by Ari Marmell
Had he?
“Surely, Your Majesty,” he risked saying, “the dragon was a threat worthy of our attention?”
“It was not your decision to make!” Marshal Orban roared at him. “As I told you then! Yes, we would probably have moved against the dragon, but when our attentions were not required elsewhere, and with a sufficient force! It was not your place to go haring off on your own, and that the gods’ own luck was clearly with you doesn’t excuse your behavior or impress me in any way!”
Impress? Nycolos abruptly felt the urge to scream. Had the bastard knight come after him, wounded him, destroyed life as he knew it for no greater cause than to make himself look good?
Had he been able, he would have roasted and split the life from each and every human in the hall.
It appeared the marshal might have more to say, but Hasyan reached out and laid a comforting hand on the man’s own fingers, which still rested on his king’s shoulders. Orban leaned in and again the pair exchanged quick, close whispers.
“My apologies,” Orban said when he straightened again, far more calmly, “To His Majesty and Sir Nycolos both. I spoke out of turn, and some of these matters should be discussed in private.”
“Begging His Majesty’s pardon.” It was the nobleman beside Dame Zirresca who spoke up. He was one of the few men present who went clean-shaven, and the light features of his bare face, as well as his red hair, suggested primarily Elgarrad descent. “Might I address Sir Nycolos and the court?”
The man with the crystal bell glanced at Hasyan, who nodded, then spoke. “His Majesty recognizes Andarjin, Margrave of Vidirrad.”
“I thank Your Majesty. My friends, apologies if I am leaping ahead of the conversation, as it were, but I’ve a concern that I think each and every one of you must share, once you think about it.
“Sir Nycolos, where is Wyrmtaker?”
Again the wound in Nycolos’s chest flared, as though the shard within heard the call of its name. “Shattered,” he admitted, “in the struggle.”
This time, Kortlaus and those others whom Nycolos took to be his friends and allies shared in the gasps and worried murmuring. Even Zirresca didn’t seem happy at the thought, no matter that it would surely make her newly returned rival’s position that much more precarious.
“Your Majesty,” Andarjin said, palms upturned as though beseeching aid, “ladies and gentlemen of the court, I find this to be of far greater import than Sir Nycolos’s unauthorized journey, or even his victory, impressive as it is. Wyrmtaker was but recently rediscovered, confirmed as anything more than a wishful myth. And now, as suddenly, it is lost to us. Madam Balmorra? Rare as dragons may be, was it not you who prophesied that ‘several’ of the beasts would assault and bedevil our beloved kingdom in the coming years?”
“I believe,” the astrologer replied, “that my words were ‘make their mark on Kirresc,’ not assault or bedevil.”
The margrave waved a dismissive hand. “Hardly a meaningful distinction where these creatures are concerned.”
I could come to dislike this Margrave Andarjin with surprisingly little effort, Nycolos fumed.
“Surely,” the nobleman continued, “we ought to be contemplating the potential danger in which we have all been placed by the baronet’s—error—before we consider the lesser infractions of his disobedience?”
I foolishly took for granted the sheer convenience of setting someone aflame from great distances.
Balmorra grunted, then said, “Or perhaps we ought at least hear Sir Nycolos’s tale before we take this any further?”
“We agree,” the king said before anyone might argue. “Sir Nycolos, if you please…”
Nycolos took a deep breath, then began with, “After an arduous but largely uneventful journey across the Outermark, I arrived at the mountains where I knew Tsavalantzaval made its home.” He kept his expression neutral at the name, and at the use of “it,” for he thought it improbable that the humans either knew or cared about the dragon’s gender. “I began my climb in the foothills, where—”
“Apologies for interrupting,” Andarjin said.
“And yet you’ll do so anyway.”
The margrave’s face darkened. “Aren’t you skipping over something rather important?”
“I took the sword,” Nycolos said flatly. “I’ve never denied that. Nobody here has forgotten it, so your efforts to remind them are a waste. I see no cause to go into detail for your amusement.” Which is fortunate, since I haven’t the first notion of how it was done.
