The Dragon's Fury (Book 1)

by D Mickleson

  Standing behind her, Triston had a clear view of most of the room. He had never seen the people of Wyrmskull give such undivided attention to anyone or anything. The total stillness seemed a greater marvel than the enchanted puzzlebox. Seated near the front of the crowd, Bildad’s eyes shone with anticipation, while beside him, Chief Gorbald actually licked his lips.

  “Friends, I recognized that voice,” the Seer went on. “Haruspex, Lord of the Harvest, one of the Seven Fates, was heavy upon me, and he uttered these words: Abundance, daughter, I bid you bring forth. An effusion of merriment must come. A golden drink offering. Let fruit of the old grain bless reapers of the new. Sing, daughter.”

  She ceased, lowering her head with eyes closed as if still lost in a dream.

  The villagers remained frozen, but baffled expressions had replaced wonder and excitement. People gave each other quizzical looks. Someone coughed into the silence, then a low murmur broke out everywhere. Gorbald leapt up.

  “Folks, this is a good thing, trust me. What she means with this, this Rite of Benny Nipshun is she’s set on enchanting our brew! A time of great rivalry indeed!”

  The effect of these words was instantaneous. Ecstasy replaced confusion on the face of every man, woman and child present. The people of Wyrmskull were a thirsty lot, and taught their children to hold their ale soon after teaching them to hold their bladders. A riot of clanking mugs, stomping feet and whooping shouts broke out, but suddenly the same voices were demanding silence.

  The Seer had taken to her harp strings. Music sweet as honey, pure as gold filled the hall. Peace, like the kiss of a summer breeze, washed over Triston. All fear and anxiety fled. With each gentle strum, he found himself slipping further into a quiet bliss he’d never known. What’s happening to me? Should I resist this spell? He didn’t want to. Abruptly the playing stopped. Triston, finding himself gazing at the contours of her backside, realized with a start she was staring back at him, beckoning.

  His face burning, he stepped up to her, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room rest upon him. “The Rite weakens me,” she told him with a laugh. Taking his arm, she draped it over her bare shoulders and leaned against him. Then the music began anew.

  At once, Triston felt the change. He was not there merely to prop her up as he’d supposed. The strumming was pulling at him, draining something out of him, out of her. His heart began laboring in his chest, his muscles softened like heated wax.

  Alarmed, he made to disentangle himself, but a warning sounded in his mind. No. I need you.

  The Seer. He looked, but found her eyes closed. She was humming a soft, low note.

  What are you doing to me? he thought.

  You are strong, Slendrake. Do you feel it? In a little while you will carry me to the vats.

  Her humming had become a chant, though what language she sang he could not have guessed. The words came faster and faster, infused with urgency. She lifted her hands, but the harp played on. The crowd gasped.

  Now. Do it.

  What? Pick you up?

  The chanting was frantic.

  Now!

  He lifted her in his arms and bore her to the nearest trough. The ale inside was boiling over and slopping to the floor. Stretching out a trembling hand, her fingers grazed the frothing brew. The boiling ceased at her touch, and the surface became smooth as glass. Once golden brown, the ale now shone with an auburn hue, and a faint humming sounded in its lustrous depths.

  By the time she had blessed the remaining troughs, the Seer was deathly pale. Following her Guardians, who cleared a path, Triston bore her from the Fire Hall, the room thundering with cheers as they disappeared upstairs.

  “Why you?” one of them demanded gruffly when Triston had laid her still form to rest on a canopied bed.

  “What do you mean?” Triston said uncertainly, trying hard to concentrate. He’d never felt so drained.

  “Any one of us could have had that job. Why’d she pick you? Who are you, anyway?”

  “I’m nobody,” he said, forcing his eyes to focus on the man’s scowling face.

  “Free for all comers! Free for all, courtesy of the great and noble Lord Sarconius! Thatta boy, Lumpy!” Bildad gushed, ladling charmed ale into Lumpens’ mug for the twelfth time that night.

  “Never knowed suchappeeness!” slurred the drunkard, stumbling back to his table.

