Dragontiarna: Thieves

by Moeller, Jonathan

  If the Drakocenti were willing to kill a woman just to get at the Prince, then they were indeed evil men.

  “Decurion,” called Lady Calliande. The Keeper’s eyes were still closed, her fingers wrapped around Ridmark’s as he grasped his soulblade’s hilt. Calliande Arban was a striking woman, but Niall was unashamed to admit that she frightened him. Few people could kill a dragon. “Take your men through. We’ll be right behind you.”

  “Keeper,” said Vegetius with a respectful nod. His tone was much less courteous as he addressed his men. “You heard the lady, you sluggards! Move!”

  The decurion began jogging for the gate, and Niall and the other soldiers followed. His back ached beneath the unaccustomed weight of his armor, and the straps of his pack dug into his shoulders. But it was easier than the days he had spent working on his uncle’s farm, and Niall kept pace with the men.

  They reached the gate. Niall braced himself and plunged into it.

  It felt…

  Disorienting.

  The experience of traversing the Shield Knight’s gate wasn’t painful. One moment Niall was jogging along the road north of Cintarra.

  The next he was standing on the road along the eastern bank of the River Cintarra, the great city spreading before him about a mile to the south.

  The change was so abrupt that it was shocking. The sun was further to the east than it had been over Castarium, and Niall supposed it was earlier in the day here. The sky at Castarium had been clear and blue, but here hundreds of puffy white clouds floated overhead, and to the west, Niall saw heavy gray clouds coming together for a storm.

  The city of Cintarra filled the horizon to the south, spreading on either side of the wide river, thousands of brick houses with red tile roofs rising within the city’s massive outer walls of red sandstone. Seven bridges connected the older Eastern City to the newer Western City across the river. In the Eastern City Niall saw the great soaring towers of the city’s cathedral, the seat of the Archbishop of Cintarra, and the equally proud towers of the Prince’s Palace. Throughout both the Eastern City and the Western rose the towers of the lords and merchants of Cintarra. By the Prince’s decree, no tower could rise higher than the spires of the cathedral or the towers of the Palace. The proud merchants pushed to the very limits of that law, raising towers a yard lower than the law allowed, and then adorning them with statues and reliefs and mighty bells. Hundreds of banners flapped in the air over the ramparts of the walls, a field of blue adorned with the green dragon sigil of the House of Gwyrdragon.

  From the outside, Cintarra looked rich and beautiful and powerful. Niall supposed it was, but when he had been here a few months ago, the city’s streets had seethed with beggars. The Regency Council, backed by the wealth of the Scepter Bank, had been encouraging the nobles of Cintarra to enclose their lands for sheep, selling wool to the rest of Andomhaim and the men of Owyllain. With nowhere to go, the dispossessed farmers had made their way to Cintarra. Thousands of displaced men, perhaps tens of thousands, now seethed within the alleyways of the great city. The mood had been bitter and angry when Niall and Rhiain and the men of Ebor had passed through Cintarra. The villagers of Ebor had decided to press on, hoping to make their way to the Northerland where the lords welcomed freeholders willing to settle among the dangerous hills.

  That had been the plan, anyway. Then Niall had stolen two sheep and a pig, the rifts had opened, and the dragons and the goblins had come.

  “Keep moving!” snapped Vegetius. “Clear the gate! Move, you sluggards!”

  Niall hurried with the rest of the men and went off the road, standing on the uneven ground that sloped towards the broad brown river. He looked to the south and saw that the horsemen, footmen, and carts had formed a ragged line. It looked less disorganized than he expected, but the High King’s soldiers knew their business. Niall saw activity on the ramparts of the city. No doubt the sight of a small army appearing out of a hole in the air was cause for alarm, even if the army carried the banners of the Pendragons.

  Then again, given how the Regency Council had acted, perhaps the rulers of Cintarra feared the arrival of royal soldiers.

  “What should we do now, sir?” said Niall.

  Vegetius grunted. “We wait for Lord Ridmark to tell us what to do. That’ll be once Prince Accolon decides what he wishes to do. Most of soldiering is standing around waiting for the lords to make up their minds, lad.” The decurion looked to the south and frowned at the great city. When he spoke again, his voice was so quiet that Niall barely heard it. “Wonder if the prince knows himself what he’s going to do.”

  ###

  “Ridmark.”

  It was Calliande’s voice, soft and gentle.

  Ridmark raised his head and blinked open his eyes, sweat stinging them, his heart racing in his chest. Calliande stared back at him, and her blue eyes seemed so much more vivid and intense as if they had been made of rings of blue fire. All the world around him seemed sharper, the light brighter and the shadows darker, as if he was looking through a lens that filled colors with unbearable vividness.

  It made his head hurt. Or his head was already hurting.

  “It’s time,” said Calliande. The field around them was empty, the gate rippling before them. “We need to go through the gate.”

