The Dragon's Fury (Book 1)

by D Mickleson

  Alfrich didn’t answer at once. His furrowed brow and intense gaze gave the impression he was taken aback by Triston’s line of thought. “Come now,” he said after a long minute. “We’ll both just have to keep our eyes and ears open. But let me caution you. Speak to no one of what you just said, I implore you. Captain Mugwort is much like Stentor in some ways. He’s not a man to cross if you value your life. If there is some falsehood in him, I will root it out. You stay well clear of him.” He turned and pushed the ironbound door open. “And that goes for your friends as well.”

  That evening, Triston, Alden and Owain went walking on the lofty parapet surrounding the King’s Isle. Called the Fangwall by the townsfolk across the harbor, the white stone enclosure was originally erected as a final shield for the castle and the grounds against any invaders not thwarted by the raised drawbridge. With jagged, toothlike battlements and white flanks rising from an algae-slimed base like the green gums of some colossal sea monster, it was not difficult to guess how the wall earned its name. In later days, when the wealth and power of the Corellian kings waxed, a second, far greater work was begun. The Fangwall was extended outward in two monumental spurs cleaving through the water from the King’s Isle to the mainland, hedging Leviathan Harbor within an impenetrable rampart.

  Patrolling sentries nodded gravely as they passed. The guards were clad in simple gray steel, their officers bedecked in the same dazzling white as Captain Mugwort, though without his silver insignia. There seemed to be a general order to allow their presence. Though the sentries watched them closely, no one made a move to hinder their progress.

  In hushed tones Triston told of the Chronicle of Sir Athant. He was just about to voice his speculation that treachery was afoot when, not far along their bending way, he spotted an officer posted at a fork in their path. “Let’s take the south spur over the water,” said Alden, leading the way past the man, who only stared in silence.

  Triston stepped up to a gap in the crenellated battlement and peered south, marveling at the wave-battered wall stretching off into the dusk. “How do ships even get through. The way is blocked—”

  “This spur has the Seagate at the far end. She’s a real beaut. I sailed through when I tourneyed here last year. But what were you saying?”

  Triston waited till they’d walked out of the officer’s earshot before answering. “No one but the emperor himself has a dwarf’s chance in a jousting match of taking Whitecastle by force, as I said. So how could Sarconius hope to get in and find the Relic without inside help?”

  Owain let out a low whistle, while Alden chuckled appreciatively. “And let me guess,” he said in a tone of amused mockery. “You voiced this suspicion to old Alfrich, right?” When Triston didn’t answer, he shook his head. “We’ve been here one day, and you’re already making accusations of high treason. Flaming piles of troll dung, Trist! You’re as determined to get us mixed up in all this as I am to get us out, and well out. Tell me you didn’t finger anyone by name?”

  Owain, walking backwards in front of them and puzzling over Triston’s words, suddenly jabbed the air triumphantly. “The cavern, Trist! That’s what you said, right? The Relic’s in a cavern. That could mean the catacombs. Maybe the traitor is already trying to find the Serpent-thingy for Sarconius! Someone with a special key.”

  “I have a key. Does that make me a traitor?”

  Princess Abigail had stepped out in front of them from a curving overlook point where she must have been watching the sunset, invisible to them behind the battlement until it was too late. She blocked their path, hands on her hips, wisps of raven hair blowing across her brow. The rosy hue of sunset seemed powerless to color her pale face. A guard stood a little way back in the enclave, but when he saw the three of them, he hurried off toward the castle.

  “Your Highness,” said Triston when the man had gone, and all three bowed their heads, “we are sorry to disturb you. We didn’t know you were there and—”

  “I’ve heard that before,” she said coolly, turning back to stare, so it seemed, straight at the setting sun.

  “Since our arrival clearly displeases you,” Triston offered with another bow, “we’ll just turn around and—”

  “Since your arrival, I’ve been under guard night and day! Of course you displease me.”