  They were to keep track of every drink poured, to be reimbursed by the lord at twice the going rate. Triston noted Bildad scratching two hash marks for each mug filled. Seeing the cold look on his face, the innkeeper’s smile soured. “Keep pouring lad. Get a move on or you’ll be sorry.”

  Triston had been frantically serving the tantalizing drink for over an hour without pause, hoping for a respite to try some himself. But judging by the press of eager customers surrounding his and Bildad’s trough, the demand had only grown.

  “Rich as cream,” said Anyon the blacksmith, smacking his lips as Finian refilled his mug. “And yet hearty as Strong-ale.”

  “I feel a score younger!” put in Elder Attric beside him.

  “You don’t look it you old fool,” snorted his humpbacked wife. “Now take me home. My feet are chilled.”

  “Sir,” said Triston to Bildad in as cordial a tone as he could muster. “I’ve still got those artifacts to unravel by tomorrow. Maybe, if you let me get to them now—”

  “You’re not going anywhere, boyo.” He glared meaningfully at the nearest table, where Alden sat with Kara on his lap, whispering in her ear while she giggled. A group of Fighters was standing nearby, making a drunken attempt to sing The Ballad of Pocket-change Pam and forgetting most of the words. Competing songs rang out from other corners of the room, while around the central hearth a particularly well-watered group was marching in a circle, slopping ale and chanting Hey! Ho! Hey Hey HO! jumping into the air at every second HO!

  “And you’ll have those boxes solved by the morrow or it’s lights out for lover-boy there.”

  Triston’s angry reply was overwhelmed by an ear-splitting horn blast which suddenly erupted near the stairs.

  Everyone turned toward the noise, all speech, laughter and song dying on their lips. Gorbald was standing on the third step, holding a gigantic mug in one hand and his ram’s horn in the other. His face beet red, his beard and tunic glistening with beer, the Chief swayed slightly as he looked out at them, blinking stupidly. But all eyes fell on the man beside him. Sarconius, robed in white silk embroidered in pale gold, would have looked distinguished in any setting, but beside the slovenly Gorbald, he appeared no less regal than the emperor himself to the muddle-headed villagers.

  The Meridian’s eyes swept the room, taking in the revelry and merrymaking, and a satisfied smile crept over his features.

  “My friends,” he said in a carrying voice, “I hope you will thank your Seer for the enchanting evening you’re all enjoying. She truly is a remarkable woman, and I am proud for the small part I was able to play in making these festivities possible.”

  He paused, waiting for a reaction. There was a heavy silence for a second or two as the revelers stared back at him, many with open mouths. Then, from somewhere in the room a cheer began, and at once everyone joined in, making so much noise that children covered their ears and dogs outside started howling. But Sarconius, looking still more satisfied, raised his hands, and the tumult died away.

  “Good people, the emperor’s generosity is not limited to a little enchanted drink. I am pleased to tell you His Supreme Exaltancy has taken an interest in your little village, a very great interest. As I have told your Chief, my master loves to collect heirlooms, rare and ancient artifacts, and any magical curiosities from all over his vast realm. The good news, fair folk, is that you can help him!”

  Sarconius turned and beckoned behind him, and two servants carried down a large table and set it up in front of him, then hurried back up the stairs.

  An uneasy silence returned. Triston knew the villagers were itching to go back to th
eir drink and song, but they couldn’t help but watch to see if what was going on would somehow benefit them.

  “Tonight I have an offer to make you,” the Meridian went on, speaking more loudly still. Two more servants appeared, bearing a high-backed wooden chair.

  “Or rather, the emperor has an offer.” Here he paused, interrupted by a ripple of murmurs running through his audience. All watched as the first two servants returned, edging slowly down the stairs while straining under the weight of an ornate wooden chest. “Ah, place it on the table lads, just there, and bring my record books.”

  He turned back to the crowd, his smile now grand and benevolent. “His Exaltancy wishes to purchase from you any and every item you deem fit for his collection. Anything and everything. At triple its market value.” He stopped, staring around, seeming to enjoy their fervent attention. Moving slowly for dramatic effect, he bent and unlocked the chest with a small golden key. It brimmed with Meridian money, coins of bronze, silver, and—

  “Gold!” cried Bildad, his eyes jubilant.

