Stone Dragon (The First Realm)

by Testamark, Klay

  Day 37. Another day’s hard riding, and little to show for it, apart from the miles covered. That and the attendant aches and blisters. Even I, with my stone-skin training, have had to resort to bag balm. Drat that Angrod. To think that I liked him.

  She paused. She’d already ranted about Angrod in previous entries. She didn’t feel like wasting any more ink on him. She toyed with her fountain pen, then resumed writing.

  Nothing much of consequence has happened since losing his gang at Deepwood. With the bridge out, we had no choice but to cross further downstream and avoid the island entirely. The halfling woman, Grimalda, asked us where Angrod could be going. I was forced to conclude he must be headed for Corinthe, his home city. Thus we found ourselves crossing the Black Plains.

  She stopped writing to stare into space. It wasn’t true that nothing had happened. Something had happened, she had the wounds to prove it.

  On the third day in that damnable desert, human bandits attacked us. They numbered some three dozen horsemen against my sixteen.

  She remembered how they came thundering over the rise. They were a crew of rabble, dressed as they were in their mismatched armor. Humans had never been noted for their blacksmithing. Their gear was stolen or scavenged more often than not. The weapons they held high were from wildly different sources—but they all looked deadly. They’d waited until the last second to reveal themselves. Meerwen had just one option:

  “Charge!”

  Combat mages and royal guardsmen galloped to meet the savages. The air crackled as the mages hurled fireballs and lightning. They hammered several humans out of the saddle but the bandits were soon running for their horses. Damn, but they were resilient. The barbarians were in a ragged formation, the elves in a wedge with Meerwen at its point.

  “For Drystone!” she yelled. The barbarians answered with a wordless roar. They met. Steel clashed against steel. Bones crunched. Horses screamed.

  A huge bandit swung a saw-toothed sword at her neck but she ducked and plucked his leg from the stirrup, pulling him from his horse. Another bandit came at her with a lance. She knocked it aside, grabbed his right shoulder with her left hand, and yanked him out of the saddle. The unhorsed humans screamed as the elves rode over them.

  Three elves had fallen in the initial shock. Twice as many humans were out of action. The fighting turned into a brawl and the dust grew thick in the melee.

  A bandit grabbed Meerwen by the collar, but she chopped down on his arm, trapped it, and unhorsed him. He landed on his feet but her horse kicked him in the head. She reached for another bandit and got him in a headlock, also unhorsing him. There were so many bucking and screaming horses, their hooves flailing in every direction. To be afoot was to die.

  She leaned aside as a mage shot a fireball past her, then rode alongside a bandit. She reached around, grabbed him by the chin, and broke his neck.

  Two more elves had fallen but the humans were down to half. Her knights were some of the best swordsmen in the realm, more than a match for the raiders. One after another, the barbarians fell to elven blades.

  “Hack them down!” Meerwen said. “Hack them down!”

  The bandit chief rode up. He was huge, even for a human, and he rode a gigantic red horse. He also wore a red crested helmet and banner, as if his role wasn’t clear enough.

  “Stand aside, everyone!” he roared. “This one’s mine!”

  He spurred his horse forward. They butted, red charger meeting black. They snorted and they circled. The chief had thrown down his hammer to grapple with her. For long minutes they wrestled for advantage. Both had dropped their bridles to grab at each other. Twice Meerwen had to chop down on his arm and thwart an attack. His horse tried to bite her and she elbowed it in the eye. “Stay out of this!”

  They fought in a circle. The others kept their distance. The seven surviving elves stood in a ring with a dozen bandits. They watched as their leaders stood in their stirrups and wrestled on horseback.

  Finally Meerwen got a hold on his belt. With a grunt of effort, she pulled him from his seat. The elves cheered.

  This was no game, though. The chief snarled and smacked his fist into his hand, still ready to fight. Meerwen raised an eyebrow and slid out of the saddle. “You humans don’t know when to quit, do you?”