  Alden stepped forward, his hands held outward in a supplicant gesture. “Your Highness—Abigail, if I may—not four days back our village was burned. And with it, our families. But that grief, great though it may be, seems strangely diminished now as I behold your unhappiness. To think that we’ve upset you”—he shook his head, as if the thought could not be borne—“please allow us to depart with your forgiveness.” He bowed again and made to hasten away, but—

  “No.” Abigail was looking at them again, but now her expression was confused rather than annoyed. She stammered. Her cheeks suddenly blushed, a more graceful vision than the sky behind her. She turned back to the sunset. “You can stay. If you wish.”

  Alden stepped up beside her, his hands clasped at his back, and smiled at her sidelong before casting a ponderous gaze seaward.

  “We’ll just be going then,” said Triston, rolling his eyes but trying hard to keep the disgust from his voice. “Come on, Owain.”

  But Owain made no move. He was gaping, first at Abigail, then at Alden, then back to Abigail, then back to Alden. Breaking free of Triston’s restraining grip, he hurried over to stand on the princess’ other side. “Your Highness,” he said, bowing clumsily. “Abby, I daresay. One day ago I fell into a pool of boiling water. But the pain I felt then is nothing compared to how bad it was to make you mad like that.”

  Abigail’s face flushed brighter still, but Alden’s olive skin darkened with anger. “I think I’ll be going now actually,” she said, stepping back from the battlement. She stopped and looked at Triston, who had raised a hand to his face with embarrassment. “But what was all that you were saying earlier, about a traitor and a key?”

  Triston lowered his hand but no answer came to his lips. All his guesses suddenly seemed absurd before her piercing gaze. “Oh that,” he said at last. “It’s . . . nothing, Your Highness. Just some idle speculation.”

  She continued to stare for a moment, clearly dissatisfied. Then she was gone, heading back toward the island with swift, graceful steps.

  It was perhaps lucky for Owain that Captain Mugwort found them a short while later, a fact which completely distracted Alden from his plans to dangle the youth over the battlement by the foot.

  “I marvel at your impudence,” he said, swaggering forward to stand just inches in front of Alden. “I clearly hadn’t taken the measure of you before. That you would dare to accost Her Royal Highness a second time.” He poked a finger in Alden’s chest. “The king’s protection won’t hold forever, dogface.”

  Alden stared down at the finger in his chest for a moment, then looked up, grinning. He grabbed Mugwort’s right cheek between two fingers, shaking it. “I renounce all protection here and now, wart-face.”

  Mugwort swore, stepping back and placing a hand on his hilt. He took several breaths before growling, “Conveniently for you, word reached the king from Alfrich, and His Majesty’s command for the moment is death to the winner of any combat between us.”

  Alden advanced.

  “Ald, we’re unarmed, remember?” said Triston angrily.

  “Convenient for you. It seems you remember our last encounter all too well. But next time there won’t be any mercy.”

  He paced leisurely away. Owain hurried after him, leaving Triston and Mugwort alone on the overlook. Triston watched for a few moments as the captain stared in wrath at Alden’s back, and he wondered about Owain’s guess. Had Mugwort been down in the catacombs, Relic-searching, when he knew all others who might disturb his hunt would be occupied by the council?

  The captain shifted his furious gaze to Triston, who nodded slowly, then turned to follow the others, his mind racing

  NINETEEN
<
br />   AKATAKA

  Death lies coiled upon my breast, and sleeps all night

  Dawn will waken him from rest, and then he’ll bite

  —unattributed, scrawled in blood during the Great Plague, Leviathan, 667

  King Stentor struck the banquet table with his fist.

  Reverberations thundered past the assembled courtiers all the way to the far end where Triston, Alden and Owain were breakfasting.

  Surrounded by boiled eggs and potatoes, smoked ham, broiled cod, buttered scallops, eel and onion soup, bread and butter, cheese, fruit and wine, the three young men were hard-pressed to pay attention to the conversation. Triston’s life in the castle was less than two days old, but with the generosity of the king’s dining board, already he felt as full and strong as the day he left Wyrmskull.

  “Then it’s done,” declared the king, striking the table a second time. “Never was stone stronghold so unassailable.”

  Alfrich cleared his throat, giving a small note of dissent, and Stentor faced him with a frown. “But Alfie here would gainsay his sovereign I see. Well, my Lord Chamberlain,” he demanded with long-suffering in his voice and a twinkle in his eye, “enlighten us with your aged wisdom.”

