Dragonslayer (The Dragonslayer)

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Solène walked to the chest and picked over them. “This is a diary,” she said. “Valdamar’s personal diary.”

  “I’m sure there are minstrels who would pay a king’s ransom to get their hands on that! The forgotten stories would keep them in pride of place at any court in the country for the rest of their days.”

  “A king’s ransom isn’t what I’m interested in right now,” Solène said. “If you’ve anything you want to do, this might take me a little while.” She sat cross-legged next to the chest and took out a sheaf of papers.

  “No,” he said, sitting beside her. “You can give me the highlights as you go.”

  CHAPTER

  46

  Guillot left her and wandered around the chamber as Solène read in silence. Either Valdamar hadn’t been particularly fastidious in recounting his great deeds, or there wasn’t much worth repeating in his papers. His equipment was interesting, however. There was a clutch of finely made spears with heads of Telastrian steel, barbed in a style he hadn’t seen before. He felt a pang of disappointment as he stared at the vacant space on the sword stand. He would have loved to get his hands on Valdamar’s sword. Solène cleared her throat to get his attention, then spoke.

  “There’s only a little bit about the ritual, as best I can see, but I know why all of this is here.”

  “Really?”

  “There was a castle here once. This was the Chevaliers’ hall, where they were initiated, where they kept their equipment and prepared for battle. The initiation rite wasn’t an initiation rite at all. Well, it was, but its effect was short-lived, and the ceremony had to be repeated each time they went out to face a dragon. The mages must really have been worried about the Chevaliers growing too powerful.”

  “That doesn’t explain why it was here.”

  “It was their headquarters—or was intended to be. These pages talk about its construction as a base close to where they were operating. It makes sense, if this is where they were operating all the time.”

  “I suppose so,” Guillot said.

  “They were transporting the Cup out here to allow that. I’m not sure why the mages let them bring it out here, but they did in the end. Much of the Silver Circle’s treasure was in the same convoy. It was attacked by two dragons. Valdamar says the gold in the strongboxes attracted them, but the Amatus Cup was taken along with it.” She shuffled through the papers.

  “The Silver Circle seems to have gone into decline straight after. This place never became the headquarters they’d intended it to be. They weren’t able to properly initiate any new recruits and the existing Chevaliers had to make do with the residual effects of their … treatments. They tried to get the Cup back, but never found it.

  “Valdamar lists off the names—the names—of the dragons they managed to kill along the way, but always with far greater casualties than when they had the Cup. The castle was destroyed in the mage wars and the remaining Chevaliers turned their attention to helping establish the new kingdom of Mirabaya. That’s the end of it. They must have put protections on this hall to keep it safe, probably intending to resume the search for the Cup once the wars ended and the country was stable again.

  “It doesn’t look like they ever came back, though. Not while they lived, anyway.”

  “I suppose the Silver Circle had its place at court,” Guillot said, “and there weren’t many dragons left—if any. The new Chevaliers probably didn’t have much interest in living the life of danger that the old ones did, nor spending all their time out here in the middle of nowhere. My generation of Chevaliers certainly didn’t, duelling field notwithstanding.”

  “I’m going to go through the other chambers to see if there’s anything else useful,” Solène said, “but I think I have everything that I need to carry out the ceremony. The words will focus my thoughts on shaping the magic in the desired way, and then we’ll be as ready as we’ll ever be.”

  “I’ll be as ready as I’ll ever be,” Guillot said. “Whatever protection it provides won’t extend to you. There’s never any mention of mages helping to fight dragons, and there must be a reason for that. There’s no need for you to put yourself in danger as well. If it does everything it’s supposed to do, I’m sure that I’ll be fine.”

  Solène’s face darkened. “We can discuss it on the road,” she said. “There’s still a lot of work to do here.”

  * * *

  Guillot could only resist the temptation to try Valdamar’s armour on for so long. With Solène working her way through the side chambers, he was largely left to his own devices. He spent some time ogling the perfectly preserved weaponry and armour, some of which were impressive indeed, Ixten’s in particular. He was reputed to have been a giant of a man, and judging by his armour, it seemed as though the stories had done little to exaggerate his size. He must have stood at least a full head taller than Guillot.

  Although all the other suits were equals to Valdamar’s in quality, only his looked even close to Gill’s size. He stole back to the first secret chamber they had opened, and started putting it on. Dressing oneself in armour was never an easy task—a fact that had kept squires in work for centuries. By the time Guillot had the breastplate on, he wondered exactly how many squires Valdamar might actually have had.

  He worked through the pieces in the well-practised routine he had always followed. He managed most of it himself, but there were a couple of buckles he couldn’t get tight enough. He called out to Solène, who appeared a moment later.

  “If you wouldn’t mind?” he said.

  He felt the buckles pull tight.

  “It suits you,” Solène said.

  Guillot turned around, blushing. “I, well, I was curious to see if it would fit.”

  “It looks almost perfect. If it’s better than what you have, I see no reason not to use it,” she said.

