Dragon King The

by R. A. Salvatore

  The little boat had scored even, one-to-one, but more importantly, the daring heroics of Finwalker did not go unnoticed, not by the Bae Colthwyn fisherfolk nor by the Huegoth raiders. Leary’s decision had been based on the captain’s belief and hope that this was not a full-scale invasion force, but a powerful probe into Gybi’s defenses. No doubt the Huegoths meant to go into the town, but Leary didn’t think they had the manpower to lay siege to the monastery, and didn’t think they meant to stay for long.

  As it turned out, he was right. The Huegoths had not expected to suffer any considerable losses on the water, certainly hadn’t believed they would lose a longship, and soon after the incident, the raiders turned their prows back out to the open sea and sped off into the veil of fog.

  The fisherfolk of Gybi could not claim victory, though. They had lost almost twenty boats, with twenty others damaged, and more than a hundred folk lost to the cold waters of the bay. In a town of three thousand, that meant that almost every family would grieve that night.

  But Leary’s daring and Jeannie Beens’s grit and skill had bought them time, to plan or to flee.

  “The Huegoths will be back in force,” Brother Jamesis said at the all-important meeting that night in the monastery.

  “They have a base somewhere near here,” Leary reasoned, his voice shaky, for the wounded man had lost a lot of blood. “They could not have sailed all the way from Isenland, only to turn about to sail all the way back, and that before they even resupplied in the town!”

  “Agreed,” said Proctor Byllewyn. “And if their base is near Colthwyn, then it is likely they will return, in greater numbers.”

  “We must assume the worst,” added another of the brothers.

  Proctor Byllewyn leaned back in his seat, letting the conversation continue without him while he tried to sort things through. Huegoths hadn’t been seen so close to Eriador’s shores in such numbers in many, many years. Yet now, just a few months after the signing of the truce with King Greensparrow, the barbarian threat had returned. Was it coincidence, or were those events linked? Unpleasant thoughts flitted through Byllewyn’s mind. He wondered if the Huegoths were working secretly with Greensparrow. Perhaps it was less contrived than that, though certainly as ominous: that the Isenlanders had merely come to the conclusion that with the two nations of Avonsea separated, with Eriador no longer afforded the protection of the mighty Avon navy or the promise of severe retribution from the powerful King Greensparrow and his wizard-duke allies, the plunder would be easily gotten. Proctor Byllewyn recalled an incident a few years before, when he was returning from a pilgrimage to Chalmbers. He had witnessed a Huegoth raiding ship overtaken by an Avon warship. The longship had been utterly destroyed and most of the floundering Huegoths left in the water to drown or to feed the dorsal whales. And those few Huegoths who had been plucked from the sea found their fate more grim: keel-hauling. Only one Isenlander had been left alive, and he had been set adrift in a small boat, that he might find his way back to his king and tell of the foolishness of raiding the civilized coast. That vivid memory made Byllewyn think even less of the possibility that the Huegoth king would have allied with Greensparrow.

  “As far as the Huegoths know, Eriador has little in the way of warships,” Brother Jamesis was saying, a related line of thought that brought the proctor back into the conversation.

  Byllewyn looked around at the faces of those gathered, and he began to see a dangerous seed germinating there. The people were wondering if the break from Avon and the protective power of Greensparrow was a good thing. Most of the men and women in the room, besides Byllewyn and Captain Leary, were young, and did not remember, or at least did not appreciate, Eriador before Greensparrow. In the face of such a disaster as the Huegoths, it was easy to judge the years under Greensparrow in a softer light. Perhaps the unfair taxes and the presence of brutish cyclopians was not such a bad thing when viewed as protection from greater evils . . .

  Byllewyn, fiercely independent, knew that this was simply not true, knew that Eriador had always been self-sufficient and in no need of protection from Avon. But those determined notions did little to dispel the very real threat that had come so suddenly to Gybi’s dark shores.

  “We must dispatch an emissary to Mennichen Dee in Eradoch,” he said, “to enlist the riders in our defense.”

  “If they are not dancing about the Iron Cross with the good King Brind’Amour,” another man remarked sarcastically.

