Dragontiarna

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Ridmark!”

  He turned his head and saw a small group of mounted Anathgrimm heading towards them. Mara and Jager rode at their head. Ridmark turned his mount to join them, and Calliande followed him.

  “Queen Mara,” said Ridmark. “Prince Jager.”

  “I did not expect to see you so soon,” said Mara. “I thought you wouldn’t cross until tomorrow or the day after.”

  “Arandar wanted us here,” said Calliande. “He thought we might need to counter anything Merovech does. If the Dragon Cult wants to attack, setting fire to the rafts crossing the river would be the easiest way to do it.”

  “Very true,” said Jager. “I’m afraid we’ve seen the mad Duke several times.”

  “You have?” said Ridmark, alarmed.

  “Well, unless there is a second giant black dragon with burning eyes flying over Cintarra,” said Jager. “But he hasn’t come close. I think he doesn’t trust his scouts and wants to see things with his own eyes.” He pointed at the camps. “You remember those portable ballistae we used against the frost drakes during the Frostborn war?”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “Constantine still uses them. Not all the frost drakes died with their masters, and they are still a danger in the Northerland.”

  “And in Nightmane Forest as well,” said Mara. “Not six months ago, a frost drake attacked travelers on the road to Marhosk.”

  “I’ve made sure the ballistae are scattered among all the camps,” said Jager. “If Merovech attacks, we’ll lose some men, aye…but we might be able to shoot him down. Especially if one of our ballistae pin his wings.” He grinned. “Then the mighty Shield Knight can cut his head off.”

  “Aye, and that would be half the battle,” said Ridmark. “Merovech’s men won’t follow Aeliana, at least not all of them. Though I suppose then instead of facing one army, we would have to deal with a hundred ravaging warbands.”

  “Easier to deal with a hundred warbands,” said Mara, “than one powerful army.”

  “And Aeliana will not rest until she tries to kill you again,” said Calliande, voice quiet. Ridmark knew that look in her eyes. It was the same look she got whenever someone threatened one of the children. If Aeliana Carhaine ever came into Calliande’s power, Ridmark knew, her remaining life would be measured in seconds.

  “Tarrabus’s daughter,” said Jager. “Hard to imagine him having children…but then again, I suppose it’s more surprising he didn’t leave dozens of bastards scattered everywhere.”

  “Though it is not surprising,” said Mara, “that a man like him would hand a child over to the Red Family.” She shook her head. “Little wonder she became a monster if she was raised by the Matriarch and her cult.”

  “And they raised the monster that then destroyed them,” said Jager.

  “Aye,” said Calliande. “We shall have to rid the realm of that monster before she can hurt anyone else.”

  ###

  It had been a long and wearying day, and Niall was glad that it was done.

  He sat in front of his campfire with a sigh, letting the fire warm his aching feet. The camp had been laid out, the tents raised, the supplies secured, a patrol dispatched, and guards set to watch the camp during the night. Niall had remained on his feet or in the saddle all day, resolving disputes between the men, deciding where the tents would go and who would guard the supplies.

  Soldiering, Vegetius had told him, involved long periods of boredom dotted with moments of sheer bloody terror. What Vegetius hadn’t mentioned was that while on campaign, the boredom was mixed with long stretches of difficult labor. When guarding Prince Accolon in Cintarra, the work had been boring, but not particularly demanding. But when marching and camping every day, there was always some damned thing or another that needed doing. Marching involved walking or riding all day, and Niall was surprised at how tiring it was to stay in the saddle from dawn until dusk. The horse did most of the work. Why were his legs so tired?

  At least he was used to days of long work. Growing up on his uncle’s farm had been constant labor, at least until Ricatus had enclosed their lands. Niall wondered where Ricatus had gone and decided he didn’t care for the moment.

  He ate the bread and dried vegetables that made up his dinner, interspersed with drinks of bitter mixed wine. What he really wanted was a bath to wash away the grime and sweat of the day. But given how many horses and men had relieved themselves into the River Cintarra, he might as well bathe himself in sewage. No, he would just have to endure the discomfort. After he ate, he decided, he would check on Rhiain, see how she was faring. She had traveled just as far as Niall today, but she was decades older.

