The Dragon's Fury (Book 1)

by D Mickleson

  “I will,” said Stentor. “Lead the way, chamberlain. I will personally handle this. Doorwards, bind their hands, then find six or seven more guards and meet us in the Lord Chamberlain’s rooms. Triston and you,” he growled, when Triston and Alden’s wrists were bound behind their backs, “come with us.” He bowed to the assembled lords, “Await our return forthwith, my lords. We will not delay overmuch.”

  But Strungent rose ponderously. “We would witness this extraordinary matter, Sire, with your permission?” The king, however, was already following Alfrich from the room and didn’t respond. The lords seemed to take his silence for assent. The odd procession trooped through the palace. Alfrich and the king led the way, the two prisoners and the princess close behind. A growing band of palace guards, all the lords of Court, and a forgotten Owain brought up the rear.

  Alden looked sidelong at Triston as they climbed the stairs to the second level. “You really stuck your neck out on this one, Trist. Are we about to die or what?”

  Triston shook his head. “Sarconius is coming. It was speak-up or die anyway.”

  A minute later, Alfrich bowed the king into his parlor, the same room Triston, Alden and Owain had waited their first evening at Whitecastle.

  The chamber was spacious, but by the time all the guards and lords had pressed in, Owain found his view blocked. Desperate, he began wedging himself forward between the wall and a fat lord whose rich furs tickled his nose and made him sneeze repeatedly. He started shoving harder but the man wouldn’t budge.

  In the meantime, Alfrich had paced over to an ornate shelf bearing many artifacts, mostly dwarvish. All eyes fell on one, a white knife which seemed to gleam faintly with its own inner light. He bowed and presented the weapon to the king, who quickly inspected both sides. Stentor grunted.

  “Nothing there, as I thought. Very well. Guards, take these prisoners to the gallows at once and hang them. Him for bearing false witness and him for daring to do violence in the Royal Council Chamber. The other, the child, he may go.”

  Abigail rushed forward, her eyes just as bloodshot as they’d been in the turret. “No Father! Just let them go. It was an honest—”

  “Sire,” shouted Triston. “He could have filed it off. Check the room for letters! Check for evidence. I’m telling you he’s a traitor!”

  Alden elbowed an approaching guard in the face and kicked another in the groin. The room suddenly filled with the ringing of steel as guards and lords once again drew their blades.

  “Ald! Trist! I’m coming! Budge off you big brute! I’m coming!” came a small voice from behind the others. Suddenly a tumultuous clanging erupted near the fireplace. Owain had forced his way past the fat lord and collided with the jewel-encrusted dwarven armor standing beside the hearth. Both he and the lord fell on top of it, and the armor broke at the hinges. Suddenly, a torrent of gold and silver coins burst from within, rolling everywhere.

  And everywhere, everyone froze.

  Stentor and Alfrich were staring at an enormous doubloon spinning at their feet. When it rolled to a stop with a clatter which rang into the sudden silence, the king bent and picked it up. “Imperial bullion,” he muttered disbelievingly. He goggled at the laurel-crowned profile newly minted on the coin, then looked around. “All of it. I’ve never seen such profusion. Who but the emperor himself has so much?” He looked at Alfrich. “I don’t understand, chamberlain.”

  Alfrich was now regarding the king with the same amused smile he’d previously bestowed on Triston. He stepped over to his shelf, coins clinking beneath his feet with each step, and picked up something small and shiny. “Don’t you?” he said to Stentor. “Don’t you understand, Your Majesty? Did you really think you could execute my son and not pay the price?”

  His arm suddenly jerked toward Stentor, who seemed too stunned by this turn of events to react. Triston caught sight of a metallic flash in Alfrich’s outstretched hand. Then Alden, who stood nearest the king, became a blur of motion. Almost too swiftly for the eye to follow, he loosed a vertical kick into Alfrich’s shoulder. The chamberlain’s frail body seemed to crumple at the blow. His thrust at the king went wide, jabbing into empty air as his body slammed into the hearth.

  No one moved. All eyes were fixed on Alfrich. He lay broken and unmoving before the fire. Stentor began to step over to him, his face a picture of disbelief, but Triston shouted, “I wouldn’t, Sire. He’s got something in his hand.”

