“I was scouting the room for spies and informants,” Eric protested.
The snort was from more than one woman in the room. Alexi did the unthinkable and pointed her sword at Eric. “You sir,” she said, mocking the title, “strike me as an ogler. I’ve seen it firsthand with that barmaid back at the tavern where we met, and your eyes were all over the room. Besides, the scouting remark was so weak as to be laughable.”
Lucius looked at Eric. “She’s right, you know. I think you’d have come up with something better than that.”
“Whose side are you on, anyway?” Eric was annoyed with his associate and was starting to think his plan to enlist Gabby was another in a long line of mistakes.
“Hey!” The stranger put his dagger back at Diamedes’ throat, getting their attention once and for all. “I’m the one with the blade at your companion’s neck.”
The others quickly stopped their bickering to focus on the other man. “So what now?” Lucius asked.
The man took his dagger and pointed it at Alexi. “Now . . .” the man said, his tone menacing and serious, “we kill her.”
Chapter 9
Ambush
The small caravan was crossing the pass, coming up from the Ulathan green valley far below, switching back along the rutted road as it headed north toward Moartown and the farther realm of Regis. The last thing they were expecting was an attack by a group of wolves and a rather nasty wyvern, which looked like a small dragon with a stinger for a tail, if they knew what a dragon looked like.
The caravan was only half massacred, its few mercenary guards falling relatively easily to the wyvern drone, and the massive white wolves finished those who stood and fought. Only five of the ten wagons made it through with those survivors fleeing for their lives. The wolves would eat well that day, and after a long winter, it was a most welcome feast for them.
Artika had been alerted to the armed intrusion into her winter lair by the alpha male of the wolf pack days before. The large wolf had gone to the near edge of the large glacier and scratched at the surface ice. Normally, not a soul, animal, beast, or otherwise could hear the faint sound of claws against the hard ice, but the white dragon was in tune with the cold, and the ice above her conveyed the attempt to notify her, alerting her to the wolf’s presence.
She had come out then, down through the dark blue icy waters, and met with her scouts, the winter white wolves of the north who informed her of recent events. The most significant was the arrival of Askia, her wyvern drone. Their conversation had to wait, however, until the immediate threats were dealt with.
So the sun had started to climb high overhead, casting its glowing warmth, which annoyed Artika greatly. She preferred to strike during the night, when it was the darkest and coldest, but the passing caravan, so close to her abode, signaled the need for them to take immediate action. To that end, she had ordered the attack and had watched it from afar as it unfolded. With some small content, she observed her drone as he flew toward her, dripping blood from his claws and face.
With a little puff of powder, the drone landed in front of her and bowed its head on its long neck in deference to her kind.
“Easy task,” Artika said, noting that there was no loss of life amongst her servant wolves, and the drone was uninjured in the attack as well.
“Yes, Mistress,” Askia said, lifting his head up slowly to ensure her approval of his demonstration of respect. “They seem to have gotten softer the last few centuries.”
“Not all of them are soft,” she said, looking at her left foot where two claws had been sheared from her body. “They still have some fight in them, especially those magic lovers of theirs.”
“You refer to the Kesh, Mistress?”
“None other,” she said, returning her gaze to her drone. “Why had you not arrived earlier? Harm could have come to me.”
Askia lowered his head a second time, this time in an apologetic gesture. “The time is still early, Princess of Frost. It appears that the Kesh have interrupted the cycle for an unknown, or unknown reasons.”
This news interested the white dragon. She was one of the few of her kind that slumbered near their realm, which was considered dangerous, if anything could be considered dangerous to her kind, and news of their actions, plans, or designs were always intriguing to her. “I sense they are still near since my last encounter with them.”
Her drone raised its head for a second time. “I too sense the same, Lady of Winter, though I could not detect their presence anywhere near here.”
“Yes, they play with power that they do not understand, though I’m certain they have a hand in what is happening here. I do not think they have strayed far, and they were surprised when I happened across them not long ago. Now tell me, what news from our queen?” Artika took a moment to look down the mountain slope at the feeding wolves that she commanded, noting with some approval of their feeding. It had been a long winter for them, and the fast was broken by fresh meat.
“The northerners have been mobilized. They fight both for us and against us.” Askia looked his mistress in the eye to detect any sign of emotion in the great beast.
The white dragon snorted, blowing a large puff of snow in front of it, and sent the flakes dancing across the wind around her drone. “Those stupid barbarian clans are useless to us. I don’t understand why the queen insists on continuing to use her little pets in this ridiculous game of hers.”
The drone nodded, understanding that more than one white dragon had died at the hands of the great red dragons, but more than one of the ruling reds were given a reminder of the ordeal with a frozen and useless limb or an eye blinded and useless for the rest of their lives. White dragons were vulnerable to the fire-breathing reds, but the reds were in turn most affected by the frost breath weapon of her kind. A red could kill a white, but oftentimes at a price, and this gave the smaller whites a certain arrogance that was dangerous to all involved.
“Perhaps she thinks her pets make our work easier?” Askia offered, careful not to take sides between the Queen of Fire and the Princess of Frost.
