Dragonslayer (The Dragonslayer)

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  “We’re leaving directly,” Guillot said. “We need a horse for the prisoner and the keys to her shackles. My man will see you’re well paid for the horse. Quickly now. I don’t have all day.” He gestured to dal Sason and let out a discreet sigh of relief.

  “That was a stroke of luck,” dal Sason whispered.

  Guillot didn’t respond. There was a time when doing things like that was a regular feature in his life. When he hadn’t needed to rely on luck to get through them.

  “Pay for the horse quickly,” he said softly to dal Sason. “I don’t care if it only has three legs. We need to get out of here fast. We need to put as much distance between us and Trelain as we can before this lot start to think about what’s just happened.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  They rode through the day, only stopping when they had to rest the horses for as short a time as possible. As evening drew near, Gill decided they had gone far enough and declared it time to venture off the road and find somewhere to camp for the night. They looked around for a while, Gill’s primary focus being that they were far enough from the road to light a fire without being seen. When they finally found somewhere he liked, they began settling in. The fire was lit, the horses fed, watered, and secured. All that remained was the awkwardness of trying to make small talk with the woman he had rescued.

  “What are you going to do with me?” the woman said, finally breaking the silence.

  Guillot looked at her over the flames of a fire that had taken him far more effort to start than it should have. “I’m going to take you another twenty or thirty miles along the road, and then I’m going to let you go.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise, as did dal Sason’s.

  “Are you sure that’s wise, Lord Villerauvais?” dal Sason said.

  “You might as well call me Gill. Everyone else does, and no, I’m not sure, but I’m going to do it anyway.”

  The woman cast dal Sason a filthy look. “Why have you left these on, then?” she said to Gill, holding up her manacled hands.

  “Truthfully?”

  She nodded.

  “I forgot about them.”

  She rattled the chains.

  “Yes, of course,” Guillot said. He stood and made his way over to her, fumbling in his purse for the key.

  “My Lord. Gill,” dal Sason said. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “I’ve had plenty of bad ideas,” Gill said, “and none of them have killed me yet.”

  “You said we were going to preserve her for a proper trial, not to simply let her go. What if the people were telling the truth?”

  “Come on, did you see the man who accused her? I’m under no illusions of what happened there. Am I correct?”

  The woman shrugged. “He tried to get into my skirt. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer. I hit him with a brick and got away.”

  “And thus a woman becomes a witch,” Guillot said. “I’ve seen it before. The duke needs to keep a tighter hand on his subjects. Spending more time in Trelain would be a good start.” He unlocked the manacles, which she removed; she began to rub her red, raw wrists. Gill grimaced at the sight. He’d been so preoccupied with getting away from Trelain, the bonds had genuinely slipped his mind. The woman hadn’t complained once all day.

  Well, it was his first rescue in many years. He couldn’t be expected to get everything right the first time back.

  “What’s your name?” he said.

  “Solène.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re from Trelain,” Guillot said.

  She shook her head. “No, I’m not from anywhere you’d have heard of.”

  Guillot nodded. “Fine, there’s no need to tell us. I’m Guillot dal Villerauvais. This is my … This is Banneret of the White Nicholas dal Sason. Until we part tomorrow, you can consider yourself under my protection, and completely safe.” It had been a very long time since he had played the gallant knight-errant, but it came to him more easily than he had expected. Certainly more easily than lighting the fire.

  “I’m grateful to you, my Lord,” Solène said. “Have you anything to eat? I’m starving.”

  Guillot raised a hand in apology for this second omission. He handed her some bread, cheese, and an apple from his saddlebags before sitting down again. Solène started on the food with intent, pausing only to give both men a brief, foul look as they stared at her. As she worked her way through his provisions, Gill’s hopes for a decent breakfast faded.

  “What’s a banneret of the white?” she said, between mouthfuls.

