Dragonslayer (The Dragonslayer)

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  “It is,” Guillot said. “You have my gratitude, Maestro Jauré. Please add twenty crowns to your bill for the inconvenience I put you through.”

  “I feel I should make a gift of the suit, my Lord, considering the task you are undertaking.”

  “Not at all,” Guillot said. “The Prince Bishop was insistent that he would cover all expenses.”

  “His generosity matches your bravery.” Jauré gave a curt bow, then he and his assistant departed, leaving Guillot still in his armour.

  Guillot looked about in puzzlement, wondering how he was supposed to get out of the suit on his own, when dal Sason appeared at the door.

  “The Prince Bishop wants you to be armoured as we ride out of the city. I’ve to crawl into mine now, then it’s time to leave. If you’ve still to eat, do it fast.”

  * * *

  Time, rather than Jauré’s advice, dictated Guillot’s more modest than planned breakfast. When seated, he noticed the armour was a little tight around his waist. While it was merely a trifle uncomfortable at the breakfast table, the small impingement on movement it would cause in battle might mean the difference between living and dying.

  It was not far off the right fit, though, and with a little luck and moderation, it would be perfect by the time he encountered the dragon. As he sat there, doing his best to ignore the curious stares from other patrons, he noticed that Jauré had etched Gill’s family arms into the blackened filigree pattern that ran along the edges of each plate. Considering the timeframe, it was an impressive touch.

  When Guillot went outside, feeling self-conscious with every clatter of metal plate, dal Sason and Gill’s riding and baggage horses were waiting for him, but the others hadn’t arrived yet. Guillot could immediately see why Amaury wanted them to depart the city in full armour. People lined the streets as far as the eye could see, and the City Watch maintained a corridor through which the dragon hunters could pass. He was making a big show of this. Gill wondered what he hoped to gain.

  “Quite a crowd,” Guillot said, finding the numbers of eyes on him far more intimidating than he had in the past, even at the Competition.

  “The news has spread around the city like wildfire,” dal Sason said. “People are afraid, but they’ve been told not to worry, that a Chevalier of the Silver Circle will save them. Probably best to try looking heroic as we ride out.”

  A clattering of hooves announced the arrival of Banneret-Commander Felix Leverre. He was followed by a group of similarly clad riders—three men and a woman. Guillot had to admit they looked a magnificent sight in their shining breastplates and cream robes—every bit as impressive as the Chevaliers had been in their prime.

  Leverre gave Guillot a respectful nod, far more respectful than Guillot had expected.

  “I suppose it’s time to go,” Guillot said.

  “No point in delaying,” dal Sason agreed.

  “I’m surprised the Prince Bishop isn’t here to see us off,” Guillot said. “He’s never been one to miss out on attention.”

  “His Grace has many pressing matters to deal with,” Leverre said, “of which this is only one.”

  Guillot shrugged, still more suspicious than curious. If the expedition failed, it would be easier for Amaury to distance himself from it if he hadn’t been seen personally endorsing it.

  “Guillot,” Solène said from Bauchard’s doorway.

  He walked over to her.

  “Good luck,” she said. “I hope you make it back safely.”

  “I hope so too,” he said.

  “I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.”

  Guillot shrugged. “You still plan on joining the Prince Bishop’s order?”

  She cast a glance at Leverre and his men. “Yes. Cream has always been a good colour on me.”

  Guillot laughed.

  “I think it’s the best option for me,” she said. “If it doesn’t work out, I can always run again. If it does, I might have finally found somewhere I can call home.”

  He nodded. “I hope it works out, but be careful around the Prince Bishop. He’s not someone you should ever place your trust in.”

  “I won’t, but you’re the one who needs to be careful. Don’t try too hard to be a hero.”

  Guillot laughed. “No fear of that.”

  They stood in silence for a moment, Guillot’s awkwardness compounded by how ridiculous he felt in his armour. He heard Leverre clear his throat. “I best be off. Good luck, Solène.”

