The Dragon's Fury (Book 1)

by D Mickleson

  “What?” said Triston, rubbing his aching temples and looking over his shoulder at Alden. The current had picked up, carrying them around a bend of the river at a gathering pace. Their boat was bouncing on rolling whitecaps, each bump sending waves of pain through every aching muscle in his body.

  “I was just expressing my gratitude to the old codger. A fine watch you keep, by the way—unless that was on purpose, in which case, I salute you.” He lifted a large wedge of cheese to his brow and saluted, then shoved the entire slice in his mouth.

  “Boiled egg, Trist?” said Owain, reaching into the still-dripping basket and removing three brown eggs and a ration of smoked trout.

  Triston stared at the riverbend, behind which the poor man was probably still searching for his missing lunch. “Yeah. And I’ll have a bit of that fish too.”

  The morning was fair and pleasant and their moods brightened. The light of day revealed a rich country of lush meadows and laden orchards on both banks. They passed fields and grazing flocks. The riverbanks began sprouting fishermen’s cottages with increasing abundance. The fishermen themselves they avoided with care, smiling and nodding at the staring faces as they floated past, but speaking no word even when hailed. “We mind our business and they mind there’s,” declared Alden. “Only way to keep out of trouble I’ve ever known.” But whenever the shoreline revealed an untended orchard or berrypatch, they rowed to the bank with many a furtive glance and filled their bellies on the summer’s bounty.

  Trouble came despite their caution, but in a form so beguiling none of them dreamed of minding their own business. By afternoon the day was sultry. Triston, lying back with his head against the stern, one hand trailing in the cool water, spotted a fresh-looking creek joining the river a dozen yards ahead. At the prow, Alden welcomed his proposal that they halt briefly for a drink and a stretch. Soon they were scrambling out of the boat a few feet from the creek.

  “Can’t be far from the city now anyway,” said Triston, planting his legs apart and reaching for the heavens while his muscles ached in protest. “Only a few hours, eh Ald?”

  “Ah! I’ve never been so sore. What’s that? Yeah, maybe. I don’t know for sure. I’ve never journeyed to Leviathan floating in an overgrown fruitbasket, or anywhere else for that matter. How’s the water taste, kid?”

  “It’s hot.” Owain stood up abruptly from his kneeling position beside the creek, staring in bewilderment at his wet hands.

  “What do you mean, hot?” demanded Alden.

  “I mean it’s hot. What do you think hot means? It’s not cold.”

  “What do you mean, not cold?” said Alden. “Of course it’s cold. It’s a creek.”

  “Feel it for yourself then.”

  Triston, suspecting some prank on Owain’s part and not wishing to turn his back on him just in case, picked his way upstream a few yards through some huckleberry bushes and knelt to investigate. The water flew from his cupped hand as he stood up in shock. “He’s right, Ald!” he called out. “It’s practically boiling.”

  “What do you mean, practically boiling?”

  “Would you shut up and feel it for yourself—wait! Shut up, both of you!”

  Triston stood stock-still, listening. The others froze at the urgency in his voice. The creek flowed out of an unusually wild thicket for these well-inhabited parts and visibility was limited. But through the trees he thought he’d heard someone scream.

  A few moments passed in which Triston strained his ears over the gurgling creek beside him, the deeper murmur of the river at his back. Then, definitely this time, someone was shouting. A woman was in trouble.

  “I don’t believe it!” said Alden from the creek side. “It’s hot!”

  “Really?” said Owain.

  “Didn’t you guys hear—”

  “Yeah, I heard,” said Alden, standing up and gazing into the trees. “I suppose we’d better check it out. And maybe figure out what’s wrong with this creek.”

  Triston led the way into the thicket, passing through the web-latticed underbrush with all his hunting stealth. Alden was silent on his heels while Owain trudged behind, snapping twigs, loosening stones, and drawing disapproving glances from the older two. They followed the mysterious creek, finding a new riddle as they went. Many stretches of the rocky bed were brightly-colored beneath the flowing stream, red, orange, yellow and green. Always at these places the water appeared to bubble and froth like a boiling cauldron.