  Alfrich’s eyes shot open. He tilted his head to look at Triston. “Well-played boy,” he wheezed, struggling for breath. “I thought you might prove useful to me, help me find it. I’d have let you live when the others die, but alas for you now. Alas for all of you.”

  “Alfie, what have you done?” cried Abigail.

  Slowly he turned his head. His eyes met hers, and maybe for a moment remorse showed on his lined face. Then, more slowly still, almost lovingly, he lifted his right hand, revealing a green-tipped dart between his fingers, and pushed the dwarven weapon into his heart. At once his chest heaved off the ground in an arch and his eyes rolled in his head. Then it was over. His body slumped back to the floor.

  The silence that followed probably only lasted five or six seconds, but it felt to Triston like ages. Finally Strungent spoke. “A death too easy for a cursed turncoat. But what damage has he done? What about this fleet approaching?”

  Stentor’s face was white and clammy as he stared down at his former friend. “Impossible. This can’t be,” he whispered.

  Abigail reached up and touched his shoulder. “Daddy?”

  Stentor turned to her, and those nearest thought a light grew in his eyes as he met her gaze. Suddenly he stiffened, looking around at them all.

  “Someone fetch Mugwort, if he’s well enough. They’re coming.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE LIVING DEAD

  Othar: Love defy this parting. I will not leave thee—

  Sari: Nay! When your body grows cold, return not.

  —Bragacio, Saradoc’s Theater, The Lingering Lover, 1160

  The spirit of Magog hovered over the sea.

  He flew above the masts to view the little men scurrying about on the battlements, then plunged beneath the waves where infinitesimal flakes of gold, indiscernible to human eyes, gilded the seabed.

  His master was angry. Something had gone very wrong.

  Did Magog care? Not really, he decided. But he bent his thoughts anyway on the seething human who held the carnal portal. In his long years of servitude, the dragon had learned that human masters rarely become this angry without using him to move things around or blow people up.

  Magog listened. Aaahhhh, that was it. His master had expected the Seagate to be open, ready for him to sail right through and claim the human citadel. Instead he found the wall shut and teeming with archers. Did this mean the king’s army had not been sent away as had been agreed? The bribe, it seemed, had failed to achieve its purpose.

  The dragon turned a somersault absentmindedly, deciding he couldn’t be bothered to care after all. One way or another, his enslavement would continue. Whoever prevailed in this fight, his servitude would go on. Not until the boy, the dragonslayer’s heir who had reawakened the magic a few days ago, died, would his spirit return to the old haunt for more years of restless waiting.

  Until the next heir came along. They always did.

  Suddenly Magog was aware of another presence dwelling nearby. He rose, soaring as far and high from the binding power of the portal as his strength allowed. Soon the wargalleys below looked like drifting leaves fluttering on a rippling pond. Magog bent his thought on the citadel. Except for new walls over the water, the human fastness had hardly changed from the old days, when he had lusted for the gold within but never braved such a bold assault.

  The other spirit was trapped inside. An old friend. Dragon called to serpent, and the other was aware of him.

  She reared a long, spectral neck and sniffed at the air, finding something to interest her for the first tim
e in many lives of men. She found him, but could not go to him, confined within the castle walls, confined for so long . . . .

  She watched as tiny points of light bustled around in great excitement. Human spirits, so small but so bright, followed along in the wake of their earthly bodies. They had no idea how weak was the bond that held those spirits earthbound. By the smell of battle in the air, a great many would soon be loosed into the heavens.

  The dragon sensed her thoughts and joined her groan. To be loosed with them, to leave this place at last . . . .

  He felt the familiar tug and resisted, though he knew it was pointless. As always, the binding magic overpowered his will and he felt his spirit yield up to the will of another. The Seagate must be opened. The fleet must land or all was lost.

  Magog watched, a mere spectator, as his own essence reached out for the gate, grasping for gears and hinges, bolts and levers. He felt the will harden. A command was issued. With a groaning that caused the archers on the wall to stop their ears with their palms—how frail were mortal bodies, especially humans—the Seagate ground open.