  “If that is the case,” Byllewyn interrupted, defeating the rising murmurs of discontent before they could find any footing, “then our emissary must be prepared to ride all the way to Caer MacDonald.”

  “Yes,” said the same sarcastic fisherman, “to the throne seat, to beg that our needs not be ignored.”

  The proctor of Gybi did not miss the vicious tone of the voice. Many of the locals had voiced their opposition to the anointment of the mysterious Brind’Amour as king of Eriador, declaring that Byllewyn, the long-standing proctor of Gybi, would be the better choice. That sentiment had been echoed across much of northeastern Eriador, but the movement had never gained much momentum since Byllewyn himself had put an end to the talk. He wondered now, given the grim mood, how long it would be before he would be dissuading similar opinions once more.

  “Caer MacDonald, then!” another man growled. “Let us see if our newly proclaimed king has any bite in him.”

  “Here, here!” came the agreeing chorus, and Byllewyn sat back thoughtfully in his chair, his fingertips tapping together before his eyes. He didn’t doubt that Brind’Amour—that anyone who could wrest control from Greensparrow—had bite, but he was also pragmatic enough to realize that, with the kingdoms separate once more, many ancient enemies, Huegoth and cyclopian, might indeed see Eriador as vulnerable. The arrival of Huegoths would be a major test for Brind’Amour, one that the new king could not afford to fail.

  The proctor of Gybi, a man of small ambition and generous heart, would pray for him.

  SOUGLES’S GLEN

  Ah, we’ll be eating well when the money starts a’flowing outa Caer MacDonald!” exclaimed Sougles Bellbanger, a rugged dwarf with hair and beard the color of rich tea. He hoisted his flagon high into the crisp night air.

  Ten of his fellows, sitting about a huge bonfire, did likewise, all looking to the stars shining brightly and clearly visible through the break in the forest above this small glen.

  “Keep it quiet!” yelled yet another of the bearded folk, who was curled up on a bedroll not so far away. Beside him, a dwarf snored loudly, and so when his call to the partying group at the fire went unnoticed, he slapped the snoring dwarf instead, just for the satisfaction.

  “Sleeping on this night!” Sougles howled derisively. “Plenty of time for that after we’ve sold our goods.”

  “After we’ve spent the gold we’ve got for selling our goods!” corrected one of the others, and again, the mugs came up high into the air.

  “And after we get the gold, you’ll all be too weary to spend it properly,” grumbled the dwarf from the bedroll. “And I’ll be helping meself, thank you.”

  That brought still more wild cheering from the gathering at the fire, along with many snorts. They were tough and ready dwarfs of DunDarrow; they could party all this night, go into the little settlement—Menster, it was called—in the morning, then spend the rest of the day selling their goods and quickly giving back most of the gold to the folk of Menster in exchange for ale and good food, and then comfortable lodgings before they made their trek back into the mountains to the nearest entrances of DunDarrow. That was the way it would work, now that Brind’Amour was king, now that Bellick dan Burso was in Caer MacDonald signing a pact to make Eriador and DunDarrow as one.

  And so they partied, howled and drank, tore off huge chunks of venison and threw the bones at the complainer in the bedroll. It went on most of the night, ending only in surprise as a ragged human, bleeding from the forehead, stumbled into camp.

  Up came the d
warfs and out came their weapons, huge axes, short, thick swords, and heavy hammers that could spin through the air and take down a target at thirty paces.

  The man, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, stumbled further, nearly tripping headlong into the fire. Two dwarfs had him in an instant, propping him by the arms.

  “What’re you about?” demanded Sougles.

  The man whispered something too low for the dwarf to hear, considering the grumbling conversations erupting all about. Sougles called for quiet and moved closer, cocking his head to put his ear in line with the man’s lips.

  “Menster,” the man repeated.

  “Menster?” Sougles asked loudly, and the word hushed his fellows. “What about Menster?”

  “Them,” whispered the man, and he slumped.

  “Them?” Sougles asked loudly, turning to his companions.

  “Them!” one of the dwarfs yelled in response, pointing to the dark line of trees, to the bulky shapes moving within those shadows.