  “I think it’s better than anything anyone has.” He moved his arms and twisted to test the fit, surprised that there were no pinches or impediments. It was light too, far lighter than regular steel.

  “Well, then, I doubt Valdamar would mind. I suspect you’re already using his sword.”

  He cast a glance at the empty sword holder beside the mannequin. “What do you mean?”

  “Come and see.”

  She led him back to the painting at the chamber’s entrance and pointed at the sword in Valdamar’s hand.

  Guillot leaned close and squinted to make out the detail. The hilt was completely different—in Imperial times they had favoured a plain cross-guard, rather than the elaborate swept hilts and ringed guards currently used. The painting clearly showed the blade was Telastrian steel, but as Guillot studied it, he saw the hint of a familiar etching along the fuller.

  “Gods alive,” he said. He drew his old family blade from its sheath and looked at it. As a child, he had often wondered what the barely legible etching on the blade said, but he’d long since concluded it was the maker’s mark. “Can you read what it says?”

  “Of course,” she said. He handed it to her, and she studied it. “Blade of the Morning Mist. First Among Twenty.”

  “Blade of the Morning Mist,” Guillot said, his skin tingling. Morning, not Mourning, as he had always thought it to be called. Valdamar was called the Blade of the Morning Mist in the stories, but the tales must have altered with time. In the magical light Solène had cast, Guillot could see how the sword had earned its name. The blue and grey of the Telastrian steel swirled down the length of the blade like the mist that rolled across the pastures on a spring morning.

  “The swords in the other rooms are numbered too,” Solène said. “There are twenty of them in all.”

  “Valdamar’s was the first.”

  “Yours was the first,” she said.

  “I knew it was old,” Guillot said. “I never thought it might be that old, though. Nor that it might have been Valdamar’s. It’s humbling.”

  “This is no time to be humble,” Solène said. “Is there anything else here you
think might be useful?”

  He nodded to the clutch of spears. “The heads on those spears are Telastrian. I’ll take them too.”

  Solène said, “I’ve learned all I’m going to here. It’s time for the ritual.”

  Guillot nodded.

  “You still want to go through with it?”

  “Is there any alternative?” Solène shrugged. “You’re confident that you can do it?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, let’s head to the river and get our pure water.”

  * * *

  It hadn’t occurred to Guillot to take the armour off before they left the remains of the old Silver Circle castle. It felt more comfortable than the armour he’d worn when facing the dragon and he felt more secure wearing a suit that had been made specifically for a veteran dragonslayer. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but feel a little pompous wearing Valdamar’s armour, and sheepish at having been using his sword without realising.

  The stream was only a short ride from the remains of the manor. Guillot had spent nearly every summer’s day there fishing when he was a boy, but now realised he hadn’t been there since before he left Villerauvais for the Academy. He remembered running to the river after each morning’s lessons, usually swishing a stick through the air, imagining himself chasing dragons that were terrified by his ferocity. Now he was sitting in Valdamar’s armour, wearing his sword, and readying himself to do battle with a beast he never thought he would lay eyes on. How could the world change so quickly?

  Solène dismounted and crouched at the riverbank. She scooped up a handful of water, sniffed it, then drank.

  “This will do,” she said.

  Guillot nodded and dismounted easily. A well-made suit of armour was not nearly so cumbersome as people thought, with the plates fitting the body’s shape and the weight evenly distributed so that when fit and trained, you could wear it for several hours before starting to feel the burden. Valdamar’s armour was on an entirely different level, however. It felt no different from a light suit of summer linen, yet he knew the Telastrian steel would perform better than anything made by the best smiths in Mirabay. He felt like a fraud wearing it—like a boy putting on his father’s shoes and pretending to be a man.

  He took the Cup from his purse and handed it to her. How odd to think such a small object could grant such power. She dipped it into the stream, filling it with water, then pulled a reed from the riverbank.

  “Are you ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Guillot said.

  He stood straight and tried to relax, but his shoulders and chest were tight with tension. She stepped closer, then dipped the tip of the reed into the water. Guillot closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and extended his tongue, as he had when his nanny had administered medicine when he was a child. He did his best not to shudder when he felt the cool droplet hit his tongue. He could hear Solène whispering, but couldn’t make out her words. His heart raced as he waited to feel the magic take effect.

  As the rhythmic cadence of Solène’s words continued, Gill wondered if every tick, itch, and sensation he felt had something to do with magic. Eventually she fell silent. He waited a moment longer, then opened one eye. She watched him expectantly.

  “Is that it?” he said.

  “I’ve finished,” she said. “How do you feel?”

  “No different. Did it work?”

  She shrugged. “I’m sure I did everything right, but I don’t know how to tell.”

  “Is the Cup broken?”

  She laughed. “It doesn’t work like that. It takes a lot of effort to destroy something magical. How else do you think all of the magelamps in the city have lasted so long?”

  A shiver of concern ran across his skin. What if it hadn’t worked? One way or the other, this would be the last time he would face the dragon. One of them would be dead at the end of the encounter. After sitting around waiting for death for so long, it seemed inconvenient that he would realise his great desire for life so strongly when faced with the task he had.