  With cries of alarm, engineers in the Control Tower leapt into action. Magog looked on, grudgingly impressed by human ingenuity—it was all they had—as they began cranking huge, well-oiled wheels, tightening chains, locking levers back in place.

  The mighty gate shuddered to a halt.

  But his master issued another command. In the Control Tower, a young, blond-headed engineer began jerking weirdly. The master’s mind was battling with this man’s for control of his body. Magog seethed as he felt his own essence being used to overcome this frail human will. The man suddenly pulled at the iron crank he’d been turning, ripping it off the shaft it had been connected to and raising it high in the air. The man next to him was oblivious, straining to hold down the main control lever.

  The first blow cracked his skull and robbed him instantly of consciousness. The second exposed gray matter beneath a mat of hair, blood and shattered skull. Seven more times the crank rose and fell before an aged wheelwright severed his arm.

  “Why, Dugan?” he shouted over the tumult. “Why’d ya do it, son?”

  The remaining five engineers had pressed on, dogged and grim-faced in their struggle to turn back the gate. Much more than their own lives was at stake. No thought of giving in entered their hearts, Magog knew, whatever strange powers their enemy possessed. He watched them in awe. Self-sacrifice was a concept he’d never grasped in life.

  Then a ball of blood-red fire flew through the tower’s north door, shaped itself into a shrieking banshee with long, outstretched arms, and plunged down the open mouth of the Master Engineer before bursting out of his charred stomach.

  The remaining men fled in terror. And the Seagate opened.

  By the time the fleet was sailing through, the master was slumped against a timber. His face dripped with sweat, his eyes moving in and out of focus. Magog wondered idly whether he would die or merely faint. This one was weaker than the other, the boy who’d possessed him for so short a time. That one had reminded Magog of the human sorcerer who had imprisoned his spirit long ago. Few humans possessed willpower in such fearsome measure.

  Magog had been glad to be rid of the boy.

  His new master, though weary, was brimming with fury. He was spent, and he’d been planning to use Magog to destroy what little resistance might block his way. Now the invaders would have to fight without magic.

  Magog turned another somersault.

  Alden watched excitedly as the Meridians worked, keeping up a running commentary on their efforts. “It’s why they always win in the end,” he said enthusiastically. “They’re patient. They know time is on their side. They avoid risks if they can. It’s like their wisemen say, ‘Truly the spade is keener than the blade.’”

  Not for the first time, Triston and Owain shared an exasperated look behind his back. They’d been heartened when, at the urgent command of the king’s speediest messengers, the main force returned in time to man the battlements before the imperial invaders could mount an attack. Now, after what felt an interminable period waiting, all the while listening to Alden go on about the irrestibility of imperial siegecraft, their patience was wearing thin.

  Triston fingered the hilt of the sword Mugwort had lent him. The unadorned blade fell short of Bloodprice’s magnificence, but at least he could wield it one-handed without the help of a Relic of Power.

  “Ald, you know everything they’re doing is so they can kill us easier, don’t you?” he said irritably, staring down at the busy invaders.

  The beach was black with armored legions. To Triston’s surprise they had attempted no assault against the Fangwall, nor even had they strayed within bow range. Instead, hardly seeming to notice the Corellian force nervously watching them from the battlements, the legionnaires had set to work erecting catapults, digging trenches, and, ominously, laying the groundwork for a tunnel leading from the beach to the wall.

  Alden shrugged his shoulders. “Just because the temptress is perilous doesn’t mean she isn’t beautiful.”

  Owain snorted. “Uh, just wondering, when you say ‘temptress’ you mean those hairy brutes flinging mud down there, right?”

  For once Alden failed to punish Owain’s cheekiness, only continuing to watch the invading force with something like rapture in his eyes. “And those barrels probably hold the blasting powder. It’s a Meridian invention. They say the emperor values its secret above a hundred legions. They’ll use it to blow the wall up when the tunnel’s done. Stunning, right?”

  “Yeah Ald. Really great. I can’t wait to see—” But his reply was cut short when he noticed a company of archers hurrying along the parapet behind him. “Where are you going, Your Highness? Tell me you’re not planning to fight.”