  “Yes. Gold,” repeated Sarconius. “It can be yours, today. Tonight. Right now. All I ask is that you return to your homes, fetch your valuables, then hurry back here to sell them to me.”

  No one moved. Everyone stared at the treasure chest, seemingly mesmerized by the flickering firelight reflected on the gleaming coins.

  “Now!” shouted Sarconius.

  As though brought to life by his words, the stunned onlookers turned with one mind, their enchanted drinks forgotten, and stampeded for the doors.

  FOUR

  AT THE TANNERY

  Where’d my papa go? The cornstalks bow.

  Gone to the war. Who will harvest now?

  Where’d my papa go? Blow my nose.

  Momma says he’s planted ‘neath the turnip rows.

  —Corellian children’s song

  “What do you want?”

  Kara fixed her hands on her hips, which had the effect of accentuating her breasts. Her dress of unadorned white linen, hemmed above her knees in the new style from Luskoll, flapped in the afternoon breeze. Triston’s breath caught in his throat.

  “I’m just . . . have you seen Alden?”

  He was desperate. After serving drinks till the second hour past midnight, Triston had shunned sleep to solve the remaining puzzleboxes. Three of them were larger, with nine figures on each face instead of four, and had taken over an hour each to work out. Dawn was blushing in his window by the time he’d set down the last gilded box, a gold-embossed, white marble article which boasted a model galley cast in bronze with silver sails. Sleep was just wrapping her luxurious arms around him when Winchie strode into his room.

  “Half the village is camped in our common room, and here’s you frittering away the morning. The sale, boy, the sale!” she’d shouted at his bleary-eyed confusion. “That madcap Meridian will own the air we breathe before the day’s half over.”

  “What’s that got to do with me? I have nothing to sell. Winchie, I was up all night solving your precious—”

  “Got to do with you!” she repeated, incredulous. “There’s a fortune jingling in every pocket down in the Fire Hall, and you think we’re gonna let people just saunter out into the street with it? Refreshments, dunce! Eggs, ham, cakes, scones, tea, berry juice—we’ve got it and they want it. Billy’s doubled the prices and the orders are still pouring in. Now up with you, or do I need to stop by the Fighters’ Hold to have a chat with Captain Brand about your friend?”

  She’d seized the basket of puzzleboxes and stormed out, leaving Triston with a fierce headache and even fiercer determination to speak with Alden. When Winchie made the mistake of sending him off to gather more firewood later that afternoon, he made straight for the tannery.

  Kara pouted her perfect lips. “How should I know? I’ve got the wits of a cabbage, remember?”

  Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, or maybe the fact that there was nothing to lose at this point, but the moment the idea came, he recklessly embraced it.

  “Kara, I meant to explain. That was actually a compliment.”

  A puzzled frown. “Oh. Um . . . how?”

  “Well, you don’t waste time learning all the old legends and stuff like me, so you wouldn’t know about cabbages, would you? No worries, though. I suppose by now Alden’s told you?”

  “About cabbages?”

  “Yeah, you know. How they look a bit like brains. They’re always associated with smarts in all the tales. Athant the Wise ate some with every meal. And Lord Coriollis—”

  “Oh Trist!” She was hugging him with all her might. When he felt her lips on his cheek, he made an embarrassing sort of oh sound, but she didn’t seem to notice. She pulled away all too soon. “I knew it had to be something like that!” she enthused, hitting him playfully.

  At that moment, a shuffling sounded behind them. Triston turned to see Kara’s father Traven emerge from behind a barrel stack, muttering to himself and looking exasperated. Catching sight of Triston, the chubby tanner hurried over, reeking of rawhide and lye, and placed his hands on his hips exactly as his daughter had done. “So! That’s how it is, is it?”

  Triston gaped. He can’t be cross about the kiss—he couldn’t have seen us.

  “Time was when a lad knew to come when called for.” He shook his head theatrically. “Courtesy’s fallen on hard times I tell you. Not the best smelling shop in town but that’s no call for rudeness.”

  “Sir, I . . . what?”