  * * *

  At this point in her recollection she paused and looked at her left arm in its sling. She’d won the fight, of course, but it had cost her. The healer had never seen a hand so thoroughly broken. Shattered was the word he’d used. The daily sessions with him were helping, but it would be a while before she could use it. Water magic wasn’t good with bone.

  While she considered herself a more than competent fighter, she was still more of a generalist than a specialist. She was proficient in all forms of combat and had no glaring weaknesses but she had yet to master unarmed combat, her chosen specialty.

  She considered the various classifications among the martial arts. Elves saw every melee weapon as either one-handed, two-handed, or paired. There was three of each kind, hence the Nine Weapons. The Fighting Nuns had a more pacifistic view, and while they did teach weapons they focused on unarmed combat, which they divided into striking and grappling.

  There were finer divisions. Students first learned to deliver blows with their hands, then with their feet, and finally with their knees and elbows. They were then taught stand-up grappling, takedowns, and ground fighting. Once they’d grasped those basics, they learned to combine striking with grappling. After that they practiced fighting in teams and against multiple opponents.

  Both elven and human arts were taught using a spiral curriculum. The course was repeated several times, each time at a higher level. It was like climbing a spiral staircase. The first time around a beginner became a novice who knew just enough to recognize when they were outclassed. The second time around a novice became a journeyman skilled enough to be a city guardsman or lay nun.

  The third time around a student did more of the same, or else taught others. Not everyone could teach but it was by far the better way to gain understanding. Meerwen had been an assistant teacher. Finally, a journeyman would choose a single weapon or style and practice exclusively. Only after they had tested it against all others could they call themselves masters.

  Meerwen was not yet a master, but the bandit chief had been. He specialized in punching.

  * * *

  The armored fist crashed into her jaw and Meerwen knew she was in trouble. The human was more than twice her size but just as fast. She saw stars.

  “Hah ha haaa!” he said. “Too easy!”

  She raised her guard and swung a kick at his knee. He had strong legs and recovered. He went into a crouch and started punching non-stop, a flurry of powerful blows from which she could only retreat His gauntlets were obviously padded. The flanges on the knuckles made them deadly weapons. She slapped away blows that would have killed an ox. Her own gloves were lined with dwarven mail.

  She ducked a right hook that would’ve turned her head to jelly. She slipped a left uppercut that might’ve pulped her guts. She went for a side kick to the chest but he covered up. She tried to sweep his legs but he crouched and punched low.

  They circled, throwing up sand with their feet. Their followers had sorted themselves so one part of the circle was elves and the other part humans. They watched their leaders duel. They also gambled.

  “Place your bets, place your bets,” said Grimalda. “Who wins and who dies, gents? Who wins and who dies!”

  The circle buzzed. Money changed hands. Even the wounded sat up and dug into their pockets. Grimalda accepted wagers and handed out tickets.

  The bandit chief charged, fists going like pistons. Meerwen slipped and parried but she wasn’t too busy to see what was happening. Even Feanaro waved a roll of cash.

  “You’re making bets?” she yelled.

  “She’s giving good odds! I bet on you to win!”

  “Not to kill him?”

  “The
odds aren’t that good.”

  “I’m not through with you yet!” the chief said. Meerwen had barely covered her ribs before an uppercut slammed into them. She gasped. He followed with another uppercut, then a hook to the jaw. The world exploded and she found herself on the ground.

  “Get up, you wimp!” he said.

  “I don’t think so,” she said, and kicked where she lay. She caught him on the shin and he bellowed. She pressed him with more kicks, then scissored his front leg and took him down. He fell on his hands and she sprang up and punched him in the kidneys.

  “Aaargh!” he said, hitting the dirt. He rolled, but it gave her time to find her feet.

  “Take me for an amateur?” she said. “You’ll pay for that mistake!”

  “I’ll kill you! My fists will have your blood on them!”