  “Is there any way we can test it?” he said. “Before I go into the cave?”

  “You know as much as I do about all of this. I don’t even understand what the words were channelling. I could feel the magic shape, but I don’t know what it will do.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t feel any different.”

  “There’s no reason you would,” Solène said, “until the magic starts to affect you, which might only happen when it has to.”

  “Like when the dragon’s trying to bite my head off?”

  She nodded. “Not an ideal time to be testing it, but that’s the way magic works. We use it and shape it, but we never fully control it. Or understand it.”

  “Well, I suppose we should go and find out,” Guillot said.

  CHAPTER

  47

  Alpheratz had waited until he felt the wound beneath his wing was healed enough for prolonged flight before setting off. He was well fed and could go weeks before needing to eat again. Pausing at the mouth of his cave, he looked out across the landscape. He had hatched in the cave, and this view was the first thing he had seen every day of his life. It saddened him to think that the world had moved on, that his place was no longer here, but he had to accept it. Change was the great tragedy of a creature that enjoyed a lifespan measured in millennia.

  He spread his wings and grimaced at the tight, painful sensation in his side. It would take some time to loosen the muscle. He stepped into the void and let himself fall until the pressure of the air was enough to carry his weight. He didn’t allow himself a backward glance—there was too much pain and regret, not only at what had happened, but at what he had become.

  When he took a deep breath of the crisp mountain air, his eyes widened. He smelled something familiar, something that jogged a memory deep in the recesses of his mind. Something he had not smelled since waking. He inhaled deeply again, allowing the scent to fill his nostrils. It was the tang of magic, but a particular flavour of magic. It was a slayer.

  His heart raced. Here was a person worthy of his vengeance. Slayers were the root of all the evil that had been brought down on dragonkind. This was a person he could kill, a person whose death would balance the scales of justice.

  He glided around in a wide arc, conserving every ounce of energy for the fight to come. Narrowing his eyes, Alpheratz looked down the valley. A long way off, he spotted two riders approaching.

  * * *

  Riding back into the valley to the dragon’s cave was an odd feeling, like repeating an act of stupidity even though you’ve long since realised what a bad idea it was the first time. The fact that he had undergone an ancient magical ritual that might or might not have worked did little to quell the butterflies in Guillot’s stomach, but the sense of foreboding and unfinished business that had lingered with him for days finally felt as though it was being addressed. It was a small mercy, but one he happily clung to.

  “What do you think it does?” Guillot said, asking again in the hope an answer would distract him from his anxiety, or at least give him a shred of hope to cling to.

  Solène shrugged.

  “Best guess?”

  She looked at him seriously. “Something that helps you kill a dragon.”

  Guillot burst into laughter. It took him a moment to get it under control, his nerves feeding the chuckles. He spotted the stand of trees where they had camped and retreated to, and his laughter came to an abrupt halt. He looked up the mountain to the dark void on its side.

  “That’s it,” he said, nodding to it with his head.

  “It’s amazing to think a dragon lives there. I’m still not sure I believe it.”

  “It’s certainly something that needs to be seen to be believed,” Guillot said, “although I think I could have happily gone to my grave never having had the pleasure.”

  “It’s quite a climb to get up there,” Solène said. “Should we rest first?”

  G
uillot shook his head. “I want to get to it. Brother Hallot gave me a touch of something—energy, or stamina, I think—the last time. If you can repeat that, it will get me up there ready to go.”

  “Should be simple enough,” Solène said. “Do you have everything else you need?”

  He took one of the Telastrian spears from its fastening on his saddle and checked the edge on its head. It was perfect, as Telastrian steel edges always were, and he hoped it would be of more use than the spear he had hauled up the mountainside the last time. “I think so. Come with me as far as the mouth of the cave so you can get rid of the fatigue after the climb.”

  “I can do more than that,” she said.

  “I’m sure you can, but who’s the anointed dragonslayer? Enough people have died up there already. If everything works as it’s supposed to, I won’t need your help. If I do, well, then you’ll have another opportunity to earn the dragonslayer title for yourself. I want you to head straight back down to the valley’s entrance. If I don’t join you by nightfall, I won’t be coming. Get straight back to Mirabay and make sure that bastard Amaury sends an army to deal with it once and for all.”

  She nodded. Just then a strange sensation passed over him, as though something was trying to pull his insides out of his body. He wavered in the saddle, and Solène gave him a curious look.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” he said, recovering his balance. “Felt a bit odd for a moment. Like something was pulling on my insides. It’s passed now.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He looked about, still puzzled by the sensation. The direction of the pull had felt very specific, but when he looked that way, he saw nothing. “I am.” He was considering the sensation, when the day darkened. He looked up again to see what was blocking the sun—a silhouette that would turn the bowels of the bravest of men to water.

  “Damn the gods to the three hells,” Guillot said.

  “What’ll we do?” Solène said.