“They make for good slaves and food, but not much else. Better to let us fly free and attack at will, much as we did in the days of the ancient ones.” Artika turned her attention to the drone, content that the caravan attack was over and that the wolves had done her will.
“The ancients left long ago, but I would agree with you, Oh Mistress of the Night. Those were magnificent days.”
Artika smiled inwardly at the flattering words of the drone. It was said that Sivern, the drone of Qui Amatha, Queen of the Black Dragons, was the most flattering of all the wyvern drones, but Artika thought her own drone was more than a match for the evil black’s. “So that is all the news from our fearless leader?”
The tone of hatred toward their queen was obvious, and a dragon’s manners were not the most tactful in any situation. The drone would just have to deal with it and walk the fine line between the two egomaniacal species of dragon kind. “It would appear so, Your Majestic Permeator of All Things Cold . . .”
Artika narrowed her eyes and looked at the drone attentively. Perhaps she was overestimating his ability with regards to flattery and adulation, as that last effort sounded awkward to her at best. “Go on,” she prompted him.
“The approach of the Father is coming, but not for a season or so yet. The early awakenings are suspected to be of the Kesh doing. The queen investigates even now and has commanded that the reaping be prepared for, despite the earliness of the time.”
The white dragon pondered the command of her queen. “This is a dangerous time with the Father so far away—our powers are diminished. Still, there may be wisdom in her words, for the magic-using humans are up to something. That much is certain. I’ve never experienced three of them together outside of their own miserable land. We must prepare, then.”
“What do you have in mind, White Death?”
“It is time to marshal not only our strength but our forces a
s well.”
“You move, then, early to reap?” Askia had a gleam in his eye.
“Yes,”Artika said, moving to stand from where she lounged on a large piece of ice that jutted out from the mountainside, a remnant of an ancient glacier. Flapping her wings, she stretched and prepared to return to her lair for the summoning of her forces. “Fly to the queen and report our intentions. Be sure to inform my servants that their time of service has arrived. I will await for you at Ice Crest.”
“Then?” the drone raised itself, also preparing for flight.
The white dragon was amused. “Then I live up to my last moniker you gave me—White Death.”
The ruse was a simple one, though the group felt it was unnecessary and awkward to execute. Gabby called for a coffin and allowed the most gossipy of her servants to peek in the door and declare her guest, the holy warrior, dead. It took nearly an hour for the group to convince Alexi to play along. In the end, it was the historian himself who asked her to do the deed and play the part.
The stranger revealed to Diamedes that he worked for Seth, also a Balarian, and the name seemed familiar to those in the room, but Diamedes knew the man, and when he showed a special coin that Seth had given to the historian earlier that year, it was enough for the historian to trust the killer.
The plan called for Eric, Lucius, and Diamedes to ride to Blood Rock that next day. The stranger who said his name was Zokar would lead Gabby and Alexi to where the raiders were going to ambush the trio and in turn hit them first before they hit their companions.
The plan was met with a lot of skepticism, and Gabby complained that she’d have no one to care for her inn while she was gone. A deal was made to have Lucius return to Razor Rock and watch over the place while Gabby accompanied Eric and the Tynirians.
“Do you really think this will work?” Lucius asked to no one in particular as the trio rode on their mounts across a narrow road that cut across the wildlands near Razor Rock. They were heading northeast, back toward the main trade road between Ulatha and Regis.
Eric answered, “It better. That Balarian killer said that their orders were to kill you two and make it look like I did it. That doesn’t exactly make me feel better, but watching you two as bait seems worse.”
“It is worse,” Lucius said, giving his associate a sideways look.
Eric looked at the man and then at Diamedes, who nodded. “Your associate speaks truthfully.”
“You keep strange company,” Eric said to the small historian as they rode.
“How so?” Diamedes asked.
“Well,” Eric began, “you show up first by yourself in—”
“Not by myself. I was with the justiciar.”
“Yes, that is exactly what I mean,” Eric said. “First you arrive in Moartown with an Ulathan justiciar, then you invite one of the king’s Fists—”
“The Fist,” Diamedes corrected.
“All right, the Fist, a deadly holy warrior from the Order of Astor, and if I understand their religion correctly, they don’t tolerate those of questionable backgrounds.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Lucius added.
“And, then we find that a Balarian assassin, with orders to frame me for murder and execute you, turns up in my ex-wife’s private chambers . . . Hey, you don’t think . . . ?”
“Eric, please,” Lucius said. “Move on.”
Eric shrugged. “All right, moving on, then. So this hired killer is someone who works for one of the most deadly assassins in all of Agon, who just so happens to have some sort of working relationship with you, and now we put all this together and?”
Diamedes laughed, one of the few times he did so. “I see your point. From my perspective, history is history, good, evil, and everything in between. I believe fact and knowledge should be our ultimate goal, as that would allow us to transcend the rumors, strife, and ignorance that has been plaguing us for millennia.”
“You refer to the dragons?” Lucius asked.