  The voices grew louder until Triston distinguished two females, one deeper and chastising, the other high and petulant. Not trusting Owain to keep their secrecy, he motioned a halt when their quarry was no more than a dozen feet away on the other side of a sprawling rhododendron.

  One of the women shifted, her silhouette just visible through the bush, and all three felt their breath catch in their throats.

  “. . . don’t know how you even found me here. Did you follow me or what? Maybe you’re working for that weasel too now, and I was just telling you last night how glad I am to have you on my side. But now, who knows? Maybe I can’t even trust—”

  “Please don’t say that, miss. Please don’t. Her Majesty knows she showed me this hot spring not more than a month ago, the week before the midsummer banquet, and I told her not to come here alone and she promised she would not. Now what would her father say if he knew? So near the river, chock-full of vagabonds and riff-raff! What, I ask you? Have a heart attack on the spot, likely enough. Then how would the miss feel?”

  “Serve him right for treating me like a prisoner in my own home. Mother would never have allowed it. And telling him to keep an eye on me night and day, when Daddy knows how I feel about him! I swear on my mother’s grave if he calls me any more of those horrible nicknames, I think I’ll kick his ugly fillings into the back of his head.”

  A thickset woman stepped into view, holding a voluminous, plush-looking cloth Triston had never seen—a towel. The young lady, her naked back turned toward the awe-struck eavesdroppers as she waded in a hip-deep pool, edged away from her serving woman and disappeared behind a thicker patch of rhododendron.

  “Shame for speaking so of your dear mother, Miss Abigail. And for your father too, who loves you. And the orders to Captain Mugwort only came after your fourth escape. People will talk if you keep flying the coop! Nasty rumors, miss, if you follow me. Now be a dear and come out before—”

  There was a splash followed by an exclamation from the sturdy servant. The young lady laughed with delight. “Teach you to speak to me so, Agatha,” she chortled. “A little fizz water will wash that mouth right out.”

  “My lady, please! I only sought to—” But Triston’s attention was suddenly diverted by scuffling noises nearby. To his horror, he saw that Owain was actually climbing an overhanging oak, and none too stealthily. Where was Alden? Why hadn’t he stopped the fool? A glance to his left revealed Alden moving with the silent grace of a hunting cat around the edge of the rhododendron where the leaves were thinner.

  “Damn them,” Triston mouthed silently, casting about for some way to get the kid’s attention. In less than a minute Owain had reached the higher branches which overlooked the women. Triston’s only idea, throwing rocks to get his attention, seemed likely to do more harm than good. There was nothing to do but watch and wait.

  Through the leaves, shapely legs glistened with a thousand droplets of water. Suddenly Owain’s folly, and everything else for that matter, was forgotten.

  “Now get dressed and let’s go home right away. Maybe we can slip through the gate without being noticed—how you got through again I have no idea—but if your luck holds your father might be none the wiser and I won’t have to worry about my neck.”

  “Don’t be silly, Ag. Daddy loves you! And I’m not coming with you through the gate. It’s suicide. I’ll meet you in my chamber for luncheon in one hour. You go on and I’ll see you later.”

  “If you think I’m leaving you alone—now wait just a moment! What are you talkin
g about, not going through the gate? What in the name of a mother’s love could you possibly mean by—”

  There was a loud crack and a panicked curse from above. A streaking blur fell out of the sky along with the broken branch, both landing with an almighty splash in the steaming pool. The wave drenched the women, who were too stunned to move or scream, while Owain spluttered to the surface.

  “Ah! It’s too hot! Get me outta here!”

  The screams came two seconds later.

  “My dress! It’s ruined you idiot!”

  “Ye Fates! A vagabond! I knew it!”

  Owain stood at the poolside, dripping wet and staring, while the women backed several hasty steps away. “Sorry! I was just . . . I fell.”

  “You were spying on me you pervert!” The lady reversed course, darting forward, her newly donned—and newly soaked—dress flapping around her dripping knees. She began pummeling Owain wildly on his face and chest. “My dad will boil you alive for this! How dare you!”

