The Dragon's Fury (Book 1)

by D Mickleson

  “Why? She’s quite good looking, at least when she’s not talking. You’re telling me you’re not interested?”

  “No. She’s a spoiled brat and she’s all yours. But good luck with that one. She’s too good for the likes of us and she knows it.”

  Owain joined them, drying his hair with a towel, bits of his face still smudged with white paste. Alden scoffed. “Speak for yourself. I’ve never met a woman I couldn’t woo.”

  “You’ve also never meant a princess. Let’s say you do ‘woo’ her—and we both know what that means—what do you think the king will say when he finds out?” Triston put on a falsely deep voice. “Well done, sonny boy. You’ve stolen my daughter’s heart, and her virtue by the look of things. Now marry her and join the family!”

  Alden laughed. “I’m just glad you’re not going to make trouble this time. You’re definitely not interested?”

  “Definitely. She’s all yours.”

  “Good. Then the path’s clear for me once I’ve dealt with Mugwort.”

  Owain dropped the towel and picked up a poker from the hearth, brandishing it like a sword. “Hey, I saw her first! Who says I won’t win the fair maiden’s hand?”

  Triston stamped on the edge of the towel, which had fallen too near an ember and caught fire. Alden handed Owain his glass. “Rinse that for me. There’s a good lad.”

  Early the next morning the trio was woken by the same footman who had bidden them goodnight. When they were ready, he led them down to a richly-appointed chamber dominated by a spacious table of polished mahogany surrounded by high-backed chairs. The servant bade them sit and wait.

  Triston, expecting breakfast, was surprised when the Lord Chamberlain entered followed by a company of twenty or so well-dressed men of noble bearing. Lastly came King Stentor himself. He greeted his guests with a curt nod and seated himself opposite them. When the lords were assembled—only one chair was empty—Alfrich turned to Triston and explained that he was to address “The King’s Council,” recounting everything he had said the previous night and answering any questions they might have.

  He stood, and at once his empty stomach gave an audible growl. He heard Alden stifle a snicker on his right, but at an encouraging nod from Alfrich, he began. Stentor and the chamberlain remained silent for the most part. But often the lords interrupted, asking him to more fully explain something, or go back and address a previous point.

  The legend of the Serpentaugrum was known to them, though hitherto speaking of it openly was altogether forbidden. But most seemed to have regarded the rumors as nothing more than a child’s fancy. The heavy skepticism Triston read on their faces early on shifted to confusion as he spoke. As his account bore up under their scrutiny, and when it became clear that Alfrich trusted him, their expressions of doubt gave way to wary apprehension and uneasy muttering.

  When Triston at last finished and answered every question, the lords sat in silence. After an uncomfortable pause, Stentor spoke. “Two things seem impossible to me, my lords. One, that the emperor would so recklessly betray us, a loyal province from which he garners a hefty annual tribute, is unthinkable. And two, as the Lord Chamberlain has said, that this boy should contrive a tale such as this out of thin air cannot be conceived.”

  “And should the prisoners’ tale stand the test of your scouting party,” said a stout nobleman who Alfrich had introduced as Lord Strungent, “what hope have we to resist Meridia with the emperor’s eye darkly upon us?”

  “No hope,” answered Alfrich. “And for the moment, these young men are guests, not prisoners, unless their tale proves false. But you would be wise, my lords, to note that this Sarconius resorted to hiring barbarian mercenaries when a powerful contingent of legionnaires is barracked not two days journey eastward. It seems hopeful, then, that this man has gone rogue, and acts without the knowledge or consent of His Supreme Exaltancy.”

  “And yet he holds an ancient artifact of unguessed potency,” retorted Strungent. “Should we not then seek to lay hands on our own Relic as a countermeasure?”

  A murmur of agreement ran around the table, but Stentor crushed the proposal with a dire warning, ending with the question, “And would you so empower your sovereign, my lords, that should my heart change, or another ascend to the throne, that the royal hand of friendship would become a fist of steel?”

  In the end the council endorsed the measures already taken. All agreed to place the armed forces of Corellia in battle-ready stance, and that the king should oversee a review of Whitecastle’s defenses in case of a sudden attack.