  He attacked, but anger had taken his skill and she landed more blows than he did. However, his strength was easily a match for her own magically-enhanced power and he brushed aside her punches and kicks. When she managed to land a right cross he merely grunted.

  “Not bad. Gimme some gold and I might let you walk away!”

  “You can’t escape!” she said.

  The fight continued. The people watching were silent and tense. Meerwen’s head still ached from the man’s first punch and it looked like he had limitless stamina. She had to end this quickly.

  She lowered her guard to tempt him and he responded with a straight punch. She chopped it aside with her left hand, then grabbed his wrist with the same hand and squeezed.

  She drew all of the local magic, imagining it rising up from under her feet. Pain flashed in her arm but she brushed it aside and focused on pushing the limits of her strength. She was a machine, and not the gentle kind.

  The man screamed. It was like being caught in a vise. The steel gauntlet crumpled under her fingers and still she squeezed. Flesh pulped, bone shattered, and still she squeezed. Desperate, he jerked his other hand back and punched with all his might.

  “KIA!” she said, intercepting his fist with her own.

  “Aaugh!” he said. His left gauntlet flew apart. The impact threw pieces everywhere and what was left was warped and useless. The hand inside was badly crushed. So was Meerwen’s, but the chain mail concealed this by turning rigid. She let go the other man’s hand and the bandit chief fell to his knees. “My hands! My beautiful hands!”

  “How’s it feel, getting beaten up by a tiny girl?” she said. She looked around at the circle and saw fear in everyone’s face. “Enough! My men and I hold the advantage. We could arrest you, but we are on a mission. Leave before I call a royal patrol.”

  “As for you,” she said to their fallen leader, “go back to your wife and kids!”

  The human bandits gathered their wounded before retreating. They headed seaward, where longships no doubt awaited.

  Meerwen stood with her hands on her hips, a sneer on her face. She watched them leave. When they had disappeared she turned to her second-in-command. “Feanaro? You’re in charge for now.”

  Then she toppled backward and landed unconscious in the sand.

  * * *

  When she woke up, she was at an inn. Feanaro had gotten her the best room.

  “Are we still in the desert?” she asked.

  “On the outskirts,” he said, holding a bowl and a spoon. “Eat something, you’ll feel better.”

  She waved the spoon away. “Report first. Casualties?”

  “We’re down three men: Marcanon, Balanidren, and Eruinon. Except for you, everyone else got away with light wounds.” He pointed at her right hand. “The other was easy enough to mend—just torn muscles and tendons—but your right hand was pulped. The glove had gone completely rigid and we had to undo the enchantment to slip it off.”

  “I suppose the men are ashamed that their leader fainted.”

  “Actually, they were impressed that you lasted as long. That was quite the biggest human we’d ever seen. And you won! I could live on my winnings for a year.”

  “I’m glad the experience has enriched you.”

  The innkeeper knocked. “Just checking on our hero. You and your men can stay for free, courtesy of the townspeople.” The halfling smiled. “Those bandits had been preying on our town for months. You dealt with them decisively!”

  “This is a halfling settlement, I take it?”

  “Oh yes. We were defenseless against the marauders. Things had gotten so bad we sent people to the Ironore Mountains.”

  “To hire a few swordsmen?”

  “No, to buy guns.”

  Chapter 20

  Meerwen lowered her pen and considered what she’d written. They’d spent two days recuperating in town, spending the money they’d won. Halflings were good at entertaining.

  “When you don’t have magic, you have to reach for every advantage you can get,” the innkeeper explained.

  They left the town poorer in cash and richer in experience. They’d also left Grimalda behind. The woman had wanted to be there for her son, but Meerwen insisted she stay with her own kind.

  The elf had been suspicious. Grimalda was a good rider, even for a farm girl. She’d also fought the bandits—plucking Feanaro’s sword from its scabbard and charging into battle with an eager yell. She’d cut down three barbarians and was hacking at a fourth when Meerwen engaged the bandit chief.