“Mostly, yes,” the historian clarified. “That is a large part of our history and our lack of awareness with what our world endures, but there is more to it than just that. Even without such cataclysmic events, we should ask ourselves why we are who we are.”
“Meaning?” Lucius pressed forward.
“Meaning, for example, why do only the Kesh use magic? Why do the Arnen sleep the way the dragons do? Why does the Mother flee when the Father approaches?”
“I thought you dealt in fact,” Eric shot back at hearing that last remark. “The gods are superstition and not something I thought you’d consider as history.”
It was Diamedes’ turn to shrug. “Perhaps, perhaps not. What would you say if you found out that the Mother and the Father were simply names given to represent worlds and not actual gods?”
“Some would call that blasphemy, and I’d not say that around that holy warrior woman.” Lucius spoke forcibly.
“But not our good Eric here; he understands differently, does he not?” Diamedes said.
“Hang on a second, I wasn’t saying I did or did not believe in any of the gods, so don’t put words in my mouth,” Eric protested.
“The northmen consider dragons to be gods.” Diamedes looked forward at the road.
“Some of them do,” Eric said, having had experience with the clans of barbarians far to the north of them.
“So are they right or are they wrong?”
“I still don’t see your point,” Eric countered, looking forward and changing the subject. “There it is.”
In the distance, a large rock the size of a small hill stood on the grassy plain as if thrown there by one of the aforementioned gods in anger. It was very reddish in hue, though not exactly the bright red of blood, but enough so that it gave the locals a reason to anoint it with an entertaining name.
“Blood Rock,” Lucius said. “Do you think those raiders are there waiting for us?”
“I don’t know, but I hope that our good Fist and your daughter have arrived before us,” Diamedes said.
“If not, then it was a pleasure to have met you, Master Historian,” Lucius said, turning his neck to look at the man and nod in satisfaction.
“Let’s not get too pessimistic,” Diamedes said. “Remember what our young Master Eric noted not more than a few minutes ago.”
“What did I note?” Eric asked.
“The fact that I keep strange company.” Diamedes smiled.
“I can think of nothing that could frighten any soul more than my ex accompanied by a holy warrior from Tynria and an assassin from Balaria.”
“Agreed,” Diamedes said, as Lucius frowned but remained silent.
“There they are, just like that spy said they would be,” the second raider said.
Argos nodded, keeping his hand up to his eyes to shade them. “They will arrive here in less than half an hour at that pace.” The man turned to a third companion in a white cloak that stood out in the grassy and rocky crags of the wild lands where they were waiting. “You sure your services are needed here? Seems like overkill for three wayward peasants.”
The man held on to a metallic staff with a beautiful gemstone set into its tip. The raider’s first thought was how much coin that huge gem would fetch in one of Balaria’s black markets. Then, a simple look at the man attached to the gemstone and staff, and it was obvious that life was more precious than death, for a Kesh wizard commanded the power in that stone and would not part with it without a fight.
“If the mage is correct, then our spy will be bringing a party of killers for you.” The wizard spoke matter-of-factly as if their death would be assured and his survival likewise.
“Why would he double-cross us?” Argos asked, stepping back into the crevice where the trio stood, ensuring he was in the shade of the sun.
“Not you, but my order,” the wizard said.
“What are you getting at?” the second-in-command said, forgetting for a moment with whom he was speaking. Argos visibly grimaced at the l
ack of tact in his companion, and hoped the Kesh wizard wouldn’t do something hasty.
The wizard never looked at the man, instead watching the approaching riders far away. “There are those who work with us and those who work against us. This man, the spy as you refer to him, could easily kill all of you single-handedly. That is why I am here. You need help against one of Seth the Sword Slayer’s hand-picked assassins.”
“I knew there was something about him,” Argos said, feeling a shudder down his spine.
“Hardly,” his second scoffed. “You almost picked a fight with him last night.”
“A fight you all would never have survived,” the wizard said. “Now the real question is where is he and who is he bringing?”
“You’re saying that local spy is a Balarian assassin and he’s bringing other killers with him to ambush us?”
“You are most astute,” the wizard said.
Argos wasn’t sure if the man was mocking him or praising his ability to quickly comprehend the situation, but based on what he knew about the Kesh in general, he’d bet all his money that the man was mocking. “Then we best check on the rest of our group and ensure that the double-crosser isn’t anywhere near us.”
The wizard gave a slight nod but didn’t move. Instead, he pulled out a small glass ball that glowed a light blue in color. It was his critir, and he set the butt of his staff on the ground and allowed it to lean into his shoulder, his arm keeping it upright, allowing him to hold the critir in one hand and rub it with the other. Shortly, the colors inside swirled a mixture of blue, green, and brown, and the man’s eyebrows raised as a look of surprise crossed his face.
“What is it?” the second said.
“Yes, is something wrong?” Argos asked.
The wizard looked up and frowned. Taking a moment to look at both men, the first time he had looked at Argos’ second-in-command all day, he spoke, and his words sent a chill down their spines. “I’m afraid to say they have already arrived. Death has come for you.”
The White Dragon Page 10