  “Well, my lord, it is good to see that you are holding up.”

  Niall blinked as a man strode into the light from the fire, and then grinned.

  “Decimus!” he said.

  The Magistrius Decimus seated himself next to Niall with a tired grunt. He was a man of middle years, with a leathery face and graying hair. He wore the long white coat the Magistrius often wore instead of their formal robes while in the field, though the white was gray with the dust of the road, especially near the hems. Beneath the coat, he wore a man-at-arms’ jerkin and chain mail hauberk. The Magistri, like priests, were forbidden from spilling blood with the sword, but they could die just as easily as other men.

  Decimus had been the court Magistrius of Lhanwyn Corinium. After the siege of Rhudlan, Decimus had decided that Niall had saved his life. To Niall’s embarrassment, Decimus had sworn to him, serving as Niall’s Magistrius advisor. But Niall was a knight with no lands and no followers, so he didn’t have much need of a Magistrius advisor. Decimus had remained with the other Magistri, helping to tend to the wounded.

  “I have to say, Sir Niall, you look as tired as I feel,” said Decimus.

  Niall passed him the wineskin, and Decimus took a long drink. “You are not wrong, sir. All I did today was move men from one place to another. But I feel it keenly.”

  “The perils of leadership, I am afraid,” said Decimus, handing the wineskin back. “You feel the weight of your duties, so you make sure they are done well. And at the end of the day you are exhausted. At least you will sleep soundly.”

  “Yes,” said Niall. He usually slept well. But more and more of late, dreams had started to flicker through his head. In them, he saw all the men who had been slain in the fighting since the rifts had opened in Castarium. Or sometimes he was in Pompeia’s bed again, her arms and legs wrapped around him, only for her to smile as she plunged a dagger into his heart. “I suppose that is the benefit of exhaustion. But you must have been just as busy among the wounded.”

  “We were,” said Decimus. “There was some healing to be done among the wounded from the kobold and Mhorite raids. But we have saved all those who could be saved.” He stared into the fire for a moment. “I think we…”

  “Might I join you?” said another voice, deep and commanding.

  Niall’s first thought was that Lord Ridmark had joined them, and he jumped to his feet. But this man was younger, without the old brand scar upon his left cheek and jaw.

  “Sir Rufinius!” said Niall. “Please, yes, join us.”

  He sat down, and Rufinius followed suit.

  “I heard you fared well at Cynan’s Tower,” said Rufinius.

  “Better than I might have expected. But we lost more men than I hoped,” admitted Niall.

  “Such are the burdens of command, I fear,” said Rufinius. The Swordbearer drummed his hand on Starflame’s hilt for a moment, and Niall glimpsed a flash of pale light from the soulstone worked into the tang of the blade. “You could win a crushing victory over the enemy, destroy his forces utterly, and still rebuke yourself for the men who fell.”

  “When I was younger, I used to think that the lords and knights always knew what they were doing, that they were sure of the right decision,” said Niall. Though Ricatus Eborium had done a good job of shattering that illusion. “Now that I am a knight…I find that
I am even less certain of the proper path.”

  “I fear it is no different for a Swordbearer,” said Rufinius.

  Decimus let out a laugh. “Both of you puppies are young men yet. But when you get to my age…”

  “You no longer have doubts?” said Niall.

  “You have more than ever,” said Decimus. “But at least you’re accustomed to them. And your back and knees ache to distract you from your doubts.”

  “You are a font of comfort, sir,” said Niall, and Decimus grinned.

  “My father would say that trials are sent from God, to test the faithful in their beliefs,” said Rufinius. Having met Caelmark Arban, Niall could not imagine the grim archbishop ever showing doubts about anything. “And in the scriptures, it is said God sends trials to those He loves, to refine their faith ever further.”

  “Then God must indeed love us,” said Decimus, “for He has sent us abundant trials.”

  “How fare things at Rhudlan?” said Niall. “I’d heard that the Dragon Cult sent some raiders.”