  In all of Avonsea, in all the world, no two races hated each other more profoundly than did cyclopians and dwarfs, and when the one-eyes came howling out of the brush, thinking to overwhelm the dwarvish encampment, they found themselves running headlong into a wall of determination. Outnumbered nearly ten to one as the horde poured in, the dwarfs locked in a ring about their fire, fighting side to side, hacking and slashing with abandon, and singing as though they were glad for the fight. Every so often, one of the dwarfs would manage to reach back to retrieve a flaming brand, for dwarfs enjoyed nothing more than putting the hot end of a burning stick into the bulbous eye of a cyclopian.

  A sword in each hand, Sougles Bellbanger slashed out the knees of any cyclopian that ventured near, and more often than not, the cunning dwarf managed to thrust his second sword into the wounded brute’s torso before it ever hit the ground.

  “Oh, good sport!” Sougles yelled often, and though they were taking some hits, and a couple had gone down, the dwarfs heartily agreed. In only a few moments, a score of cyclopians lay dead or dying, though still more poured from the trees to take up the fight.

  It went on and on; those dwarfs who had been caught without their boots on felt the puddles of blood rising up to mid-ankle. Half an hour later, they were still fighting, and still singing, all traces of drink pushed from their blood by fiery adrenaline. Every time a dwarf fell, he was pushed back, and the ring tightened defensively. They were running out of room, Sougles knew, for he could feel the heat of the fire licking at his backside, but by this time the cyclopians had to clamber over their own dead to get near the fighting. And the ranks of one-eyes were indeed thinning, with many others running off into the woods, wanting no part of this deadly dwarven brigade.

  Sougles believed that they would win—all the dwarfs held faith in their battle prowess. The fire, untended for so long, was burning low by this time and had become a heap of charred logs and glowing ashes, bluish flames rising to lick the cold air every so often. Sougles worked hard to devise a plan where he and his fellows might make use of that; perhaps they could retreat part of the line over the dying fire, using it as a weapon, kicking embers up at the one-eyes. Yes, he decided, they could launch a fiery barrage at the cyclopian line and then come roaring back across the embers, charging hard into the confused brutes.

  Before Sougles could begin to pass word of the move, though, the fire seemed to execute a plan of its own. Blue flames exploded high into the air, changing hue to bright white, and all the embers flew out onto the backs of the dwarfs, nipping at them, stinging them and singeing their hair. Even worse, the mere surprise of the explosion destroyed the integrity of the dwarvish defensive ring. Dwarfs jumped, not in unison, and the cyclopians, who did not seem so startled, were quick to wedge in between their bearded adversaries, to separate the dwarfs. Soon Sougles, like many of his fellows, found himself battling cyclopians frantically on all sides, slashing and dodging, ducking low and running about. He did well, killed another one-eye and cut yet another’s legs out from under it. But the experienced dwarf knew that he could not keep up the pace, and understood that one hit—

  Sougles felt the crude spear burrow deep into the back of his shoulder. Strangely, he had no sensation of burning pain, just a dull thud, as though he had been punched. He moved to respond, but alas, his arm would not lift to his mind’s call. Seeing the opening, a second one-eye howled and charged straight in.

  Across came Sougles’s other blade, somehow parrying the thrust of the charging brute and turning the one-eye aside.

  But then Sougles was hit in the other side, and behind him the spearwielder prodded wildly, bending the dwarf forward, and then to the ground, where the one-eyes fell over him with abandon.

  Some distance from the action and the fire, the cyclopian leader looked down at the person standing next to him, his one eye scrunched up with anger. “Yer should’a done that afore,” the brute scolded.

  The young woman gave a shake of her head, though her neatly coiffed blond hair hardly moved. “Magic cannot be rushed,” she declared, and turned away.

  The cyclopian watched her go, not so certain of her motives. It never seemed to bother the duchess much when one-eyes died.

  Upon his return to Caer MacDonald, Luthien reported immediately to Brind’Amour the news that Eorl Gahris of Bedwydrin was dead. The old wizard was truly saddened and offered his condolences to Luthien, but the young man merely nodded his acceptance and begged his leave, which the king readily granted.