  “It means you’re a very good swordsman,” Guillot said. “That you’ve been to a special school and trained for years to earn the title. Bannerets are good; Bannerets of the White are even better.”

  Dal Sason cleared his throat. “The trouble in Villerauvais?” he said, changing the subject. “Is that what convinced you to come back with me?”

  “Should it have convinced me?” Guillot said, his simmering suspicions heating.

  “I have no idea, I only wondered. It was all anyone was talking about in the tavern; animals burned to a crisp in the middle of the night. The people were afraid.”

  “I’m going to try to bring back some soldiers to deal with it.”

  “Any idea what was doing it?” dal Sason said. “Some of the villagers thought it was a demon.” He laughed, but with a hesitant, nervous quality to the sound, as though he had not quite discounted the possibility.

  “They’re a superstitious lot. The village chaplain reckons half of them still pray to the old gods behind closed doors. No, it wasn’t a demon.”

  Dal Sason smiled and nodded.

  “It was a dragon.”

  Dal Sason’s face went white. Solène stared at Gill with wide eyes.

  Guillot studied dal Sason long enough to be certain this was the first he had heard of the dragon. That didn’t absolve the Prince Bishop, however. He was never one for keeping underlings informed of the bigger picture.

  “I’m going to turn in for the night,” Guillot said. “Sleep well.”

  * * *

  Dal Sason made no mention of Guillot’s dragon comment the next morning, although Guillot could tell that he was itching to. It amused him to have made such a profound statement so casually, but the stilted conversation at breakfast was probably his fault. They ate what little remained of their travelling rations after Solène’s meal the previous night, then prepared to set off.

  Guillot had not slept well and was irritable as a result. He had woken regularly during the night, either too hot and sweating profusely, or freezing and shivering uncontrollably. He found himself longing for a drink to take the edge off. One voice in his head said he had to stop, that drink would be the ruin of him, while another said that deep down, he didn’t want to stop. He could control his consumption if he chose, so there was no good reason why he shouldn’t allow himself just a taste. Enough to settle him.

  He squeezed his eyes tight and massaged his temples. The only thing the first voice had in its favour was that he was miles from anywhere he could get a drink. The fact did little to improve his mood, however.

  “I think we’ve put more than enough distance between Trelain and us,” Gill said as he mounted. He turned in his saddle to face Solène. “You are free to go.” Before she could answer, he turned to dal Sason. “The Prince Bishop is paying all the expenses of this mission?”

  Dal Sason nodded.

  “Excellent. Solène, please keep the horse. It’s a gift from the Prince Bishop of Mirabaya, Arch Prelate of the Unified Church. He can be an incredibly generous man at times. This too.” He tossed her the extra purse of coins he had brought with him, which he would be sure to charge to the Prince Bishop when they got to Mirabay.

  Solène caught the purse, looking confused. “Where should I go?”

  Guillot shrugged. “Does it matter? You’re alive and free. Do as you like. Go wherever you wish.”

  “What’s Mirabay like?” sh
e said.

  “It’s an open sore on the face of the world,” Guillot said.

  “I heard it’s called the ‘Jewel of the West,’” she said.

  “It all depends on your perspective. However, we really must be going. It was a pleasure,” he said, feeling a touch of panic that he might be burdened with a greater responsibility than he had foreseen. He doffed his wide-brimmed hat, which had long since lost the feather that had once decorated it, and spurred his horse on at a trot.

  Dal Sason had to canter to catch up to him.

  “Are you just going to leave her there?”

  “Yes,” Guillot said. “I thought you’d be glad to be rid of her. What more am I supposed to do? I risked my life to save her from being burned at the stake. I can’t be responsible for her forever.”

  “You’re a Chevalier of the Silver Circle. There’s a higher standard. I didn’t think we should have gotten involved, but we did, and now? It’s just not the done thing, leaving a young lady alone on the roads, is it?”

