The Dragon's Fury (Book 1)

by D Mickleson

  Triston gawked, feeling the blood rush to his face, and the king took an impatient drink from his goblet. “Come now! Spare me no description of my cousin’s humiliation. Will you not speak?”

  Triston swallowed, trying a few halting words about Luskoll. The king hung on every stumbling syllable, a rapt look on his face. Suddenly Triston stopped short, and the king looked at him, his features alive with expectancy. Quietly, so that only those nearby could hear, Triston whispered, “Sire, our true purpose here is to bring a warning. Is there a Relic of Power in Whitecastle? If so, I believe a very cunning sorcerer is coming to claim it.”

  The laughter on Stentor’s face slowly faded to disbelief. Beside Stentor, the Lord Chamberlain had frozen in the act of sampling his goblet of wine. Carefully putting his cup down, a small tremble evident in his whitening fingers, Alfrich leaned toward the king’s ear and whispered in emphatic but indistinguishable tones. The king’s glare burned toward Triston with ever increasing intensity while the chamberlain spoke. On the other side of the princess, who was watching her father with perplexity, Captain Mugwort now gave his full attention to Triston, his face inscrutable.

  Meanwhile, up and down the table, the dinner guests, the well-to-do of Leviathan and courtiers of the castle, were watching the king and Triston in confusion. The smiles they’d worn in anticipation of Triston’s tale were still fixed on some of their faces while others turned in querying whispers to the person beside them. “What did the boy say? Relic of what? Is this something to do with Duke Gubrius?”

  At last the king rose, gesturing for silence. “With apologies to my guests, I must beg your forgiveness in depriving you of my presence this evening. Please enjoy the feast on my behalf. Lord Chamberlain, Captain Mugwort,” here he looked at Triston, and his eyes were hard, “and you three, if you would accompany me . . . .”

  Flanked by his advisers, King Stentor swept along the table, ignoring the shocked, upturned faces of his guests. At once Triston, Alden and Owain jumped from their seats, pacing along with them on the opposite side. The king led them into an antechamber just off the main banquet hall, where the silently efficient butlers and maids were already lighting lamps, preparing a fire, and bringing refreshments of every kind from the kitchens. With a look from Alfrich the servants melted out of sight.

  Stentor sat himself in the largest, leather-bound armchair near the hearth and gestured for the others to sit as well, the princess slipping in quietly and standing behind her father. They both stared at Triston, the king in wonder, Abigail in confusion. The chamberlain sat quietly with his hands pressed together like a steeple while Captain Mugwort paced behind the three seated guests.

  “Of old, the records show,” said Stentor, placing a hand on his daughter’s, who was resting hers on his shoulder, “to speak openly of the subject you broached brought an immediate sentence of death. Did you know that?”

  Triston shook his head, aware that everyone, including Alden and Owain, was gaping at him. “I didn’t, Sire. But I—”

  “This was ages ago,” interrupted the king. “Before my great-grandsire’s time. For long now the existence of the Serpentaugrum has been known only to those with rightful entree to the royal archives, that is to say, the royal family and our most trusted advisors.” The king leaned forward in his chair, his voice strengthening, acquiring a formal, judicial tone. Behind Triston, Mugwort had ceased his pacing. “You, I am sure, have never had such access. Tell me then, how come you to speak of this precious thing, of which the shifting tides of time have hidden from all others save the royal line?”

  Triston felt his muscles slackening and his mouth becoming dry. In the eyes of the princess especially he saw accusation, and perhaps grief that he had disturbed the peace of their secret vigilance. “I saw it,” he stammered. “Or not it—here. This place. Whitecastle. I saw Whitecastle in someone’s head, and thought I should warn you.”

  “Come now,” said the chamberlain after another shocked silence. “That will never do. You must speak plainly. Hold nothing back if you would save your life. His Majesty is just, but he must know all to judge wisely.”

  “Sire, our village of Wyrmskull was attacked,” Alden hastened to their defense, “by an emperor’s stooge named Sarconius. He led the Wildmen of the Wood, the Farthians, Sire, and they took . . . something from Triston, a Relic I think . . .” He faltered, turning to Triston for support.