  Grimalda was also built more like a human. She massed about as much as a male elf and her shapeless dress wasn’t enough to conceal a mighty figure. Meerwen didn’t know what she was up to, but wanted none of it.

  “That halfling stays here,” Meerwen told Feanaro. “Be sure she doesn’t follow.”

  “Are you certain? We’ve gotten close, she and I, and she’s really worried about her son.”

  “Are you letting personal feelings cloud your judgment?”

  The young knight looked at the floor and blushed. “She’s just being friendly.”

  “I don’t trust her. Tell her we’ll send word as soon as we’ve rescued her son. That’s an order, Fen. That woman is dangerous.”

  * * *

  Thunder boomed. It was still raining but the tent kept her warm and dry. She reflected on the merits of dwarven manufacture. They really did make the best stuff.

  This made her to think about the different races. Elves were not as numerous, yet they were the most magically adept, and so dominated the continent. Humans were numerous and tough, as she well knew. The alliance between elf and dwarf had always kept them in their frigid homeland, but it was a close thing.

  Even caprans had their advantages. They were as strong and as hardy as the goats they were kin to—and on a good day a capran sorceress was a match for an elven mage.

  The halflings, however.

  She knew she shouldn’t look down on them, they were as worthy as any other group of humanoids—but it was hard not to pity them. They were so puny, so short-lived, so completely unmagical. No wondered everyone called them halflings. They seemed only half-alive.

  Someone tapped on the tent flap. The sound made her jump. “It’s me,” said Feanaro.

  “Come in.” She put away her journal and her second-in-command entered.

  She looked at the man. Feanaro had silver hair and light blue skin, a common enough combination. He was handsome in an earnest way. He didn’t usually look so calculating.

  “You wanted something?” she asked.

  He smirked. “I was going to ask you that.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Thanks for your concern.”

  “Are you sure?” he said. He fingered the tent flap. “Remarkable thing, this dwarf-made tent. You have only to throw it to the ground and peg it down. Does this remind you of anything?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean?”

  He grinned. “I was just thinking our fearless leader didn’t get to have fun back in town. I thought, maybe I could help her with that.”

  She suppressed a shiver. “No, you may not. I wish you to lea
ve my domicile now.”

  “Are you sure? Nobody ever needs to know.”

  “Get. Out.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m going. Good night, milady.” He left.

  Meerwen fastened the tent flap and sealed it with a glyph. She was shaking.

  * * *

  Drystone Under Siege

  My aide-de-camp shook me awake. “Prince Angrod, you’re needed at the front!”

  I groaned. I’d barely gotten any sleep and still ached from the last battle.

  I got up anyway and checked my bandaged torso. No bleeding, which meant the stitches were holding. I would’ve preferred a few minutes with a competent healer, but water mages were in short supply. I shrugged and allowed my aide to help me into my armor.

  “Where is it this time?” I asked.

  “The Manufacturing Quarter. The enemy has forced a landing and is fighting in the streets.” She grimaced. “If they establish a presence there, they’ll cut the city in half.”

  “And I’m the only mage on hand.” I shook my head. The war was less than a year old and we’d lost so many people.

  She fastened the left greave and stepped back. “Done, sir.”

  “Right.” I marched into the next room, where my bodyguard awaited. They were all elven knights except for Heronimo.

  “The enemy has landed their heavy assets here,” he said, pointing to a spot on the map. “They are using them to support an infantry advance.”

  “What forces do we have in place?” I asked.

  “Only the city guard. They’re being pushed back.”

  “I’d like to land on top of the enemy, but that might confuse the militia. We teleport among them and do a frontal assault.” I looked to my aide. “Pass the word.”

  While she addressed a scrying pool, the dozen or so knights checked their weapons. Arrows were counted. Swords slid into scabbards. The men scowled as they checked the fit of their armor.

  “We’ve done this before, gentlemen,” I said. “A quick strike to break their momentum and we can let the grunts mop up.”

  “We’re with you, Angrod,” Heronimo said. “Say the word.”