  The company halted. Princess Abigail stepped toward him, looking haughty. “For your information, I happen to be the finest bowman in the kingdom, swordboy. How dare you speak to me like that!”

  At these words, Triston and Alden guffawed.

  “Swordboy!” said Triston.

  “Bowman!” snorted Alden.

  “Sergeant, does the king know she’s with you?” asked Triston.

  “It’s not safe for her,” agreed Alden. Then a strange look came over his face and he turned from Abigail to Triston.

  “We should take her back inside,” said Triston. “Alden, are you with me?”

  Before Alden could answer, Abigail deftly drew a feathered shaft from her quiver, raised her shortbow and let the arrow fly. The tip pierced Triston’s hood an inch from his neck, driving the cloth deep into a lamppost’s wooden beam. While he struggled to free himself, and everyone else laughed, Abigail watched his humiliation with cold satisfaction.

  “That was awesome!” chortled Owain. “I say she’s tough enough to fight with us. Kicked your butt, Trist.”

  Before Owain knew what was happening, Abigail had pranced forward, planted a firm kiss on his cheek, then turned about with a humph and marched away. The other archers hurried along in her wake.

  Triston broke free at last by tearing his hood while Alden looked on with a frown.

  “Really, Triston?” he said.

  “What?”

  “You know what.”

  “I don’t.”

  “She’s mine, Trist.”

  “She’s nobody’s yet.”

  “Actually, unlike me, you two pathetic losers haven’t even scored a kiss yet.”

  “I bring word from the king,” snapped an impatient voice behind them. Triston turned to see Mugwort standing a foot away, looking, as he always did when Alden was around, tense and angry.

  “Captain Muggy! I mean, just Muggy now isn’t it? How nice to see you!” shouted Alden in his face. “You look . . . different. Did you get a haircut?”

  Mugwort swore, seething. The toothless gap behind his swollen lips was even uglier in the broad light of early evening. “To you, Triston,” he said with forced calm. “You are wanted in
the east sitting room. At once. I was to deliver the message on my way to fetch the princess back to the castle.” He paused, looking like whatever was on his mind was extremely distasteful. “And, if I may say so, I am sorry I doubted you. Your warning . . . well, we owe you thanks.”

  “No problem,” said Triston, grinning. “And I’m sorry I thought you were the traitor. Those visits to the catacombs and so on.”

  Mugwort looked shocked. “I was there to stop you from stealing the Relic!”

  Alden laughed coldly. “It would be a pity to have a treasure stolen from under your very nose.”

  Mugwort closed his eyes. “Triston, you’re wanted at once. Go.”

  As Triston hurried away, he caught a few of the words Mugwort spoke to Alden. “. . . like are a child . . . perhaps you’re too afraid to . . . like a man? . . . the king’s ban on dueling . . . .”

  Alden’s laughter rang behind him as Triston jogged along the parapet. “Damn you Alden,” he muttered to himself.

  Once inside, Triston raced down the castle’s corridors, passing no one. The interior was as empty and quiet as the Fangwall was crowded and boisterous. Finding the door to the royal chambers open, Triston headed along a wide hall past a series of bearded busts. When he reached the east sitting room, he found the door ajar. He was about to enter when he paused, hearing two urgent voices inside.

  “Fates above,” King Stentor grumbled. “Can’t think why he doesn’t blow the wall up right now if it’s anywhere near as powerful as you say.”

  “The fool has probably pushed himself to death’s door already,” growled a harsh, but strangely high voice. “He may be wary of assaulting us just yet. But there’s no time to waste. We must find the Serpentaugrum, find it and use it against the enemy, or that’s the end of our little kingdom. Those he lets live, Sarconius will rule as slaves.”

  “Such use carries many risks. Even if I agreed to this course, what hope have we of finding in mere hours that which has lain hidden for centuries?” said Stentor, sounding desperate. Beneath the king’s worried tone, Triston sensed something else. Disgust. Loathing, poorly concealed. “Oughtn’t we evacuate now before it’s too late? I already sent Mugwort to fetch Abigail and lead her out through the catacombs as soon as possible. Shouldn’t the rest of us follow them as soon as—”