  “They took a Relic of Power, Sire, Magog’s Fury as it’s named, which my father . . . well, in a way, my father left for me—”

  “Magog’s Fury?” repeated the king curiously, while beside him, the aged face of his chamberlain changed from polite perplexity to astonishment. “The name rings a bell. Alfrich?”

  “I haven’t read the records recently, Your Majesty. I’ll need to refresh my memory. But it may be that just such a name, or something like it, is put down in the Chronicle of Sir Athant. Yet how could this lad know such a name?”

  “Your Majesty, if I may speak,” said Mugwort impatiently. “I regret now more than ever that I brought these rustic folk to darken Your Highness’ doorstep and his counsel. I’ve never studied in the archives myself, though perhaps I might claim the right as the late queen’s nephew, but surely it’s plain to all present that this sorry display, tales of relics and wildmen and dragons, cannot be borne by thinking men. If you would let me deal with these intruders as I asked—”

  “I advise that you hear them out, Sire,” said Alfrich quietly.

  The king had yet to take his eyes off Triston’s face. “Wyrmskull. We had a messenger thence last week from your Chieftain. Something about a Meridian lord and a dark conspiracy of some kind.”

  “Yes Sire,” said Triston. “Sarconius. He’s the one who took the Relic.”

  By the intensity of the king’s gaze, Triston thought he might have been trying to bore a hole into his mind. “I must again ask you to tell me the full tale,” he said gravely, “and this time more than an evening’s entertainment rests on what you say. The whole truth then, from the beginning.”

  Haltingly, unable to keep the nervous quavering from his voice, Triston spoke. He told the king of Trinian, the rumors after the last Farthian attack, of Arloon’s sheepskin, the firescript, and every detail of his trial of darkness under the hill. Finally, as the flames behind the king softened to glowing embers, he recounted the attack on the village, his sacrifice, the Black Helm in the Meridian lord’s pavilion, and the vision in the sorcerer’s mind. One deception only he maintained, and he trembled inwardly at the lie. He spoke only sparingly of the Seer, admitting that he and Alden had escorted her to Luskoll but saying nothing more, not knowing how the king would receive news of her demise.

  He ceased. At once Mugwort scoffed in outrage, his pacing manic. “A more ludicrous tale His Majesty’s jesters could hardly devise, even did their lives depend on it! A talking dragon skeleton and a helm with eyes! Come, Your Majesty, come!”

  The king had watched Triston throughout the entire tale, his eyes fierce, as if willing Triston’s face to betray some sign of falsehood. But now he frowned down at the embers, lost in thought.

  “I believe him, Your Majesty,” said Alfrich after a long stretch of silence. Mugwort froze, looking at the chamberlain in disbelief, while the king continued to gaze into the fire. “These young men are mere villagers, Sire, untutored and—to use the good captain’s word—rustic. No such tale as this could present itself to the imagination of these simple folk, complete with historically accurate details. Their story rings true.”

  The king looked up, turning his keen gaze on the chamberlain. “The Dragonslayer they spoke of, this Willbrand. Have we record of him in our archives?”

  “We do, Sire.”

  “And this sword, Bloodprice?”

  “Described even as the young man—Triston, is it?—gave account.”

  “And their boat, Mugwort, did it indeed contain a longsword by this description?”

  Captain Mugwort took a deep breath
before answering. “Even so, Sire,” he said grudgingly. “A fine weapon. So fine I charged your armorer to keep it in the royal weaponhoard, Sire.”

  The king nodded as if this was as he expected. “Very well then. Mugwort, send a scouting party to the village of Wyrmskull to investigate this matter. But let them be forewarned of the dangers from the Wildmen. My Lord Chamberlain, you will draft a missive to Commander Civitas at Fort Ironwood. We must learn more of this. If the emperor has indeed hired wild mercenaries to attack a Corellian village that would be an act of war.” He sighed. “And I would have you search the Royal Archives and find everything you can on the matter of Relics, the Serpentaugrum especially.”