  “You too.”

  Guillot walked to his horse, which was being held by one of Bauchard’s grooms. When he mounted, the crowd erupted in cheers. He forced a smile, and in as heroic a fashion as he could muster, held up one hand and waved. The cheers grew louder, though he wanted nothing more than to find a dark corner and hide in it.

  Leverre rode up beside him. “Not going to say anything, my Lord?”

  “Nope,” Guillot said, casting a final look back at Solène, who gave him a sad smile. She knew as well as he did that he was most likely riding to his death. “Let’s get going.”

  * * *

  There was a saying among dragonkind that Alpheratz recalled first hearing when he was not much more than a hatchling. It said that if you waited until you were ready, the moment would never come. It was particularly poignant when one considered how long dragons lived. He was strong. Perhaps not as strong as he had ever been, but given that he was much older, he couldn’t expect to return to his prime. How much older remained a mystery, but in the grand scheme of the world, it no longer seemed important.

  He had exhausted his patience, or perhaps he was merely being practical. It was time to start his vengeance proper, to test himself against something more substantial than peasants and farm animals. On his long flights, seeking his kin, he had spotted the ideal place: a stone fort with a dozen soldiers.

  Launching himself from his perch, he swooped down toward the fort. As he drew near and the men went from being moving shapes to living things, he felt his first pang of uncertainty. The men he had killed at his mountain peak, he had taken by surprise. He had killed them in self-defence, due to fear and surprise. Killing to feed was one thing. Killing to survive another. But killing out of rage? From a desire for revenge? Was that not what he wished to punish them for?

  What if these men were stronger than those he had killed at the peak? They were soldiers, after all. Soldiers had killed all of his kind, had nearly killed him. They had killed Pharadon, the greatest fighter among dragonkind. Fear twisted his stomach. He had never killed out of hate before.

  He heard a shout from the battlements. They had seen him. He wondered how they would respond. Was it too late to turn back?

  The first arrow bounced off his hide harmlessly. He thought of Nashira, how they had taken her scales. Slaughtered their young. His quest was just. They had to die. They had to be punished for what they had done. They had to be driven back from the sacred places in the mountains. Alpheratz took a deep breath and sprayed fire across the battlements. As he swept over, he heard screams, and felt relief. He was strong enough to do what he had set out to do.

  Pharadon had often talked about the joy of battle. Alpheratz had never felt that, but there was satisfaction in carrying out righteous retribution. He could understand what Pharadon had felt, for he knew it now for himself.

  He turned back toward the fort and glided down onto the battlements, gripping them with his claws. A man scurried up the steps and froze at the top, his face a picture of fear. He made a halfhearted attempt to jab his spear at Alpheratz. The dragon laughed and swiped at the man with his claw. The man let out a grunt at the impact and went tumbling over the battlements, his scream piercing enough to be heard over the sound of flames, like the lead note of a great musical composition. It was the symphony of righteous retribution.

  Alpheratz looked around but saw no others. His initial sweep of flame had caught them by surprise and must have killed most of them. He felt disappointed. He had expected this to be
a challenge, but it was no different than slaughtering sheep in a pen. He walked around the battlements until he was above the fort’s front gates. Two people were fleeing down the muddy track. Alpheratz spread his wings and dove from the tower.

  Flying barely above the ground, he went straight past the first man, who shrieked in terror. A swipe of his tail was all it took to deal with him, although the corpse got stuck on one of Alpheratz’s barbs. The second man, he grabbed in his claws, then flapped his wings hard, soaring directly up. He shook his tail, ridding himself of the first man’s body.

  The man in his claws screamed for all he was worth. How had such cowardly wretches slain Nashira? Defending their eggs, she would have been ferocious. This human was no more than a worm wriggling in a bird’s talons.