  The meeting ended. The lords began to file out, speaking together in hushed voices. One lord turned to Strungent as they walked past Triston. “But who could attack us here save the emperor? And what hope is there in strength of arms were we thus betrayed? It seems that fear and hope are meaningless, for both imply doubt. And yet we have no doubts. Either the threat is false and all is well, or the threat is real, and we will be utterly destroyed.”

  “Nay,” said Strungent. “We no longer have only Emperor Dominus to fear. The wielder of this Dragon Relic is loose in our kingdom.”

  With a hasty farewell to his guests, Stentor swept from the chamber, followed by an array of attendants and guards who had stood silent in shadowed alcoves throughout the council.

  When all others had gone, Alfrich rose and walked over, laughing. “A grim way to open the day, and all the worse for your hunger,” he said, addressing Triston. “I would ask you to breakfast with me, but”—he glanced out an open window, where the soft light of morning had long since given way to the glare of midday—“perhaps the word luncheon would be more apt.”

  “Yes please!” said Owain happily. “Giving the same long tale twice in a twelvehour can’t be fun, Trist, but being forced to sit through it quietly again nearly broke me. Where’s the grub?”

  The words were no sooner spoken when a pair of footmen bustled in, tray-laden and sweating with the effort. Alfrich ate with them, regaling them with a history of their people, a trial of courtesy Owain may have failed if not for the superb provisions. But Triston was fascinated. It seemed that Leviathan was the first human settlement in Corellia, and that long ago the land was chiefly occupied by dwarves. These had befriended the humans at first, lending their aid in the building of Whitecastle. Both races profited from their trade. But after a time men multiplied too quickly, and the dwarves fretted in their mountain halls. Small grievances, real or imagined, were no longer forgiven, but were used to justify war. Now the dwarven halls lay in shadowed ruin.

  “And they’re gone,” sighed the chamberlain, “All gone, except for a few stragglers who ply their trade as wandering craftsmen. I collect their artifacts. You may have noticed a suit of armor in my antechamber. It once belonged to the king of Khanzazar. Priceless, you know. A great gift from His Highness for my years of service, and worth a great deal more to me than he knows.”

  Triston pushed away his empty plate, feeling a knot beginning to form in his over-stuffed belly. “And what about Duke Gubrius? Why does the king dislike his cousin?”

  Alfrich frowned for a moment, considering Triston. Then, after checking over his shoulder to make sure they were alone, he leaned closer. “Gubrius was once quite a lady’s man, before middle-age and over-indulgence sapped his looks.” He gave another glance over his shoulder, then spoke in a scarcely-audible whisper. “Gubrius was lover to Lady Aurentia in their youth before she fell for Stentor and became Queen Aurentia. For that reason their feud is bitter. Both feel cheated by the other, and their grievance is as rancorous as ever, though the lady now lies under the earth.” Suddenly his eyes became grave, and the mischievous twinkle vanished. “King Stentor has many excellent qualities. Forgiveness is not among them.”

  Triston glanced at Alden meaningfully, who returned his look with a wink and a grin. “Hear that, Trist? You don’t want to ever cross him. Got it?”

  Alfrich looked back and forth between them curiously. “Well, duty calls gentle
man. I hear the dusty voice of the Royal Archives sighing my name.” He sighed himself, then stood. “You’re free to roam about the castle and the gardens, but”—he held out his hands apologetically—“I’m afraid you can’t leave the King’s Isle.”

  Triston looked up hopefully. “Lord Chamberlain, I know it’s much to ask, but—”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “What?”

  “You were going to ask to join me in the library. I believe you’ve earned the right. In fact, your unique insight as an actual Relic-bearer might prove useful. Just you, though. Follow me.”

  The Royal Library of Whitecastle held more books on a single shelf than Triston had seen in his life. And there were hundreds of shelves. A frail-looking man with only a few wisps of white hair left to him made a surprisingly agile descent down a sliding ladder the moment he caught sight of Alfrich. He seized a cane at the base of the ladder and limped over to them, beaming. “Alfie my boy! So good to see you again! And how’s your son getting on in the Royal Guard then?”