  Coming out of the Ministry, the sun gone in the west and the stars beginning to twinkle above, Luthien knew where to go to find Oliver. The Dwelf, a tavern in the rougher section of the city with a reputation for catering to nonhumans even in Duke Morkney’s time, had become the most popular sitting room in the city. “Here the Crimson Shadow laid plans for the conquest of Caer MacDonald,” claimed the fairly accurate rumors, and so the small tavern had gained a huge celebrity. Now sturdy dwarvish guards lined the entryway, while a discriminating elf walked the line, determining which would-be patrons might enter.

  Luthien, of course, was allowed entry without question, both dwarfs and the elf going to proper military posture as he passed. So used was he to the behavior, the young Bedwyr hardly gave it a thought as he swept into the crowded room.

  He found Oliver and Shuglin sitting together on high stools at the bar, the dwarf huddled over a mug of thick, foaming ale and Oliver leaning back, holding a glass of wine up before the nearest light source that he might properly inspect its coloring. Tasman, the bartender, noted Luthien’s approach and nodded grimly at the young man, then motioned toward Luthien’s two friends.

  Luthien came up between them, putting his hands on their backs. “My greetings,” he said quietly.

  Oliver looked into the young man’s cinnamon eyes and knew immediately what had happened. “How fares your father?” he asked anyway, thinking that Luthien would need to talk about it.

  “Gahris has passed,” Luthien replied evenly, stoically.

  Oliver started to offer his condolences, but saw by the look on Luthien’s face that the young man was dreading that. Instead the halfling lifted his glass once more and called out loudly, “To Gahris Bedwyr, eorl of Bedwydrin, friend of Caer MacDonald, thorn in the buttocks to Greensparrow. May he find just rewards in the world that is after our own!”

  Many others in the Dwelf hoisted their mugs and called out, “Hear, hear!” or “Gahris!”

  Luthien stared long and hard at his diminutive friend, the halfling who always seemed to know how to make things better. “Has the alliance been signed?” the young Bedwyr asked, wanting—needing—to change the subject.

  Oliver’s bright face went grim. “We were that close,” he said, holding thumb and index finger a fraction of an inch apart. “But then the stupid one-eyes . . .”

  “Fifteen dwarfs,” Shuglin added. “Slaughtered near the village that used to be called Menster.”

  “Used to be called?” Luthien’s voice
was weak.

  “‘Kindling’ would be a better name now,” explained Oliver.

  “The agreement was in hand,” Shuglin went on. “A duocracy, Oliver called it, and both kings, Brind’Amour and Bellick dan Burso, thought it a most splendid arrangement.”

  “Greensparrow, he would not have liked it,” Oliver remarked. “For he would have found the mountains blocked by an army of dwarfs loyal to Eriador.”

  “But after the slaughter in Sougles’s Glen—that’s what we’ve named the place—King Bellick has decided to take matters under advisement,” Shuglin said and drowned the bitterness with a great draining gulp of his ale.

  “But that makes no sense,” Oliver protested. “Such a fight should show clearly the need for alliance!”

  “Such a fight shows clearly that we might not want to be involved,” Shuglin grumbled. “King Bellick is considering a retreat to our own mines and our own business.”

  “That would be so very stupid . . .” Oliver started to say, but a threatening look from Shuglin told him that the matter was not up for debate.

  “Where is Bellick?” Luthien asked. Unlike Oliver, whose view was apparently clouded by hope, and by his own prideful desire that his suggestion of duocracy be the determination of history’s course, the young Bedwyr understood Bellick’s hesitance. It was likely that the dwarf king was not even secure in his trust of the Eriadorans, perhaps even wondering whether Brind’Amour, and not Greensparrow, was behind the raids, using them for political gain.

  “In Brind’Amour’s house still,” replied Oliver. “He will go to the mines on the morrow, and then return in a ten-day.”

  Luthien was not really surprised at the news. The cyclopian raids had become so frequent that many sourly called this the Summer of the Bleeding Hamlet. But that fact only made it even more clear to Luthien that the dwarfs should join with the folk of Eriador. What they needed now was to erase all suspicions between the sides, to put the blame for the raids squarely where it belonged: with the cyclopians, and with the one who was spurring them on.