  “Yes.” Ridmark straightened up and shifted Oathshield to his right hand. His body felt rested and relaxed, but his mind reeled, and sweat dripped down his face as his heart hammered against his ribs. Holding the gate open was not a physical strain, but he felt it, nonetheless.

  “This way,” said Calliande, and she led him to the gate. He followed her through it, and Ridmark felt the dislocation as he traveled hundreds of miles in the blink of an eye. For an instant, for an awful, endless instant, he understood how the gate worked, understood the true relationship between time and space and matter, and his mind reeled beneath it. The knowledge wasn’t malevolent or destructive, but the human mind wasn’t equipped for such wisdom. Trying to understand it was like trying to drive a wagon with square wheels, or to build a boat from stone, or to divide by zero.

  But the knowledge faded as he took a few steps onto the Cintarra road, his mind unable to retain it.

  “You can release the gate, Ridmark,” said Calliande, holding his free hand. “We’re all here.”

  “Yes,” said Ridmark again, and he concentrated on his link to Oathshield.

  The gate dissolved into nothingness…and the backlash blazed through Ridmark’s mind.

  When he used the power of the Shield Knight to armor himself, the price was physical, a wave of exhaustion. But when he used the power to open gates, the cost was mental.

  For a moment, just a moment, his vision became unanchored in time.

  Chaos exploded before his eyes.

  He looked at Calliande, and he saw her as she was now, the Keeper of Andomhaim, his wife, the mother of his children, her eyes full of worry. But in the same instant he saw Calliande mourning over Joanna’s still body, saw her addressing Uthanaric Pendragon and the lords of Andomhaim, saw her dueling Tymandain Shadowbearer on the slopes of the Black Mountain, saw her walking into the Tower of the Magistri for the first time as a novice, saw her naked and nervous and eager on their first night together as husband and wife.

  Ridmark looked towards Cintarra. He saw the city unfolding in the tapestry of time, saw the ancient stronghold of the high elves that had stood here tens of thousands of years ago. The city of the high elves was abandoned and crumbled into ruin, and humans came and raised the proud towers of Cintarra. Except he saw Cintarra burn as the Frostborn seized it. No, that wasn’t right, that hadn’t happened. That had been a possible future, but Ridmark had averted it.

  But he saw other potential futures, saw Cintarra burn as black ships with red sails glided into its harbor, or vanish in fire as a cataclysm swept across the world…

  For an instant, he saw something that looked like an enormous eye of fire open beneath the city, and the flames spread to i
ncinerate Cintarra and annihilate Andomhaim and the rest of the world.

  “Father.”

  Ridmark’s gaze shifted to the side, and he saw a young woman standing next to Calliande. She was striking, with long black hair and blue eyes, and he saw something of both Calliande and himself in her features. Rhoanna would look that way as an adult, he thought.

  Did he see a future version of Rhoanna?

  “The red sword, Father,” murmured the blue-eyed woman. She stepped closer and put a hand on his cheek. “Beware the red sword. But remember you are the Shield Knight. The shield can break the red sword.”

  Then the blue-eyed woman vanished, and Ridmark’s vision snapped back into normal time.

  He blinked and let out a ragged breath, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand. For a moment, thousands of strange, divergent images danced before his eyes, and then they vanished like smoke on the wind. A wave of vertigo and fatigue went through him, and Ridmark took deep breaths until the dizziness passed.

  “Are you all right?” said Calliande.

  “I am,” said Ridmark. He knew what happened when he held the gates open. After he closed the gate, his vision drifted through time for a moment.

  Except he could never remember what he saw.

  His mind could not retain it. Just as well. Ridmark had already seen enough disturbing things in his life, and likely he would not wish to remember what he saw in the aftermath of closing the gate.

  “I am,” repeated Ridmark, and he sighed, rolled his shoulders, and slid Oathshield back into its scabbard. A relieved smile went over Calliande’s face, and she kissed Ridmark’s cheek. “Though I could drink a gallon of wine. Where’s Accolon? We had better decide on how to approach the city before someone panics and attacks us.”

  “He’s over here,” said Calliande, and they took a few steps off the road and joined Accolon and Sir Peter.

  “Lord Ridmark,” said Accolon. He looked a little uneasy but traveling hundreds of miles in the space of a heartbeat tended to have that effect on people. “You are well?”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “I’ve had worse happen to me. You were there for some of it.” Accolon almost smiled at that. “I think we had better move at once.”

  Accolon nodded. “How do you advise that we proceed?”

  “We ride up to Cintarra and head to the Prince’s Palace,” said Ridmark. “You are the Crown Prince of Andomhaim, coming to visit your distant cousin Prince Tywall Gwyrdragon. What is more, you have authority from your father to investigate any malfeasance or lawbreaking in the city of Cintarra and the lands of its nobles. Best to use that authority at once, before they recover their wits and start protesting. Surprised men do not always think clearly.”

  “Yes,” said Accolon. “Yes, you are right. Sir Peter, this is what we shall do.”

