by Bryan Davis
“No worries about that. Everyone will be gawking at her crown.” As Adrian shook his unruly hair, the ends tickled his ears and the back of his neck. “Who needs leaves getting tangled in this mess anyway?”
“I assume you will be keeping this journey a secret from her,” Edison said.
“At all costs. If Marcelle knew I was going in search of the portal, she would hound me from one end of Mesolantrum to the other.”
“My lips are sealed, but would Drexel divulge it? He is a mysterious fellow.”
“I’m not sure,” Adrian said, letting a smile break through, “but I do know how to handle Marcelle.”
Edison laughed. “Then you are the first. She is untamable.”
Adrian jabbed with a pretend sword. “I just keep her infuriated at me. She’s predictable when she’s angry.”
Now dressed in his soldier’s uniform, Adrian sat at Governor Prescott’s side on the nobility half of the amphitheater as they awaited the final event, the youth championship round. With his polished leather boots, dark gray trousers, sparkling sword and scabbard, and silky forest green shirt, Adrian felt akin to a traitor, a peasant in wolf’s clothing guarding the head of the wolf pack. Not only that, Prescott’s own son, Randall, stood at one side of the tourney ring ready to battle Jason, making Adrian a double traitor. A good brother would have been cheering with heart and soul from among the peasants, but the traitor would sit quietly amidst a sea of satin and feather caps.
Marcelle sat at Prescott’s opposite side, still dressed in her tournament attire, complete with blood, sweat, and crown. She leaned forward, peered around the governor, and flashed Adrian a smile as she adjusted a trouser cuff. The material slid just high enough to expose her muscular calf.
Adrian averted his eyes. What did her gesture communicate? A woman dressed as a man had shamed him? It seemed that she had the same plan, to tame him by keeping him infuriated at her.
Taking in a deep breath, Adrian began a slow count to ten. It wouldn’t work. Her theatrics wouldn’t raise the slightest hint of ire, at least not this time.
After a trumpeter blew a long, shrill note signaling the start of Jason’s match, the governor nodded. In response, the crowd quieted and settled into their places. While the referee announced the rules, Adrian kept an eye on Drexel, the palace’s head sentry, who sat on the lowest row, about three seats to the left. This middle-aged guard, more politician than protector, had been glancing toward the governor every few minutes, as if expecting something to happen. Since he was a secret member of the Underground Gateway and the man in charge of negotiating the gas trade with the dragon, Drexel was no true friend of the ruling class. He had to be watched carefully.
A courier, tall and lean, ran up the amphitheater’s steps carrying a foot-long, metallic tube. After bowing, he presented the tube to the governor and hurried away. Prescott looked through one end of the tube, a frown growing with each passing second. Finally, he lowered it and pressed a button, erasing the message. Although his face flushed red, he said nothing.
A buzz from the crowd drew Adrian’s attention back to the match. Randall charged Jason, and the two locked together, blade to blade. Adrian cringed. Brute force wouldn’t help Jason win this battle. Randall was too big, too skilled. It would take cunning to overcome the physical disadvantage.
When Jason finally pushed Randall back, Randall swiped his sword across Jason’s arm, ripping his sleeve. The crowd stood as one, the nobles cheering and the peasants moaning. Prescott, to his credit, stayed quiet, as did Marcelle.
Adrian focused on his brother’s torn sleeve. So far, no sign of red appeared. Maybe Jason’s mistake hadn’t cost him the match, but his strategy would have to change drastically.
Jason looked up at the royal section. Their gazes met. Adrian laid a hand over his chest and mouthed, “Listen to your heart.” He then pointed at the side of his head and formed, “But use your brain,” with his lips, trying hard to make the words clear. As brothers sitting through long sermons at cathedral, they had mastered lip-reading as a way to pass the time, telling jokes and riddles while trying not to burst out laughing. Now they could finally put the skill to use in a more practical way.
Jason nodded and turned to face his opponent. After a few seconds, the referee raised a hand and shouted, “There is no blood! Let the match continue!”