  The girl was young, seventeen or eighteen to Triston’s eye. With high cheekbones, delicate features, and dripping tangles of raven-black hair falling loosely over smooth, alabaster skin, she was nothing short of stunning. Or she would have been, if her face was not contorted with a feral sort of outrage Triston had only seen before in the eyes of a trapped wild animal.

  “Your Majesty! Come away from him!”

  “Get off me! Not my fault you were naked in public!”

  “I hate you! You mean jerk!”

  Triston had stood up, too stunned himself to do much else. Alden had retreated to his side, a look of mild amusement fixed on his face. “And I thought I’d never see anyone more awkward with girls than you, Trist,” he whispered.

  Triston suppressed a laugh, the situation was too absurd for words. But their smiles froze in place. From the thicket behind them, between them and the river, there came the sudden baying of dogs and the clear call of a bugle. Men were shouting. A racket of falling hooves and rushing paws, with many a clink and jangle, burst through the trees, nearer every second.

  “Tell me you brought the sword,” said Alden sharply.

  “Uh—nope,” said Triston, glancing upwards. There was nothing for it but to climb Owain’s oak and hope to ride out the storm. Alden clambered up behind him just as a pack of hounds galumphed into view.

  “We’re saved! Thank you Captain Mugwort!” shouted Agatha, raising her hands in the air. The hounds ignored her and Abigail, dividing in two and raising an ear-splitting clamor at the trunk of their oak tree and the edge of the pool into which Owain had retreated.

  “Oh no! Please Ag, we need to leave—oh!” Ironclad men on horseback arrived seconds after their hounds, dismounting before their steeds halted. They rushed first to the ladies’ side, then turned swiftly with drawn swords to the pool.

  Owain’s face was white, Alden’s inscrutable, Triston’s determined. “They’ll take us to Stentor and we’ll give him our warning. It’ll be OK,” he mouthed.

  “You sure?” whispered Alden, pointing.

  Into the thicket rode a man in white armor which gleamed even in the shaded half-light. He had long, blonde hair, a pointed forehead, and when he smiled down at Abigail, two gold teeth outshone his sparkling armor. Triston groaned, remembering the brothel in Luskoll.

  “What have we here?” said the man with obvious enjoyment, dismounting and standing beside Abigail. Her face was downcast, but he stroked her jaw with gauntleted fingers, and she lifted her eyes to return his gaze.

  “Before I run you through, boy,” he said, his back to Owain, “I want to thank you.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” spluttered Owain from the pool.

  “On the contrary, you’ve deserved my thanks, for if not for you—”

  “I mean you don’t have to run me through.”

  The man who must be Captain Mugwort gave two of his men a look. Without hesitation they waded into the pool and seized the struggling Owain, one of them knocking him over the head with a gauntleted fist.

  “I thank you,” said the Captain, still gazing into Abigail’s eyes as his men dropped Owain’s slumped figure at his feet, “because you’ve taught my little shnookums here a very valuable lesson about the world outside her father’s walls.”

  Abigail flinched as he spoke, pulling away from his cupped fingers and staring at Owain, her eyes hard.

  Captain Mugwort drew his sword.

  “Wait,” shouted Triston, sliding out of his tree and hurrying past the growling hounds to stand between Mugwort and Owain. His men surged forward, but the Captain held up his hand. “This boy behaved foolishly,” Triston said, “but I will speak for him before the seat of King Stentor, your king and mine. I come as a herald for my village and the boy is under my care. Let the king judge his case when I have spoken.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Triston was aware of the shocked faces of the two women at his sudden appearance. Their eyes widened further as a second figure leapt out of the tree behind him. Mugwort, considering Triston with a puzzled frown, turned to the newcomer.

  His features contorted in rage. “You!” he said, his eyes blazing.

  “Me,” said Alden brightly. “The king, if you please, my good man. And be quick about it. As the distinguished herald said, you may not lay a finger on an ambassador from a royal township until His Majesty has heard his message.”

  Mugwort’s glare snapped over to Triston, taking in his travel-stained tunic, his tattered breeches, and his mud-caked boots. His eyes finally lingered on Triston’s scarred and stubbly cheeks while his lips twisted maliciously. “And from where do you herald, my good ambassador,” he called aloud, looking around at his men. “From the emperor’s rubbish mounds?”