  “They have,” said Rufinius. “Or, rather, they sent their hirelings. Merovech has gathered Mhorites and dvargir mercenaries to his side, so he has been using them to carry out raids while conserving his main army for the battle to come. The Crown Prince has ridden out many times to repulse them.” Rufinius paused. “I confess that I was uncertain of the Crown Prince when I first met him, but he is a firm ruler and a bold captain. If God is testing us, then we at least have captains worthy of the trial.”

  “Aye,” said Niall. For all the grimness that had settled over the Crown Prince after Castarium, Niall knew that Accolon was a good man and would make a good High King, though hopefully not for many years yet.

  “Have you heard how the Lady Moriah fares?” said Rufinius.

  To his surprise, Niall felt a tiny flicker of jealousy. He forced it aside. Rufinius was a good friend and comrade, a valiant man who had stood against the host of the Dragon Cult. If he wanted to pursue Moriah, well, that was his business. Moriah had already seen Niall make a fool of himself with Pompeia, so no doubt her opinion of him was set in stone.

  Though Niall confessed he could not see the cynical, suspicious Moriah and the earnest, honest Sir Rufinius making a good match.

  “She must be doing well,” said Niall. “I heard at the council of war that your father foiled a plot by some nobles to kidnap Prince Tywall and smuggle him to the Dragon Cult. That had to have been her work.”

  “No doubt,” said Rufinius. “The Crown Prince chose wisely to take her into his confidence.”

  “We wouldn’t have held Rhudlan without her help,” said Niall. “If she hadn’t smashed the ladders, we might not have been able to get the ogres off the wall.”

  “She is a remarkable woman,” said Rufinius. Again, Niall felt that flicker of jealousy. “You will recall I would not have escaped from the Drakocenti without her help. I…”

  A woman’s scream rang in the night.

  Niall surged to his feet, reaching for his sword, and Rufinius and Decimus followed suit. There were some women in the camp. A few of the knights and minor nobles had brought their wives to supervise their servants and squires. And there were the merchants and the usual camp followers, the women who would sell themselves to men for a few moments’ pleasure. Rhiain had wanted to ban such women from the camp, but Calliande had explained that if they did, the men would simply seek out camp followers elsewhere, or would go into Rhudlan to make trouble there. Better to keep things close where trouble could be resolved if it showed itself.

  Rhiain hadn’t been happy, but neither had she disagreed with Lady Calliande.

  Niall raced towards the sound of the scream, his mind working. Had the Dragon Cult launched a night raid on the camp? Sentries stood guard, but no sentry was infallible. The kobolds could be stealthy, and Niall had heard that the dvargir had brought tribes of enslaved deep orcs to Merovech’s side. He had never seen a deep orc, but the rumors said the eyeless creatures could move in such perfect silence that no creature of the surface world could hear them.

  Another scream rang out, followed by a man’s curse. Niall raced around a tent and skidded to a stop.

  He stood before Sir Ricatus’s tent. A woman lay sprawled on the ground, hands raised to cover her face, blood trickling from her nose and mouth. Sir Ricatus towered over her, wearing only a pair of trousers, his torso marked with both wiry muscles and old scars. His hands were clenched into fists, and he looked…annoyed. Not angry, just annoyed. Like he was dealing with a stubborn horse or a misbehaving mule.

  “I told you a silver coin!” said Ricatus, and he gave the woman a sharp kick in the side. She flipped over, trying to get away from him. “Then I find you with your hand in my money pouch! You’re going to regret that before I’m done with you. I…”

  “What is this?” said Niall.

  Ricatus glared at him. “This is none of your concern.”

  “It bloody well is my concern,” said Niall. “The way she was screaming I thought the Mhorites had attacked, or the kobolds were in the camp.” The anger on Ricatus’s face eased slightly as he realized the implications. “I thought we were under attack. Instead, I find you beating some helpless woman!”

  Ricatus scoffed. “Hardly helpless, Sir Niall.”

  “She’s one of the camp followers, isn’t she?” said Rufinius.

  Ricatus gave him a wary glance. “Aye. I paid her a silver coin for her labors, as agreed, and then I found her trying to steal my money.”

  “You said three silver coins,” said the woman, giving Niall a fearful glance. “You said three.”