  “I was a Chevalier,” Guillot said. “The last I heard, they are no more. And if you think they held themselves to a higher standard, you’re sadly mistaken. A greater bunch of poxed-up whoresons you were unlikely to find.”

  They rode in silence for a time.

  Finally, Gill said, “Don’t sulk. If I was going back to Villerauvais, I’d probably take her, but I wouldn’t bring my worst enemy to Mirabay. I’m doing her a favour. Gods only know where she’d end up, in that city with no money or friends. This way, she has a horse. She has some coin.”

  “Mirabay’s not that bad a place.”

  “As I said, it all depends on your perspective.”

  “The full story got out after you left,” dal Sason said. “People really felt for you.”

  “That was decent of them,” Guillot said, his words full of venom. “I’d been disgraced, arrested, and had to fight for my life by that point. Hindsight is lovely, though.”

  “People thought it shameful. The old king was losing his mind, though no one realised it then. We learned later that the Prince Bishop and the new king, gods favour him, were pressing him to abdicate. It was only his sudden death that stopped that from happening.”

  “He shouldn’t have been so quick to judge,” Guillot said sharply. “I served him with every ounce of myself up to that point.” He paused for a moment, not confident of his statement. He had certainly been more diligent than the others, had always taken his duties seriously, but every ounce? That was what was expected of someone in a king’s service; what should be expected of someone in a king’s service, and deep down, he knew he had fallen short. Had he been too proud, too confident? Would anything have made a difference on that day?

  “I wasn’t supposed to be on duty that day,” Guillot said, “and I got drunk the night before. It had been my wife and child’s funeral, after all. It’s always struck me as curious that of all the Chevaliers guarding the king’s person that day, I was the only one arrested for negligence. The one who wasn’t supposed to be on duty. What of the man who was absent—the man I filled in for while he was cuckolding the Count of Harvin at his country estate? Was he arrested?”

  Dal Sason shrugged. “You were the old king’s favourite. They said you were the one he felt most let down by, fairly or not—”

  “Enough,” Guillot said. “I’m not interested in talking about it. The king to whom I pledged my life turned his back on me when I needed him the most. And don’t think for a second I don’t know that bastard Prince Bishop was involved up to his neck. He always hated me, and he twisted the knife the first chance he got. I should have killed him before I left the city. I’d have been doing a public service.”

  Guillot quickened his pace.

  “Where are you going in such a hurry? You’ll exhaust your horse.”

  “The nearest coaching inn. I need a drink.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  They reached the first way station mid-morning. It was small and offered no refreshment beyond water. Gill wasn’t sure whether he felt relieved or disappointed.

  “She’s following us,” dal Sason said, as they mounted their fresh horses.

  “What?” Guillot said. There had been some traffic on the road—merchants with carts and wagons, travellers, alone or in small groups—and Gill hadn’t noticed.

  “I said, she’s following us.”

  Guillot groaned inwardly. “That’s her business. Like I told her, she’s free. She can do whatever she wants.” They had passed a number of junctions on the road, giving her plenty of opportunity to head in a different direction. If she was still behind them, Guillot couldn’t help but agree with dal Sason’s assessment.

  “When are you planning on stopping?” dal Sason said.

  “When I find a coaching inn.”

  “The nearest one’s still a fair distance away. We’d have reached it this evening if you’d kept the proper pace. As it is, we’ll pass it this afternoon, too early to stop,” dal Sason said. “Which means another night on the roadside.”

  Guillot swore. “If you don’t enjoy the hardships of travel, perhaps you should have told the Prince Bishop to piss off. I know I regret never having taken the opportunity to.”

  Dal Sason didn’t respond.

  “Let’s get going. We’ve fresh mounts. We should be able to drop her before sunset. She’ll be close enough to the inn to have somewhere safe to spend the night.”

  They pushed on without pause for lunch, stopping only briefly at the inn to replenish their travelling provisions.

  “I think we should stop,” dal Sason said when the sun hung low over the horizon behind them. “I’d like to have our firewood gathered before it gets dark.”