  They laughed sycophantically.

  “No. From Wyrmskull,” said Triston, fixing his eyes on Abigail where she stood in Agatha’s protective grasp. “I bring tidings of our village’s destruction at the hands of the wild Farthians, who we believe were aided by His Supreme Exaltancy, Emperor Dominus.” The princess regarded him coolly, staring hard and saying nothing. “We ask for your aid as your loyal subjects,” he finished, bowing his head in defeat at her icy gaze.

  But the Captain wasn’t listening. “Him first,” he said, pointing his sword at Alden, his face alight with expectation. His men forced Alden into a kneeling bow. “And kindly escort the princess back to the castle.” He gave Abigail an indulgent smile, inclining his head. “I only wished my puffakins to see a little of how the real world works.”

  “Captain Mugwort,” said Abigail, breaking free from Agatha’s grip and placing herself between Alden and the Captain’s sword. “You will not slay these men.” She looked at them each in turn. “Not just yet anyway.”

  Mugwort gawked at her, his blade drooping to the ground while his men murmured around him. “But Your Highness—”

  “You will take them before my father and he will judge their case. That’s my final word. Now see me back to the castle this instant.”

  Alden stood, slapping the still-frozen Captain on the shoulder. “It’s a nice pair of gold teeth, though. Really. When did you get those? I don’t remember you having them last time we met.”

  SEVENTEEN

  WHITECASTLE

  Turn these marble halls inside out. Find it, and I will yield up half my kingdom.

  —King Morton IV of Corellia, instructions to his master mason, 1101

  “A good bit tighter, Egbert. That’s it. Right down to the bone,” Captain Mugwort ordered with renewed cheerfulness. “Can’t have the vermin shaking loose on the way.”

  He had given way to the princess’ mercy only so far as to let the three travelers live for a little longer. But after Alden’s taunts he seemed determined to make their remaining moments as miserable as possible. His men joined his laughter as they watched Alden squirm mutely—Mugwort had personally shoved Alden’s filthy sock in his mouth—bound to the make-shift litter they had hastily constructed from branches tied
by horse-thongs.

  “The jolts might break a few bones,” the captain declared enthusiastically, leaning forward to pat Alden on the cheek, “but I guess you’ll still be conscious enough for your hanging.”

  In short order all three were bound and secured. Triston lay back on his litter in mild discomfort, staring up at the canopy and feeling pleased. Despite the humiliating circumstances, they would at least speak with King Stentor before suffering Mugwort’s vengeance. They had the princess to thank for that, he thought, glancing furtively in her direction.

  She sat aloof, just inside his field of vision, on a white palfrey Mugwort’s men had apparently brought for her. She had refused to look at or speak to anyone since ordering the captain to stay his wrath. For the most part, her face had remained passive, even bored, as if this sort of thing happened to her all the time. But for one brief moment, Triston would have sworn he caught the hint of a smirk when Mugwort first voiced his plan to drag the prisoners back to the castle.

  Someone shouted “Heeyah!” from the front of the company. Triston’s contemplation of his unlikely savior ended with a violent shake as his litter leapt a foot in the air and landed hard on a rock with bone-shattering force. He closed his eyes, focusing all his attention on sparing his skull as many knocks as possible. He was grateful that the litter, and not his spine, was absorbing most of the shock.

  He knew from the growth of light that they’d left the wood for an open country, and from the increased buckling of his litter that they’d taken to a rutted lane. This heartened him, despite the jarring pain, for a country lane meant civilization. Perhaps it meant a shorter journey to the castle. His eyes, opening against his will after one particularly vicious jolt, revealed Owain, still lost in blessed unconsciousness, Alden, staring skyward in wide-eyed endurance, and the princess galloping behind them, watching Alden’s face with satisfaction. Her glance flitted to Triston and he quickly closed his eyes.

  The company couldn’t have ridden more than a few miles when Triston felt a shadow pass overhead. The thudding of earth beneath them shifted to the rattle of cobbled streets. By now, the back of Triston’s head felt as bruised as a bashed-in pumpkin.