As he and the crowd returned to their seats, Adrian let out a breath. How long had he been holding it? The tension had wrung out his sense of reality like an old rag.
Jason used his sword to scratch something in the dirt and motioned for Randall to look. The two conversed for a few seconds before Jason, taking advantage of Randall’s momentary lack of vigilance, lunged and jabbed him in the thigh. Blood oozed from the wound and darkened his pant leg.
Again the crowd stood. Catcalls sounded from the nobles’ section. “Foul!” and “Bad form!”
Adrian stayed seated, now unable to see the ring. Marcelle squeezed behind Prescott and stooped next to Adrian. “Your brother tricked him,” she whispered.
He kept his focus on the people standing in front of him. “I saw that. It was within the rules. Randall was bigger and stronger, and Jason had to use cunning to overcome the advantage.”
Marcelle laid her hand on Adrian’s cheek and forced his head around. “Look at me. Do you think I would use trickery? Do you think I care about bigger and stronger?”
Adrian let his eyes drift from Marcelle’s sinewy body to her fiery eyes. “I think you care very much. The bigger and stronger your opponent, the more your head swells when you win.”
Her lips drew so tight they nearly disappeared. Her face reddened as if ready to explode, but Prescott’s voice doused the fuse. “Come. Both of you must accompany me to crown the champion.”
Adrian leaped up and followed Prescott, staying behind by his usual three paces as he negotiated the grassy stairs. Marcelle threw her leafy crown back on, now somewhat mangled, and stalked at the governor’s side with her fists tight at the ends of her stiff arms.
As they descended, Adrian caught sight of Drexel again. Their stares met for a brief moment before Drexel turned and marched away. The glimpse raised a tingle across Adrian’s skin. Something new prowled in that calculating mind, a scheme that went beyond the already complex negotiations with the dragons.
“Jason Masters!” Prescott called as they walked into the ring.
When Jason turned, Prescott held out a pristine crown of laurel. Marcelle scooted close to Adrian and whispered, “Take it back.”
He replied in a lower whisper. “The statement about your swelled head?”
“Yes. Take it back, or else.”
“Or else what?”
With a mischievous grin, Marcelle sang her reply. “You’ll see.”
Prescott extended the crown toward Jason. “Bow, please.”
After Jason bowed and rose again with the crown on his head, he mouthed to Adrian, “What’s wrong?”
Adrian replied with a silent, “I’ll tell you later.”
“And now,” Prescott said as he laid one hand on Jason’s shoulder and the other on Marcelle’s, “let us honor the warrior champions in the adult and youth divisions!”
After the crowd finished cheering, Marcelle shook Jason’s hand. “Congratulations, Jason.” Her eyes darted between him and Adrian. “It was a pleasure to watch a son of Edison Masters do battle in the final round. I’m glad to see that you’re courageous enough to face an opponent who might be able to defeat you.” After flashing a triumphant smile at Adrian, Marcelle strutted out of the ring and into the mass of people.
Adrian set a hand on Jason’s back, barely keeping his fingers from clutching his shirt. “You’d better go home as soon as you can, Jason. I’m sure Mother and Father will want to congratulate you.”
Jason leaned close and whispered, “Will you be home for a while, or are you going out on one of those dragon-hunting missions again?”
“Shhh!” Adrian nudged Jason with
an elbow. “I’ll meet you at home this evening. We have a lot to talk about.”
“Okay. I’ll see you then.” As Jason walked away, Adrian took his place behind the governor, who was now conversing with an elderly noble. He searched the sea of heads for Marcelle. She stood near the exit path, talking to Drexel, her crown again in her tight fist and her sword at her hip. She seemed annoyed, maybe even scared.
She glanced at Adrian, a look so quick, Drexel probably didn’t notice. Then, she grasped a handful of her shirt, clutching the dragon’s head in a tight squeeze.
Adrian gripped his sword’s hilt. Had she relayed another silent message? Had Drexel told her about the mission? Was she saying that she wanted to go with him to find the portal to the dragon world? Or was she signaling a warning? Of course she could protect herself against the likes of that skinny hack, but something had certainly spiked her emotions. What could it be?