  Satisfied he was high enough, Alpheratz released his grip and hovered, watching the man flail toward the ground. He saw the impact, but the sound was stolen by the breeze. He looked back at the tower, now an inferno. It was satisfying. It was joyous, but there was still a hole inside him, and he had barely even begun to fill it.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER

  19

  “Winning the Competition must really have been something,” dal Sason said, riding up alongside Gill.

  It took Guillot a moment to realise that dal Sason was addressing him. “Yes, I suppose it was. I’m sorry, but are we to be friends now?”

  “We’ve a long and difficult road ahead. It would certainly make life easier if we were.”

  For a moment Guillot felt churlish, but dal Sason was still Amaury’s errand boy, and he reckoned that justified his antipathy. He shrugged. If nothing else, a chat would help pass the time. “In answer to your question, yes, it really was something. It was life changing. Still haven’t worked out if that change was for better or worse, though.”

  “I was knocked out in the first round,” dal Sason said. “I spent years dreaming about it, but I suppose I never really believed I could do it. So many great swordsmen to beat. How did you do it?”

  “One at a time,” Guillot said. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Still, the doors it must have opened. And to get that Telastrian sword. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Guillot said. “Not that it’ll be much use for the job ahead. I’ve something else in mind for that.” Guillot thought about unsheathing the blade and handing it to dal Sason, but decided not to. “As for doors? It opened plenty, but I can’t say I liked everything that was behind them. It wasn’t all pots of gold and beautiful women.”

  “I’d love the chance to spar with a Competition winner.”

  Guillot’s gut twisted and a chill ran over his skin. “I doubt there’ll be time.” The thought of having to spar with a properly trained swordsman filled him with terror. He changed the subject. “What’s your reason for coming along on this little quest?” Guillot said. “Devotion to king and country?”

  Dal Sason laughed. “If only. The answer to your question is far baser, sadly. Money. I’ve a manor house in ruins, an estate on the verge of bankruptcy, and two sisters who need dowries.”

  “Being an only child has its advantages,” Guillot said.

  “As will being one of the men who killed the dragon.”

  “Fame as well, then?” Guillot said.

  Dal Sason shrugged. “What swordsman doesn’t want more fame? It lets you pick the jobs you want, instead of having to take whatever you can get.”

  “There’s that,” Guillot said, “although too much puts you back where you started. Everything that no one else wants to do lands on your doorstep, and a famous hero never turns down a challenge. Be careful what you wish for.”

  “I’m a working swordsman, just like you,” dal Sason said.

  “I hope, for your own sake, you’re nothing like me,” Guillot said. Silence followed, awkward enough to inspire Guillot to start a new conversation. “What do we call you and your people, Leverre?” he said, turning to look at the riders behind him. “Collectively, I mean. The Order of the Golden Spur is a bit of a mouthful.”

  “Spurriers seems to be the one most people are going with,” Leverre said, joining Gill and dal Sason ahead of the rest of the group.

  “You’re something like the Prince Bishop’s private version of the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle?” Guillot said.

  “There’s nothing about the Silver Circle that I’d want to be compared to,” Leverre said.

  “That’s a fair comment. And your fellow Spurriers?” Guillot said. “Are they allowed to speak?”

  “Of course,” Leverre said. “They’re not slaves.”

  “So do we get an introduction?” Guillot said. “Skinny, Short, Ginger, and Girl don’t seem to be a mannerly way to address people.”

  Leverre shrugged. “Ginger is Brother Hallot, Skinny is Brother Quimper, and Short is Banneret Eston. Girl is Sergeant Doyenne, my second-in-command.”

  “Brothers, sisters, sergeants, and commanders,” Gill said. “Quite a collection of different ranks you’ve got there.”

  “There’s been some … friction about the ranks within the Order. A great many inductees are Academy graduates, and I’m sure you can understand they are reluctant to give up their hard-earned title of banneret. They don’t feel they should be placed on an equal footing with those who haven’t been through their training.”

  “No surprises there,” Guillot said.