  “Lying harlot!” said Ricatus, and he kicked her again. The woman curled up, and Ricatus stepped closer.

  “Enough!” said Niall. “Beating up a helpless woman? This is unknightly!”

  “Unknightly?” said Ricatus. “It is knightly to let yourself be cheated?”

  “Perhaps you should have paid the woman the price you agreed upon,” said Rufinius.

  “I did pay her the agreed price,” said Ricatus. “Or do you believe a whore over a knight of Andomhaim, Sir Rufinius?”

  Niall definitely believed the harlot over Ricatus. He had absolutely no doubt that Ricatus would try to cheat a whore out of two silver coins. Ricatus had enclosed the lands of Ebor and driven the freeholders from their fields. He had boasted to Niall at how he was strong enough to carve a place for himself in the world. If he was willing to do all that, Niall had no doubt he would cheat a prostitute over a small amount of money.

  “Go,” said Rufinius to the woman. “Leave this camp once. Consider yourself fortunate that worse has not happened to you and reconsider your life.”

  The woman didn’t need to be told twice. She got to her feet and fled into the night, clutching her dress around her.

  “That was none of your concern, Sir Rufinius,” said Ricatus, his voice icy cold. “A man’s private affairs are his own.”

  “Had you conducted your shameful business in the privacy of your tent, I would agree,” said Rufinius. “But her screams made us think we were under attack. And while our sentries were distracted by the noise, the enemy might have crept into the camp. Unlikely, I will admit, but possible. If you disagree with my conduct, you are welcome to raise the matter with Lord Ridmark.”

  “Your uncle is unlikely to disagree with his nephew, even an illegitimate one,” said Ricatus.

  Sir Rufinius shrugged. “The Master of the Order of the Soulblade, then. Or perhaps Crown Prince Accolon. I am sure they will welcome an interruption in their tasks to hear a case involving a prostitute and two silver coins.” He looked as stern and implacable as his father.

  Ricatus hissed out a breath. He was angrier than he had been when beating the woman. But there was nothing he could do to Rufinius, and he knew it. Instead, he glared at Niall, who was closer to his social equal.

  “Satisfied, Sir Niall?” said Ricatus. “I know you and your aunt hate me and would take any opportunity to cause
me trouble.”

  “What cause do you have for complaint?” said Niall. “If you want to lie with whores, that’s your affair. The woman is the one with the grievance, not you. You’re the one who kept two-thirds of her payment.”

  “Don’t lecture me about whores,” said Ricatus. “You’re the one who was stupid enough to sleep with Pompeia Corinium.”

  Niall felt color flood into his cheeks.

  “Did our righteous young knight mention that, Sir Rufinius?” said Ricatus. “Lady Pompeia batted her eyes at him, and she wrapped him around her little finger.” He let out a nasty laugh. “Did she tell you that she was a virgin, Sir Niall? Half the knights of Lhanwyn’s court thought she was a virgin at one time or another.”

  “That was a mistake,” said Niall. “I shouldn’t have slept with her.”

  “Was she your first?” said Ricatus. There was an ugly light in his eyes and a sneer on his lips. “The sophisticated noblewoman and the rural simpleton, it’s like a bad play. Or maybe you knew all about the art of lovemaking already. The commoners lie with their sheep and horses, so maybe you watched your bitch of an aunt give herself to a hunting hound when…”

  That did it.

  Niall stepped forward, his fist shooting back. To judge from the way Ricatus’s eyes went wide, he hadn’t expected that. Niall would have put Ricatus on the ground, and he would have kept hitting, but Sir Rufinius reached up and enclosed Niall’s hand in a grip like an iron band, and something like sanity returned to Niall’s mind.

  “That’s quite enough, both of you,” said Rufinius. “Lord Ridmark would be annoyed if his men brawled when we have foes to fight. Sir Ricatus, you will retract your remarks about Lady Rhiain.”

  “He attacked me!” snapped Ricatus.

  “No, he didn’t,” said Rufinius.

  “If anything, he was about to challenge you, sir knight,” said Decimus. “You did insult his aunt, the Lady Rhiain. A knight whose female relative is insulted in such…regrettably base terms is entitled to demand an apology or a duel.”