  All eyes fell on Alfrich, who regarded the king with a suppressed smile before answering. “As for the wisdom of my many years, Sire, that only goes so far as to remind you of the baleful effects of too much pig on the royal stomach.”

  The king’s eyes shining, he forked an extravagant portion of ham into his mouth, drawing laughter as he gazed insolently at his chief advisor.

  “I have little else to say, Sire” the chamberlain went on, smiling placidly as Stentor mimicked relief, drawing more laughter. “No doubt the captain’s assurances that the army is ready are quite true. And I have given assurance that all relevant records are no more. But we must not become complacent, Your Majesty, lest we fail in the end despite the young messenger’s timely warning.” He nodded down the table at Triston.

  Stentor shook his head, chewing his ham with relish before washing it down with a swig of wine. “Duly noted, wise one. Our armed forces are assembled and the archives purged,” he said. “And I agree we must be vigilant. But never fearful. I call for a return to the normal life of Court.” The twinkle in his eyes vanished, and his face grew grave. “And let all speech on these arcane matters be once again forbidden.”

  Sitting cross-armed between her father and Captain Mugwort, Abigail leaned forward. “But you agreed to put off that . . . unnecessary affair tomorrow night. It doesn’t make sense now anyway. Not when we’re under alarm. Such a trivial thing—”

  “I made no promise,” boomed Stentor. Then, brushing his daughter’s cheek and speaking in softer tones, he went on. “And I don’t consider your birthday trivial, dear. The party will be a small affair. Just the lords and ladies of court, a few loyal knights, and some other worthy souls whose company you won’t protest.”

  Abigail looked like she wanted very much to protest. But with the eyes of every gossip at court fixed on her face, she forced a smile and stared down at her empty plate. At once Alden stood and begged leave to speak. With Stentor’s courteous, though puzzled, assent, he lifted his goblet. “A toast to Her Royal Highness, my lords. In all my wide travels, jousting and battling for the king’s honor, I’ve never seen such high nobility graced so pleasingly by fair humility.”

  Stentor beamed his pleasure, joining the toast heartily and rumbling with laughter at Abigail’s blushing face. When the king learned Alden had triumphed at his Harvest Tourney the previous autumn, he insisted on knighting him before them all, and Triston to boot as the honored messenger. Owain, meanwhile, was declared Alden’s esquire. “Which means you must join us for tomorrow’s, er”—he glanced apprehensively at his daughter—“modest festivities.”

  The princess let her gaze linger on Alden during the impromptu knighting. Her cheeks had gone pink and, to Triston’s careful observation, her eyes cautious. Beside her, Mugwort stared stonily away while the king’s sword touched first Alden’s, then Triston’s bowing heads. Stentor’s plate wasn’t halfway eaten, and Strungent was still piling up his platter, when the captain muttered a hasty apology and strode from the room.

  “And where was he off to in such a hurry? Back to the catacombs I wouldn’t wonder. Maybe he thinks he’s getting close to finding it.” Alden was pacing their balcony while Triston and Owain stood at the rail and watched the unfolding morning in the garden below. Where the fields and flowerbeds had buzzed with bees the day before, now hundreds of armed men drilled and marched, filling the courtyard with the clamor of battle.

  “We don’t even know if it is in the catacombs, and we have no proof Mugwort’s after it,” said Triston wearily. He’d been saying this since the previous day’s encounter on the Fangwall, but Alden was convinced Mugwort was a traitor. Privately, Triston suspected the same, but he wasn’t going to enflame Alden’s rivalry with the captain. Not with the king’s sentence of death to the forbidden practice of dueling.

  “So what do you think ‘the cavern’ means, and why did you see him down that passage? You think he skipped yestermorn’s council for a spot of light reading in the archives? Maybe he dabbles in Old Corellian when he’s not plotting to marry his way onto the throne.”

  Owain guffawed. “And what are you plotting then?”

  Triston suppressed a chuckle at Owain’s gall. “But if he doesn’t read Old Corellian, how could he know where to look?” he asked.