  “Banneret, Brother, and Sister are all considered the same rank, though a banneret will usually be given command over the others. Their years of training justify it, I think. After that, promotion and seniority is all merit based. The day will come when the Order will train its own from youth; then, outside influence will count for little.”

  “That will be a great day indeed,” Guillot said.

  Leverre cast him a suspicious look, but Guillot maintained a broad smile to confuse his intent as much as possible.

  “Yes, it will,” Leverre said.

  * * *

  The dragon hunters spoke rarely during the journey, but they were riding hard and needed to concentrate on the road. Even when they stopped to change horses at the royal way posts, there was little chatter. What lay ahead was daunting. Guillot had been in situations like this before. Everyone wanted everyone else to think they were brave and fearless. He himself had claimed to be unafraid when riding out on his first campaign. During that journey, he had used his helmet more than he did later, during the actual battle—it had been perfectly sized to hold the contents of his stomach every time he threw up. The loudest talkers were usually the most afraid and the most inexperienced, so Guillot took it as a good sign that everyone in his party was quiet. It meant they had been in harm’s way before, and hopefully wouldn’t panic and run when things got rough. Of course, it could equally have been that they were too afraid even to pretend they weren’t.

  Guillot did not have the first clue as to how they were going to kill a dragon, and other than Leverre’s bog-standard bear-hunting approach, no one offered any worthwhile suggestions. He didn’t want to get himself or any of the others killed while they were learning from their mistakes. The old stories were just that—embellished beyond the point of use. The heroes were all superhuman and relied on abilities that were either completely made up or magically enhanced beyond belief. Still, that was what made the old stories great. As stories. They weren’t of any help now that Guillot needed to kill a dragon.

  He filled the hours with trying to work out how to go about that and determine what might go wrong with each approach. It was difficult to work through the possible results since he had no real idea what the dragon was capable of and what its weaknesses might be. Guillot had been on many hunts, of course: deer, boar, bear, and even a belek on one occasion. None of them quite matched the size, agility, or power of a dragon, however.

  Men’s bravery was measured by how they behaved on a belek hunt. Might a man’s madness be measured by the fact he would even consider going after a dragon? />
  He constantly came back to tracking it to its lair. There were a number of attractive things about this, most notably the fact that they would be a long way from innocent bystanders. He was eager to minimise the number of people put in danger. The method that seemed to offer the most reasonable chance for success—luring it out and ambushing it—would likely place something or someone in harm’s way, and that was enough to make Gill discount it so long as there was an alternative.

  “Is there somewhere near we can stop for the night,” Leverre asked, “or should we start looking for somewhere to make camp?”

  “There’s a coaching inn not far ahead,” Guillot said. “Last one before Trelain. After that we’ll be roughing it.”

  “How far ahead?” Leverre said.

  “Don’t trust me?”

  “Just wondering is all,” Leverre said. “Like to have an idea of things in my head.”

  “You’ll see it over the next rise. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  Guillot wondered if he was friendlier when he was drunk. Leverre had not done anything bad to Guillot, yet Guillot had taken an instant dislike to him. That Leverre was the Prince Bishop’s man counted for some of Gill’s antipathy—perhaps all—but if they were going to work and fight together, Guillot knew he had to get past that. He wondered, though, if that was all that bothered him, or if there was more to it. Though the connection to the Prince Bishop clouded his judgement, that didn’t mean there wasn’t something else to be wary of. Was he being paranoid, or was there something in the cold, impassive way Leverre looked at him? They would be relying on one another for their lives before too much longer; if it was all in Guillot’s head, he needed to get over it.

  True to his word, the inn came into view as soon as they crested the next rise on the muddy road. The weather had clearly been bad there not long before, but they had been lucky so far and had missed the worst of it. Rain had kept the road quiet, with few travellers choosing to venture out. Once word of the dragon attacks spread, Gill was sure the roads would be clogged with people fleeing the area.