  “Hello Athtome,” said Alfrich in a carrying voice. “My key.” The chamberlain produced a tiny, bejeweled key from a fold of his robes and handed it to the librarian. Athtome squinted at it through a glass disc on a chain the likes of which Triston had never seen. “The Royal Archives, if you please.”

  “Very good Alfie, er, I suppose it’s ‘Lord Chamberlain’ now, eh?”

  “That’s right, Athtome,” said the chamberlain as the man shuffled off toward a far alcove in the back of the room. “And it’s been that way for twenty years now,” he added under his breath, with an apologetic grin at Triston.

  Beneath the alcove was a small, ironbound door which the librarian made to open, his hand trembling with age as he tried to insert the chamberlain’s key. But at that moment the door swung wide, nearly knocking him over, and eliciting a very rude word as he gripped his cane to keep his balance.

  Captain Mugwort, looking out of place in the library with his alabaster armor and longsword strapped at his hip, clanked through the doorway. He stopped short at the sight of them.

  “Pardon my mouth. It’s the old age. You lose your inhibitions along with everything else. Er, all finished then, Corporal Muggerton?”

  “Captain, we missed you at the King’s Council this morning, but I daresay you had pressing business to justify your absence?”

  “You’re not bringing him in here, Alfrich. He’s no kin to the royal family.”

  “No, he’s not,” said the chamberlain easily, brushing past the captain and gesturing with his fingers for Triston to follow. “But should his warning prove timely, you may as well consider him an adopted heir! Good day, Mugwort.”

  Triston stepped through the door, not looking at Mugwort, into a dim-lit passage of ancient masonry. Only a few steps in on the left was a second locked door, but the passage ran on, sloping downward steeply into unguessed shadows below. Triston was glad when Alfrich stopped and unlocked the door.

  “Where does that way lead?” he asked, goose bumps forming on his arms as he stared down into the cold darkness.

  “The downward passage leads to the catacombs,” said the chamberlain, taking a candle from a sconce near the door and leading the way into a low-vaulted room of bare stone. “Be thankful we don’t have to go that way. I’ve never been down there myself. Only the royal family is permitted inside, but they say its twisting paths are very dangerous. Rumor whispers that one who knows the way can pass under the harbor and out by a hidden exit somewhere on the mainland. I wonder what Mugwort—” He paused, then shook his head.

  Triston glanced around the tiny room, surprised. He’d expected the Royal Archives to be more . . . royal. Shelves brimming with scrolls, a couple of chests, and a few wooden tables were all that broke the gray monotony. “The archives hold records which go back to the founding of the city,” said Alfrich, heading for one of the chests and unlocking it. Every move of the candle in his left hand sent shadows dancing along the walls. “But most of this stuff is quite dry, records of executions, land deeds, taxation, royal decrees and so on. But this you might find worthwhile.”

  He emerged from the chest bearing a small, hide-bound book. He seated himself at the nearest table and gestured for Triston to join him. Triston peered forward interestedly as Alfrich cautiously turned the cover, revealing a cracked and yellowed page adorned with graceful script.

  “What language is this?” he asked in a hushed tone. “Not Meridian. I can’t make out a single word.” He glanced at Alfrich, the wavering candlelight reflecting a keen glow in the older man’s eyes as he regarded the ancient manuscript. “I feel shivers though just looking at it,” Triston went on, returning his gaze to the page. “There’s some power here. Who wrote this?”

  “My, my. I thought you’d be curious,” chuckled Alfrich, turning a cracking leaf. “This, my boy, is Old Corellian, the language we would be speaking if we hadn’t been conquered and assimilated. The writer is one Sir Athant, a great sorcerer in his day and, if you’ll believe it, the hand that formed these flowing letters is the same that fashioned both Magog’s Fury and the Serpentaugrum in the deeps of time. This record tells of his exploits, but, as you can see”—he turned toward the end of the book, revealing a series of frayed edges near the binding—“leaves have been torn out.”

  “Can you read it? What’s missing?”