Ignoring the various shocked looks which suggested he had been rather more forward and impolite in his response than perhaps he ought, Nycolos continued his tale.
Fact and fiction melded into a single thread as he spoke, augmenting what he knew and was willing to tell with whatever sounded reasonable. And through it all, his memories flailed about his head like winged mountain fey, pounding at him with heavy fists.
He told them how Nycolos Anvarri had climbed the heights of the Outermark Mountains, wading with bloodied sword through multiple bands of cave-dwelling goblins and a small clutch of harpies, all agents of the great wyrm.
How I watched in growing rage through my crystalline scrying pool as this boastful insect dared to invade my home and slaughter my servants…
He spoke of how he had bravely fought and cleverly wound his way through the many traps and wards, both mundane and mystical, that guarded the labyrinthine passageways of the dragon’s lair.
How that damnable sword had somehow guided him past the traps of collapsing stones and hidden spikes, had dispelled the enchantments that would have incinerated the intruder in pillars of fire or summoned fists of stone from the cavern walls to crush the life from him…
He told of finally finding Tzavalantzaval alone in a great cavern of monstrous stalactites and stalagmites, ledges and crevices, all told far larger than the entirety of Oztyerva.
Not alone. He had physically restrained Smim and his other favored minions from attacking the knight in retaliation for the deaths of their goblin brethren, for he hadn’t wished to lose his favorite servants, never imagining for even a second that he wouldn’t soon be rebuilding his forces…
And he spoke of the great battle, blade against claw and fang, armor against scale. Great gouts of flame burst from the dragon’s maw, but the massive Wyrmtaker had split the hellish torrent in two as readily as it had the goblins. The beast soared from above, knocking stalactites from the ceiling, but Nycolos had readily rolled aside, and without its breath of fire, the dragon had no choice but to return to the ground and to fight. Talons and jaws and tail whipped about him, but Wyrmtaker granted him the speed and strength to meet each and every attack, until finally, finally the mystic blade had pierced Tzavalantzaval’s chest, seeking the creature’s inhuman heart—but how, in its death throes, the dragon’s mightiest blow had shattered the blade that killed it into a blizzard of steel fragments, and badly wounded Nycolos himself.
He still felt the pain, with every breath and every motion, of that hideous blade. His thrashing, though fraught with agony and a growing fear, had not been blind. He had sought to knock Wyrmtaker aside, rip it from his flesh before it could kill him.
He had failed, for when the blade shattered, it left a sliver of itself behind, a sliver still containing the magics of the sword. Even as it burrowed through him, seeking his heart, he had lashed out again, determined at least not to die alone—and without Wyrmtaker, Nycolos Anvarri had no means to stave off that blow. The knight had perished beneath Tzavalantzaval’s claws, broken and torn asunder so that it was scarcely a slab of bone and meat that had smashed against the cavern wall.
And he only half-remembered those last, desperate moments. Clinging to life, the sudden revelation that it was only a dragon’s heart the sliver of Wyrmtaker would seek. That if, with the last of his strength, he summoned his sorceries to take on another form, as he occasionally had in decades past, he might survive long enough to find a means of remov
ing the deadly splinter. And that, if he were to gain access to the best chirurgeons or even healing magics that humanity might provide, then the obvious form to take was lying, mangled but recognizable, before his swiftly dimming eyes…
“Smim,” he said, gesturing to the goblin, “was one of the last survivors among Tzavalantzaval’s servants. In gratitude for freeing him from his slavery, he helped me, bandaging my wounds and assisting me from the mountains. As he had nowhere else to go, I invited him to travel with me. The journey back across the Outermark was difficult, but… Certainly nothing worth telling in light of what came before.
“And so,” he concluded, “we stand here before you now.”
Not a word was spoken for long moments after he completed his recitation, though to his ears the hush was far from total. He heard the soft breaths of multiple scores of lungs, the shifting of arms and legs within armor, kaftans, and blouses. A great many faces stared upon him with pride and awe, and he was certain he was not the only one present to have noticed Mariscal’s swift, almost triumphant grin.