  “But Sire!” breathed the captain in exasperation. “You can’t take any of this seriously. These legends and old wives’ tales—Sire, my duties bind me to visit every room in the castle on occasion, from the grounds all the way up to the Dwarven Turret, and I can tell you no such object as a Relic is here, nor anything out of the ordinary except a few oddments left over from the dwarf kingdoms—”

  “The item was hidden, good Mugwort,” said Alfrich softly. “Hidden, probably most effectively, long ago. The archives show that it was meant to be protected here, but never again used, and no record of the location was left to posterity.”

  “And with good reason, chamberlain,” said Stentor, looking worried. “No king should have that sort of power. I wouldn’t trust myself with it.” He shook his head emphatically. “And others, my grandsire Morton for one, he probably would have razed whole villages with it just because they couldn’t pay their taxes. No, such things are better left safe and forgotten. In fact,” he added, looking gravely at the chamberlain, “should any hint of this thing’s whereabouts come to light in your research, I would see the record destroyed forthwith.”

  He rose with a stretch and a yawn, then looked at Triston. A hint of a smile touched his face. “Never fear, son. I spoke harshly before out of the trouble of my heart, but should your words prove true, you will have my thanks.” He stepped over to him and braced his shoulders with two hands. “I would that my sister were here now. Her knowledge runs deep on matters such as these, but alas! Her Grace is ever busy with the affairs of the Fane and seldom calls at court nowadays!”

  Triston stared, openmouthed.

  “Come to think of it, Alfie, do one more thing for me. Fire off a note to Luskoll inviting Mortia to Whitecastle. She might be able to help sort all this out.”

  The chamberlain nodded gravely, while Alden mouthed Mortia? to Triston behind their backs.

  “But didn’t you say, Trist, that she tried to—” piped up Owain.

  “Excellent idea, Sire!” interjected Alden loudly. “Her Grace’s wisdom is renowned throughout our land! Her presence would be most welcome.”

  “Indeed!” added Triston, finding his voice and grinning at the king. “If only she could be here now.”

  EIGHTEEN

  INTRIGUE

  Aaaa-rah! We smite through the stone

  Aaaa-rah! And shiver the bone

  Aaaa-rah! The truth God conceals

  Aaaa-rah! The chisel reveals

  —dwarven mining hymn, date and origin unknown

  Alden tried hard not to look impressed when the footman showed them around. But there was no denying it. This was the finest housing any of them had ever known.

  The three guests were quartered in a second-story suite replete with a plush living room, a bedroom apiece, and a spacious balcony which overlooked the gardens. For his part, Triston was too distracted by the revelation that he’d killed the king’s sister to care much. Owain, on the other hand, gawked at everything he saw. Sinks with running water, an eighteen-candle chandelier, fluffy down pillows lined with gold silk, and especially—

  “But what’d they make it round for? Everyone knows maps are supposed to be flat?” he asked in unabashed wonder. He was gaping at a curious spherical map—the footman had called it a globe—which spun on one spindly leg. Giving the delicate-looking object an enthusiastic spin, he traced a grimy finger along its blurred perimeter. The footman seemed as perplexed by the question as Owain was by the globe. He bowed and, with a worried look around the room at the other valuables, bade them goodnight and left.

  As soon as he was gone, Alden rounded on Triston. “I can’t believe you. You gave me your word.”

  Triston eased himself into a cushioned armchair before a new-lit fire. He’d been expecting this. “I still plan to keep my word. The treasure is as safe as ever.”

  Alden gave a disbelieving snort. “Not for long now is it? Why you had to blab to the king about it—”

  “I had to tell them the truth, the whole truth,” he added, as Alden was about to interrupt, “or they wouldn’t believe any of it. But don’t stress it. The king can’t get at it until the Farthians are out of the way, and then—” He paused, not liking what he had to do. But it was true, he had made a promise to Alden.

  “Yes, and then?” said Alden, standing behind another cushioned chair and leaning forward over its back eagerly.

  “I won’t help them get it. If it’s true that only I can get in there, then only I can get the treasure. And I promise I won’t let the king have it. Satisfied?”

  Alden straightened up, looking pleased. “No,” he said. “But it’s the best I can get now that you’ve blathered to the worst possible person imaginable. Haven’t you heard how greedy all kings are?”