He let out a silent sigh. No use worrying about it. She probably wouldn’t appreciate his intervention, and he couldn’t leave Prescott anyway, at least not for a phantom suspicion.
As if straining against a rusted hinge, he slowly turned his head away. Keeping his mind on plans for finding the portal remained paramount. The lives of countless slaves hung in the balance, and every moment delayed meant another moment suffered under the dragons’ cruelty. Tonight would begin their emancipation.
“Would Adrian trust a dragon over his friends?” Drexel smiled, lifting his tidy mustache toward his pointed nose. “Marcelle, it seems that the ladder leading to his good sense is missing a few rungs.”
Marcelle glanced at Adrian, still standing dutifully with Prescott in the tourney ring as the audience dispersed and filtered out of the amphitheater. No doubt Adrian would trust a dragon over most humans. With “friends” like Drexel, it was no wonder.
She squared her shoulders and stealthily looked Drexel over. Dressed in his sentry uniform, complete with battle sword, gleaming chain mail, and polished leather boots, he displayed a stately presence. Even the gray-speckled hair flowing from underneath his black felt hat and down the nape of his neck was pristine and tangle-free, and his handlebar mustache had been recently trimmed and waxed. To casual observers, he likely took on a persona of royal integrity. Yet, she knew better. This keeper of Governor Prescott’s iron-clad doors guarded his darker side better than most.
“If this dragon is more than a myth,” Marcelle said, lowering her voice as she crumpled the leaves in her crown, “then trusting it would be a mistake.” She grabbed a fistful of her tunic and crushed the dragon’s head. “If I were allowed to secretly trail Adrian, I could be his skeptical shadow and jump in to help him if the dragon proves untrustworthy.”
“No doubt you could, but His Excellency has a new assignment for you that—”
“A new assignment!” She lifted a pointing finger close to his nose. “You promised if there was another attempt to find the portal—”
“Promised?” He pushed her hand to the side. “I made no promises. I merely said that I would try to persuade the powers that be.”
She lowered her voice to a seething whisper. “If you wanted me to go with Adrian, you could find a way. Everyone knows about your bargaining skills.”
“Then kindly control your passions long enough for me to explain. Perhaps you will get your wish.”
She took in a deep breath, then, as she let it out, she answered with a growl. “Very well, but don’t test my patience.”
“That is the last thing I want to do.” Drexel glanced both ways before continuing. “In anticipation of Adrian’s resignation as bodyguard, I told Governor Prescott that I required Adrian’s services, hoping to smooth the path. When Prescott agreed, I thought my plans were proceeding quite well, but then he presented an unexpected obstacle.”
“And that was?”
Drexel pointed at her. “He wants you to be his new bodyguard.”
“Me?” She shook her head hard. “Certainly not! I refuse to be a … a toy soldier! If he needs his posterior protected, let him wear chain mail trousers!”
“I think you lack understanding. This was not a request. It was a command. He seemed quite eager to procure you, in his words, mind you, as a lovely escort.”
“That’s my point. I didn’t train as a warrior just to dress up for a parade. And besides, have you ever noticed how he looks at me? As a bodyguard, won’t I have to be alone with him at times?”
“I have noticed his leering eyes, and that could be your way out of the assignment.” A weaselly smile turned his lips. “He has quite a weakness for, shall we say, provocative persuasion?”
Marcelle whipped out her sword and set the point under Drexel’s chin. “I should cut out your tongue and make you choke on your own blood.” Her heart pounding, she pressed the blade, pricking his skin. “And I swear on my mother’s grave that those who mourn your passing will join you in hell.”
A gasp sounded from a group of four peasants, stragglers who had not yet left the tournament grounds. They spun and hurried to the exit path. Marcelle let her gaze sweep across the rest of the amphitheater. Only a few people milled about, and no one looked their way.