Yet many of the nobles appeared moderately puzzled as well. No doubt his performance was imperfect; he must have omitted some style of speech, or failed to reproduce some mannerism, they were expecting. Well, so be it. He could perfect his guise only so far. Hopefully he and Smim would be gone long before any vague suspicions crystallized enough to become open questions.
For the third time, Orban and the king consulted in an intimate whisper. Afterward, the marshal spoke.
“Indeed a tale worthy of a minstrel’s attention, as His Majesty suggested. And we have kept you more than long enough in the telling of it. Clearly you are fatigued, and—with all respect to your, ah, companion’s ministrations—your wounds have gone untended for far too long. Retire to your chambers, Sir Nycolos. Rest yourself, while we summon a chirurgeon to attend you. Any further discussion can wait until you’ve recovered.”
“Very kind of you, and His Majesty.” Nycolos’s thoughts twined and spun like agitated serpents—not least over the fact that he hadn’t the faintest notion where his chambers might be. “I wonder if I might beg a favor of Your Majesty?”
Hasyan nodded for him to continue.
“I’ve been away a long time, Your Majesty. If you won’t miss his presence, I would request Lord Kortlaus accompany me, that I might speak with him about all that’s transpired in my absence.”
“By all means.”
Nycolos bowed, as did Kortlaus, and both made for the door. Mariscal seemed determined to catch his attention, but Nycolos offered her no more than a restrained smile.
Even as they departed, Smim tagging along behind, Nycolos heard the king dismissing many of the other courtiers and nobles as well. Clearly he wanted only his closest counselors present for whatever they would next discuss.
“You’re sure you don’t want to wait?” Kortlaus asked. “Greet, um, anyone more formally?”
“No. Should I?”
The baron examined him a moment, then shrugged. “Not if you don’t think so.”
Damn humans! Make some sense!
Hanging back a mere half step, allowing Kortlaus to take the lead without being obvious about it, Nycolos said, “So, tell me of the past months.”
For a time Kortlaus’s report involved little more than gossip, social or political competition between people Nycolos didn’t know, or minor border skirmishes he cared nothing about. At one point the tales turned to several young suitors pursuing Margravine Mariscal, and Kortlaus seemed to expect some particular reaction from him, but other than learning the young woman’s rank, he couldn’t begin to imagine what he was supposed to have gleaned from that information. Again his friend appeared bemused, but said nothing as to why.
Instead, he focused the bulk of his attentions on studying his route, along this hallway, through those great doors, up that sweeping set of stairs. Although no longer in what he would dub the central keep, or whatever they called the main structure that was the heart of the palace, they had never stepped out of doors. The high, soaring corridors had taken him to what was partly another building, yet still a piece of Oztyerva proper. Nycolos knew enough of most human feudal and social systems to recognize that his title of “baronet,” though minor, indicated he owned a small parcel of land somewhere. Why he and many of the other nobles appeared to have quarters here in the palace, he was uncertain. For use when visiting? Did something about their duties require them to dwell here, managing their lands via proxy? He would have to find out, so as not to give himself away with some foolish faux pas, but it would require reading or careful eavesdropping. He could hardly come out and ask, could he?
None of which meant there weren’t plenty of topics he could openly discuss. And as they turned a corner into a second-floor hallway in what had to be a far wing of the palace, very near one of the corner towers, he did just that.
“Dame Zirresca didn’t seem especially overjoyed to see me,” he said with a shallow grin.
Kortlaus snorted. “She’s been stomping about with her nose in the air for months. I think she’d all but convinced herself she’d already been declared Marshal Laszlan’s successor. I wish I could have seen her reaction when she first got word you’d returned.”
Indeed, Nycolos had guessed that was the situation the instant he’d been referred to as a knight who “would be Crown Marshal.” Equally apparent was Margrave Andarjin’s desire to discredit him, though whether that was solely because he and Zirresca were friends, perhaps allies, or whether there was more to it, Nycolos couldn’t guess.
She’d said something else to him on the palace steps, though, something about Kortlaus not being a threat.
“What of you?” he asked.