  “Fine,” Guillot said, casting a glance over his shoulder. He couldn’t see any sign of Solène. Likely she had stopped at the inn they had passed a few hours earlier. “We’ll stop.”

  They found a patch of grass higher than the level of the road, dry and hidden by some tall bushes. Guillot dealt with the horses while dal Sason went to find firewood. Guillot tethered both animals to a branch that would give them access to plenty of grass. At a sound, he turned to what he thought was dal Sason.

  It was someone else. A man Guillot had never seen before.

  “Good evening,” the man said.

  “Good evening, yourself,” Guillot said. “This campsite is taken.”

  “Now then, that’s not a friendly way to greet a weary traveller.”

  “You’re not a weary traveller,” Guillot said, taking in the man’s slender, athletic build, his soldierly looking but well-worn clothes, and the sword at his waist. If this fellow wasn’t a highwayman, then Gill wasn’t a drunk. “And I’m not a friendly person.”

  The man shrugged.

  “I’m feeling generous,” Guillot said. “If you go now, I’ll forget I ever saw you.”

  The man cocked his head and smiled.

  “I’m not alone,” Guillot said. “Even if we were poor swordsmen, the odds would be against you. I assure you that we are not.”

  “You’ve one friend,” the man said. “I’ve got … more. The odds are with me.”

  Two additional men stepped out from the undergrowth. Guillot reached for his sword and the first man shook his head.

  “Doesn’t have to go like that,” he said. “We’ll take your coin and your horses, but we’ll leave your food and your boots. I’ll never have it said I’m uncivilised.”

  “It’s not going to go like that, I’m afraid,” Guillot said.

  “Banneret?” the man said.

  Guillot nodded.

  “You lot never want to hand over what you think you can keep with your sword.”

  Guillot shrugged.

  The man drew and lunged in one movement, faster than Guillot had anticipated. He jumped backwards, not covering as much ground as he had hoped, and drew his sword just in time to parry the next strike. Guillot realised this was the first time since his judicial du
el that he’d parried an attack made in anger. Perhaps he wasn’t as out of practise as he feared? The man nodded in approval. Such chivalry was not something Guillot expected of a common highwayman.

  “Are you a banneret?” Guillot said.

  The man laughed. “Of course not.”

  Guillot lunged. The attempt was disappointing. He was far more familiar with the feel of a bottle in his hand than a sword, and his tip went far wide of its target, so much that it was almost charity that the highwayman chose to parry it at all.

  With Guillot’s rapier swatted to the side, he was an open target, but the highwayman paused rather than exploiting it and raised an eyebrow.

  “Banneret? Really?”

  Guillot shrugged and the man thrust. Guillot parried with a clumsy effort that left him with no opportunity for a riposte. His sword had once felt like part of his arm—now it felt like part of a tree. The man followed up with a more determined effort, and Guillot felt a flash of fear. He had never before been in a sword fight without believing he would win. He managed to parry, but could feel the muscles in his forearm protesting at the unfamiliar use. A boy of seventeen or eighteen taking his Academy entrance exams could have beaten him.

  Once, Guillot had been fêted as the finest swordsman in the world. He had won the Competition, and had the Telastrian steel sword in his hand to prove it. How could he have allowed himself to fall so low?

  “We don’t have to continue with this,” the highwayman said. “Dying over a few coins and a couple of horses doesn’t make much sense in the grand scheme of things. If you continue with this, you will die. I may be a thief, but I’m not ordinarily a murderer.”

  Guillot roared with rage and attacked. He prayed to whatever god would listen for an instant of the dazzling skill that had once come so easily to him. The highwayman parried once, twice. He didn’t even have to move his feet. Before he knew it, Guillot’s sword was flying through the air and his opponent’s blade was at Guillot’s throat.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, is that a Telastrian blade? I’ve never actually seen one before.”