Drexel swallowed, his eyes focused on the blade as his voice pitched up a notch. “I assure you, Marcelle, that my comment was not intended to insult your person. In fact, I was complimenting your physique. A skillful woman knows how to use her …”—he swallowed again—”her attributes to her advantage without sacrificing her virtue.”
Scowling as she glared at his terrified eyes, she muttered, “What do you know about virtue?” With a quick swing, she thrust the sword back to its scabbard. “Or women?”
Drexel breathed a sigh. As he dabbed a trickle of blood near his chin, he reached into his tunic’s inner pocket and withdrew a folded parchment, brown and wrinkled. “At the risk of raising your ire once again, allow me to explain. Our esteemed governor has been visiting the lower level of the dungeon from time to time, always insisting on going alone. I suspect that he has a secret way to access the main gas line from there. Why? I believe he is meeting someone from the gas company, but the details are not important. What is important is that you discover his access method.”
When Drexel paused, Marcelle prodded for more, stretching out her words. “Okay. I’m still listening.”
“I’m glad your confidence in my skills has returned. You see, during the tournament, I sent a message tube to the governor that should lure him back to the dungeon. You will follow him and see what he does. As his new bodyguard, you will have an excuse if you are caught. You were doing your duty and had no idea that he wanted to be alone.”
“Then after I find his secret,” Marcelle said, “I can get caught intentionally so I can talk him out of assigning me as his bodyguard.”
“Allow him to hide his tracks first, or you might be terminated in a more permanent fashion.” He extended the parchment toward her. “Take this and learn its contents. It describes how we are attempting to rescue the captured slaves by trading extane for passage to the dragon world. If you succeed in bargaining with Prescott, you will have to figure out a way to stay behind and access the gas lines. What you must do is described at the end of the note.”
She extended her hand. As her fingers closed on the paper, she hesitated, searching Drexel’s eyes for deception. This was a dream assignment, exciting and adventurous, unless he was leading her into a trap.
She pinched the note and pulled it away, keeping her stare in place. “Anything else?”
“Just a warning.” Drexel looked both ways before continuing, his voice lowering to a growl. “You have a sharp blade and a sharp tongue, little lady, but take care to restrain both and heed what you find in those words. I doubt that either your sword, or your tongue, or even your virtue will keep you and Adrian alive if you fail to deliver what the dragon wants.”
Marcelle glanced at the parchment but said nothing. Talking too much could ruin the opportunity. No matter what Drexel was hiding,
turning down this chance to join Adrian would be stupid.
“Memorize the note and then destroy it. If Prescott finds it in your possession, your life will be forfeit, and if any of his loyalists finds out what you are doing, your mission will be short-lived.”
Barely suppressing a nervous swallow of her own, Marcelle gave him a quick nod, spun toward the exit, and marched away. She couldn’t let him notice her fear. So far, every battle had been fought within the confines of a tourney ring or a training class. If faced with a dragon opponent, surely she could muster the nerve to drive a blade through its heart, but what about a fellow human? What about another soldier who was just doing his duty by obeying orders handed down from his officers? If he interfered with their mission to go through the portal, could she shed his blood?
As she slowed her pace along the path toward the governor’s palace, she shook her head, casting away the troubled thoughts. No matter what obstacles she faced, she would have to rely on her training and respond in a way that would complete this mission—rescue the slaves at all costs. Nothing else mattered.
TWO
WALKING on the balls of his feet, Adrian padded into the bedroom he shared with his brother and laid a saddle pack on the pine floor. He stopped and listened. No sounds in their communal home. So far it seemed that no one had noticed his arrival. After galloping home on a palace horse, he had tethered it in the forest out of sight and earshot. Speed and secrecy had worked to this point, and now that he was safely in his room, he could take a little more time.
He leaned over and withdrew a courier’s message tube from the pack. During his months as the royal bodyguard, he had kept it hidden behind a loose stone in a palace alcove, but now that he planned to resign his post, who could tell if he would again have access to it? Besides, hiding it here would allow him to carry out his plan to give it to Jason later in the afternoon.