  Kara gasped. “Oh! Daddy! I never gave him the message. He just made me so upset I didn’t want to look at him!”

  The tanner turned from his daughter to Triston, scowling. “Made you upset you say?”

  Kara placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Yes, but it was all a mistake. I heard him say I had cabbage for brains, but I didn’t know it was a compliment until just now!”

  Traven’s shoulders slumped as he looked down at her beaming face. Pressing his lips together, he gave her shoulders a little squeeze, then turned to Triston. “Well, you’re here now, and that’s something. Better than I hoped when you faced down that giant the other night. Nearly gave me a heart attack, you did. What you were thinking of I’ll never know. Not even your dad pulled anything so hare-brained.”

  Seeing Triston tense at the mention of his father, Traven released Kara with a wink, then put an arm around Triston’s shoulder. “I mean no harm by it, son.”

  “I know.” He forced a smile. “Just not my favorite subject. Have you seen—”

  “Now, I won’t lie. I don’t doubt Trinian dabbled in something beyond what’s good for the likes of men, forces beyond our control, if you take my meaning. And it cost him dearly. But he had a good heart, and I was one that wept when they found his body. And you just a babe and all.” The tanner’s rough-edged face was lined with sadness as he shook his head.

  “I thought of him, last night, with the Rite and all.” Triston looked down at his worn-out boots. “Sorcery. That’s what it was. And nobody seemed to mind. But . . . my dad. When the Farthians attacked . . . you know what happened.”

  The tanner nodded gravely. “I was one that manned the wall that day.” He gazed over Triston’s shoulder in the direction of the palisade, the high fence of sharpened beams which surrounded the village. “And a trial of strength it was, I can tell you. Thought we’d break in the end. But your dad now. He turns up and just scales right over, wades into ‘em, swinging Bloodprice like a madman.”

  Though it was warm, he shivered. “The eyes can play tricks at dusk they say, but those of us as saw it remember. That blade glowed like molten iron, his eyes too. Sent the tree-demons scamperin’ back for their dark forest, howlin’ all the way.”

  “And they said black magic afterwards, and shunned him. And shunned my mom too when he was gone. But last night—”

  “Ah, but the Seer’s supposed to bless things. People expect it. No one expects a shopkeeper to wield a fiery blade. Folks didn’t know what to make o
f him, so they feared him. Then, finding him dead like that, well, it all seemed to fit somehow, like he knew he had to pay for what he done.”

  Triston kicked the ground. Whispers of dark sorcery he could handle, but the fact that his father had killed himself was too painful to think about. We needed you so much.

  He looked away from them, feeling the familiar lump in his throat. “Well, I was just looking for my friend. I’d better go.”

  Traven snapped out of his reverie. “Hold on there! Hold on. Didn’t mean to drive you off with my reminiscing. Your pardon, but don’t go.” He paused, looking regretful but determined. “I need you for something.”

  Triston’s heart sank. A few weeks ago he was treated as a plague-ridden outcast; now everybody wanted something. He glanced at Kara, who beamed at him, then back to the anxious tanner. “What is it?”

  “It’s me dad. He’s in a bad way. Great once, you know. Captain of the Fighters, years and years ago. Trained Chief Gorbald—trained your dad, now I think on it. But he’s a few hides short of a bundle nowadays, if you understand me. Still,” he sighed heavily, “once he sinks his fangs into something, he don’t let go. And what he’s sunk on now is you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.” Traven waved a hand dismissively. “Says he’s got something for young Slendrake. I guess that’s you, as you’re the last. Won’t shut up about it neither. Now, you just follow me inside and take whatever trinket or bauble he thinks he’s got for you, smile and nod polite-like, and I’ll thank you. We might have some peace ‘round here at last.” He shook his head resignedly. “Till he gets another nutty notion.”

  Outflanked by Kara’s sweet smile and her father’s poorly hidden desperation, Triston gave in. “Let’s do this,” he said, mustering a jaunty tone. “But if the old man gives me a chicken bone, I can’t promise I won’t try to pass it off as dragon and sell it to that moonstruck Meridian for a sack of gold.”