  Alden grabbed Owain by both feet and lifted him over the balcony, frowning at Triston in puzzled thought. “Maybe he has instructions from that foul mind you had the pleasure of meeting. Or from Sarconius.”

  “Maybe,” said Triston, ignoring a string of shocking curses coming from the vicinity of his feet. “Or maybe we have no idea what we’re talking about. We won’t know anything until we get down into the catacombs ourselves. Listen, Ald. When I found Magog, I could feel him. I would have known it with my eyes closed; his presence was everywhere. If there’s a powerful spirit trapped down there, I’ll know it.”

  Alden’s eyes narrowed. “So let me get this straight. You’re telling me to back off the princess for fear of Stentor’s wrath, and yet you want to go looking for the”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“you know what we’re not even supposed to talk about. Is that it?”

  Triston turned back to the garden-turned-parade ground, a worried line creasing his brow. He had to admit Alden had a point. Why couldn’t he just let the whole thing go? He’d done all he could.

  “If you don’t let me up, I’ll tell them Trist’s got the goods on Magog’s hoard!”

  “I’ll cut your tongue out and feed it to you in a brandy sauce you little—”

  “I think I’ll go see Alfrich about the catacombs. I’ll be back.”

  But the Lord Chamberlain adamantly refused to even discuss allowing Triston into the forbidden area, declaring that Stentor would have them both flayed alive if he suspected they were searching for the Serpentaugrum. “And Captain Mugwort and his men will be looking for any excuse to provoke a legal confrontation. If you were found in that sacred place, where only the kings are wont to go, you would swiftly join those long dead nearby.”

  Unwilling to return to idleness in their rooms, Triston was left to wander the castle and the grounds alone. He felt restless but stymied, waiting for some stroke of doom he knew was coming, powerless to hinder it.

  As he trod the garden paths and marble corridors of Whitecastle, one artful image recurred again and again, graven in friezes, sewn into tapestries, and carved in bronze: the sea serpent, the leviathan. While the hours passed and the day waned, he began to imagine he heard its long wail echoing above a sounding sea. But neither inside nor out did any presence call to him. And when he at last returned to his room and slept, it was Magog whose sulfurous breath clouded his dreams.

  “And to think I was wishing he’d knighted me too.” Owain was looking between Triston and Alden,
his face a picture of unrestrained glee. “I’d fake being sick before I went out wearing that.”

  It was late afternoon the following day. Minutes earlier their usual footman had arrived with formal invitations to the princess’ party, which was expected, and a chest of folded garments Triston and Alden were to wear, which was most certainly not expected. When a suddenly subdued Alden lifted out a blue-silk waistcoat embroidered with silver roses, Owain bit his lip to hold back his mirth.

  The footman was not amused. Helping Triston affix a lace cravat above his maroon waistcoat, he clucked his tongue indignantly. “Sumptuous attire marks the gentleman and is required for all courtly balls.”

  At this, Owain lost control completely.

  Alden glowered as the footman fussily arranged a feathered tricorn hat on his head. “Who will rid me of this troublesome squire?”

  “For future galas, the Sir may design a livery of his choice for squires in his service,” said the footman with a vindictive glare at Owain, who stopped laughing at once. “But most unhappily, time is short at present.”

  Half an hour later, Triston and Alden found themselves seated in the garden at one end of a long table. Hundreds of lamps glowed silver and gold in the spreading branches of a stately elm above them. Owain stood at attention behind Alden, greedily eyeing the feast, which included an entire roasted pig glistening with honeybutter and mouthwatering herbs.

  Triston, whose opinion of royal parties was seriously shaken by the dress code, found his spirits lifting as each dish was unveiled revealing some new wonder or familiar delicacy. But his heart darkened when he glanced up the table. The king and princess sat beneath a silken canopy glowing with captured fireflies. But once again, Captain Mugwort was absent, his customary seat beside the princess taken instead by the Lord Chamberlain.

  “Convenient time to go a-hunting, eh?” whispered Alden beside him, his eyes on Alfrich’s chair. “Everyone’s feasting and drinking, and the whole castle’s empty. What’s the betting Muggy’s down in the catacombs right this instant?”