  “I can. That’s why His Majesty loves to send me down here in his place. Between you and me he never excelled at his Old Corellian lessons. ” Alfrich ran his fingers up and down the tattered remnants. “I’ve noticed Sir Athant never gives record of just how he created Relics of Power. It may be that he deliberately destroyed his own notes, or perhaps another did so after his death. Be that as it may, the ending is still intact, though the handwriting is another’s as you can see.” He turned a few more leaves. “See what you make of this:

  On the urgent counsel and dying command of the First Lord of the Mystic Council—that would be Sir Athant—King Ethelred in Leviathan has recalled the services of the Dwarves, our natural allies, to conceal the Serpentaugrum in Whitecastle so that none should find it, none save the bearer of Magog’s Relic, the one with the Dragoneye. And this shall be his sign, that should he behold the Leviathan locked in —here is a tricky word, ‘heofon.’ I believe it means—the vault—or maybe—cavern, then he will know his treasure is near.

  “It seems a shame to destroy it, but that was the command.” Suddenly he ripped the leaf from the volume—Triston stifled an outraged cry—and held it over the flame. The dry page ignited instantly, flared with a burst of light, then vanished. A long silence fell.

  “If these words are true,” said Triston at last, “then only Sarconius can find the Relic. He holds Magog’s Relic. And he’s the very last person we want to get it.” Or nearly the last, he thought to himself, remembering the mind in the helm.

  “Yes, an interesting choice, to conceal the Serpentaugrum in such a way that only he who possesses Magog’s Fury can find it. Sir Athant created them both. Perhaps he desired to keep them together when he was gone. Or mayhap the ancients who hid the Relics after his death believed the rightful bearer of the dragonbone would likely be trustworthy and true and thus worthy of the Serpentaugrum.”

  Alfrich sat in thought for a few moments. Abruptly he stirred from his musing and turned his gaze on Triston. “The one with the Dragoneye . . . Answer me this: when you bore this thing for a brief time, did your vision change? I imagine a dragon’s sight would be keener than an eagle’s.”

  Triston thought back. He remembered the burning, the growing wrath, and something deeper, a weariness of a life that wouldn’t end. “No,” he finally answered. “I saw with my eyes. My vision was exactly the same.”

  “I see,” said Alfrich, sounding disappointed. “Well, this passage may remain a mystery forever. But I suppose you didn’t have enough time to fully explore all the Relic’s powers.” He sighed, frowning. “Well, we’d better go through the rest of thes
e records to make sure we haven’t missed anything.”

  Hours passed. Triston helped Alfrich with the more recent records, written in the familiar Meridian, while Alfrich poured over the older texts. All the while, as one dry record after another passed under his nose, and nothing else of import came to light, Triston dwelt on the final entry in Sir Athant’s diary.

  “Really, what it comes down to is this,” he said as they left the dusty room for the sloping passage. “As long as we keep Sarconius out of Whitecastle, he can’t lay hands on the Serpentaugrum. That shouldn’t be too hard.” But even as he spoke the hopeful words, his heart misgave him. Why had the foul mind felt so confident about the outcome of events in Whitecastle?

  “So long as we are vigilant—”

  “Lord Chamberlain, has the castle ever endured a siege?”

  Alfrich paused at the door to the library, turning to face him. “No one’s ever tried. I apologize for the manner of your arrival, you may have missed it, but we are on an island. What with the drawbridge and the Seagate, no army can even approach this citadel.”

  “And who has control of the drawbridge and the Seagate?”

  In the flaring light of the nearly-spent candle, Alfrich looked hard at Triston’s face. “None but the king himself during time of war. Why do you ask about who—”

  “So the bridge can’t be lowered or raised except by His Majesty’s direct order? And the Seagate—”

  “None but the king can give such a command,” he repeated. “Are you saying you fear treachery in the castle, my boy?” he asked quietly.

  Triston held a hand to his head. A headache was forming, always a tell-tale sign that his mind was trying hard to unravel some inner knot. “If a direct assault is impossible,” he answered slowly, “well, what else is there? He means to try something. Of that I’m certain.” Suddenly his thoughts seized on something he’d heard earlier. “Lord Chamberlain, you said Captain Mugwort only recently acquired his post. Is His Majesty certain of the man’s loyalty?”