  “I know they’re crazy about revenge. Every tale says so.” Triston held his head in his hands, his cheeks still aching a little beneath his sweaty palms. “Why did she have to be his sister?”

  “Yeah, bit of bad luck there, mate,” said Owain bracingly as he rummaged through a chest-of-drawers full of odds and ends. He emerged with a gentleman’s wig and a strange bladder-like object with a bent pipe protruding from one end. “And I can’t believe he hasn’t heard she’s dead!”

  “Would you shut up!” hissed Triston through clenched teeth, looking over his shoulder. “Someone might be listening. When he does hear, we don’t want to give him any more reason to suspect us.”

  Owain muttered a distracted apology, examining the unknown object with apparent fascination. Meanwhile, Alden had found a decanter of some golden liquid on a table. He poured himself a generous portion, then stood with his back to them at the windowed-doors to the balcony and watched rain splatter against the glass. “Bad, but not too bad,” he said.

  “What, the drink?” asked Triston.

  “No, our situation. The Seer. It creates one problem, but solves another I say.”

  “What does it solve?” asked Owain, now wearing the wig.

  “Boy, you really are thick,” said Alden, turning to Triston with a disbelieving look, as though expecting him to share his amusement at Owain’s stupidity. But Triston’s frown echoed Owain’s question. Alden rolled his eyes. “The Seer’s Stentor’s sister. That means she grew up here; she’s been in and out of the palace all her life.”

  A look of comprehension dawned on Triston’s face, but Owain’s frown deepened. Then he shrugged and squeezed the bladder object, which turned out to be a wig-duster. A puff of white powder erupted out, obscuring his head behind a perfumed cloud.

  “So you’re saying she’d have found it already if that were possible,” said Triston thoughtfully over Owain’s spluttering and coughing.

  “She’d have had it off to her precious Fane ages ago. Probably have set herself up as queen and conquered half of Meridia by now to boot. No, whichever ancient sorcerer hid this Serpentorgy thing here did a bang up job, and that’s one less thing we have to worry about. It’s not going anywhere.”

  Triston wasn’t sure. He turned back to the fire, reminding himself of King Stentor earlier that evening, staring into its shining depths. “You didn’t have to put that helm on,” he muttered into the flames.

  “Ach. It burns my eyes. Fetch me a wet rag, somebody.”

  “What about the helm?” said Alden, having si
lently seated himself in the chair beside Triston, his drink refilled.

  Triston shuttered. “That sick mind. I feel covered in slime just remembering. But there were emotions, Ald, feelings with each image. I saw a dragon—Magog, I think—flying over a village, and he was elated, the mind I mean, ecstatic that Sarconius had Magog’s Relic. He hadn’t expected it to work out so easily.” He paused, looking at Alden, who was watching him curiously, his glass resting against the side of his face.

  Behind them came the sound of stumbling feet, a curse, something heavy falling over, and the tinkling of breaking glass. “And I saw a stone chamber with fire and . . . I don’t know . . . lava maybe, like the inside of a volcano that tales sometimes tell of, and he was pleased. That part was over. He’d done something, and it was over. And then I saw Whitecastle, and he wasn’t worried at all. Just expectant, like it was all worked out. Something was about to happen, and he wasn’t too concerned about it.”

  Alden leaned over and gripped Triston’s shoulder with a gentle shake. “Hey, you shouldn’t worry about it either. We’ve given our warning. We’ve done all we can. Whatever’s going on, it’s no longer our concern.”

  Triston tore his gaze from the mesmerizing flames to look at Alden, who gave him a reassuring wink and slumped back into his chair. From the washroom came the gurgle of running water and a string of garbled oaths about trying to rinse with “liquid ice.”

  “I know. It’s just—that mind. I can’t shake off a bad feeling about it, like whatever he wants, we really, really don’t want him to get it.”

  Alden seemed to be thinking of something else. Triston watched a smirk grow on his face, and felt a familiar sinking feeling that had nothing to do with the black helm. “Speaking of visions we were never meant to see,” said Alden with a grin, “what do you think about her.”

  Triston laughed out loud. “The princess? You’re joking, Ald.”