The baron’s mail rattled as he shrugged. “Zirresca’s never seen me as much competition. I think she believes I lack ambition, that my campaign for Crown Marshal is something I simply feel I’m due as the highest ranked of the three of us.
“I’m truly glad you’re back, Nycos,” he added with a broad grin, “but I still intend to be the one to prove her wrong.”
And more power to you. I intend not to be here.
What he said was, “We’ll see, won’t we? Assuming His Majesty and Marshal Laszlan don’t forbid it.”
“Oh, they won’t. You’ll be chastised, given some punishment or other, but this is too important not to let our best compete for it. Especially if the rumors that Ktho Delios is mobilizing again have any truth to them…” He paused, chewing on either his lip or his mustache; from his half-pace behind, Nycolos couldn’t quite tell.
“Nycos,” Kortlaus said, far more seriously, “I don’t know what your situation is with the Margravine Mariscal, why you haven’t wanted to see her. But your position is a bit precarious just now. Leaving personal matters aside, you can’t afford to lose any of the nobility who support your campaign over mine or Zirresca’s. And she’s still your loudest advocate.”
“I… I won’t.” Damn. Again he was getting that odd, concerned look that could, with a gentle nudge, teeter over the edge into suspicion. “Kortlaus, the truth is, my journey back from the Outermark Mountains was far rougher, and my wounds bothering me worse, than I implied. I’ve no intention of avoiding Mariscal, and I’ll speak to her when I’m able, I just… need some time first.”
“Of course.” The baron was instantly solicitous, gazing at Nycolos with a compassion that actually startled him. He found himself wondering, without any notion whence the thought had come, if anyone had ever looked at him that way before.
“You…” Kortlaus hesitated, glancing behind. “You truly trust the goblin?”
“The goblin is well within earshot and has a perfectly good name—” Smim began irritably. Nycolos cut him off.
“I do. Completely.”
“Very well.” Kortlaus turned. “You, uh… Swim, was it?”
“Smim, my Lord Curt-Louse.”
The baron scowled, hard, but held his temper. “Smim, then. If you have it
in you, I ask you to remain awake tonight, watch over your lord as he rests. Zirresca, for all her fuming, would not resort to dishonorable tactics now that Nycos has returned, but I’m not entirely certain I can say the same for the Margrave Andarjin. I’m probably doing him a disservice, but just in case… It cannot hurt to be watchful.”
“On that, if nothing else” Smim said, “we find ourselves in absolute agreement.”
___
Zirresca leaned against the cold stone beside a bust of Hasyan I, her arms crossed tight over her chest, struggling not to scowl at every courtier, page, or fellow knight who passed her by. The small stream of humanity exiting the throne room faded to a trickle and still she waited. Finally she leaned in to glare through the doorway.
Andarjin stood by the room’s leftmost wall, engaged in animated conversation with a young woman. Her features were sharp, striking if not beautiful, and so traditionally noble that, along with her dark complexion, even a perfect stranger would have known her for a close relative of His Majesty.
Denuel Jarta, palatine to Hasyan III, rang his crystalline bell, summoning the woman to the king’s side, and Margrave Andarjin at last departed from both her presence and the throne room.
“Are you sure you don’t want to spend a bit more time in there?” Zirresca snapped as he emerged. “I haven’t quite expired of old age yet!”
Andarjin raised that brow of his. “A bit testy are we?”
“Oh, just a bit, perhaps!” The knight forced herself to take a deep breath. “Sorry, Arj.”
He smiled, gestured, and they began to walk the corridors of Oztyerva. “Concerned about Nycolos’s return?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“Shouldn’t I be? Marshal Laszlan shouldn’t be stepping down for a couple of years, yet. Plenty of time for Nycolos to recover from whatever setback his asinine escapade costs him! Gods almighty, Arj, he killed a dragon! That’s going to overshadow whatever rules he might have broken, or whatever coarse company he’s chosen to keep!”
“Possibly. You’re still the better candidate, Zirresca. And whatever time he has, so do you. We’ll prove it to everyone.”
