hands, most of them with wax seals and ink stamps. Official documents.