  In short order the column of men reformed themselves. A hundred knights would accompany Accolon into Cintarra, while the remaining footmen and horsemen camped outside the walls to guard the baggage, at least until Accolon decided on a permanent billet for them. The standardbearer would ride in front, carrying the banner of the Pendragons. Ridmark and Calliande would accompany the Crown Prince, along with ten of Ridmark’s men-at-arms.

  “Vegetius,” said Ridmark as he climbed into the saddle, laying his staff Aegisikon across the saddle horn before him.

  “Aye, my lord?” said the decurion.

  “Make sure that Niall is with us,” said Ridmark. “He’s been in Cintarra the most recently.”

  “A good thought, my lord,” said Vegetius, and he gave more orders. A moment later, Niall sat on a horse next to Ridmark, a nervous expression on his youthful face. The young man often looked nervous and earnest. Yet he handled himself with cool resolve in a fight, and if not for his boldness, Abbot Caldorman would have murdered Accolon.

  Sometimes a man’s talents only emerged under strain.

  “Niall,” said Ridmark. “What was the mood like in the city when last you were here?”

  Niall hesitated. “It was…grim, my lord. Thousands of villagers have come into the city because there’s nowhere else for them to go. They’re angry at the Regency Council. The men of the city are angry at the villagers for filling up the streets and at the Regency Council for letting things get so bad.”

  He hesitated, unsure of how to continue.

  “Speak bluntly,” said Ridmark.

  Niall took a deep breath. “My lord, a lot of men want a revolt. They say the Regency Council is greedy, that they plan to make serfs or even slaves of the men of Cintarra. Or they say that Prince Tywall is surrounded by evil advisors and would put a stop to things if he knew what was really happening.”

  “Even though he is ten years old,” said Ridmark.

  “Aye,” said Niall. “I hope you and Prince Accolon can put Cintarra right, my lord. Otherwise…I think things will end here very badly.”

  Ridmark said nothing. Niall’s words were unsettling, but he had told the young man to speak bluntly. And perhaps it was not too late. Perhaps Accolon would be able to bring the Regency Council to heel and solve matters in Cintarra before they erupted in a revolt or a full-fledged civil war.

  A few moments later the horsemen were ready, and Prince Accolon and his escort headed for the Great Northern Gate of Cintarra. Ridmark rode alongside Calliande, Vegetius and Niall and the rest of his men-at-arms following. The standardbearer rode at the head of the column, the blue and red Pendragon banner flying overhead.

  The Great Northern Gate lived up to its name. It was a massive arch in the sandstone wall, flanked on either side by watchtowers topped with siege engines. Between the battlements and the arch, the stone of the gate had been carved into a roaring dragon sigil identical to the banner of the House of Gwyrdragon. A dozen men-at-arms in chain mail and Prince Tywall’s colors stood guard before the gate, watching the approaching horsemen with nervous eyes.

  “Halt!” called one of the guards. “In the name of the Prince of Cintarra, identify yourselves.”

  The horsemen reined up, and Sir Peter urged his mount forward a few paces.

  “This is the party of Accolon Pendragon, Crown Prince of Andomhaim,” said Peter, his rich voice booming out. The man could be loud when he put his mind to it. “With him are Ridmark Arban, the Shield Knight, and Calliande Arban, the Keeper of Andomhaim. Prince Accolon desires to visit his cousin Prince Tywall and see how the city fares.” Peter let a note of menace enter his voice. “Additionally, Prince Accolon bears warrants from his father the High King, giving him full authority to investigate any matters in Cintarra. Rumors have reached the High King’s ears of disturbances in the city, and he wishes any threats to the peace and prosperity of the realm to be ended.”

  “I…I shall send word to the Regency Council,” said the guard, “and ask them for permission to allow you to…”

  “Permission?” said Accolon. His voice cracked like a whip. “Permission? Is this not the High King’s realm? Have I not been appointed by my father to investigate the misfortunes of Cintarra? No. This is what I require of you.”

  There was a flicker of motion. Ridmark looked to the forum behind the gate and saw a horseman galloping into the city. Likely the man had gone to notify his masters that the Crown Prince had arrived.

  “You will at once send messengers to the Prince’s Palace,” said Accolon. “I will meet with Prince Tywall and the Regency Council immediately. Not at their convenience, not when their business permits, but now. I have heard too many evil rumors of Cintarra of late, and if the entire Regency Council does not meet with me by the end of the day, I shall have any truants arrested.”

  The guard gaped at him. Some of the other men looked angry, some approving.

  “Must I repeat myself?” said Accolon, his voice hardening further.

  “No, lord Prince,” said the guard, stuttering over the last word.

  “Very good,” said Accolon, calm once more. “Send messages to the members of the Regency Council. I will meet
with them at the Prince’s Palace now.”

  With that, he rode forward, and the knights followed. The guards got out of the way, and Ridmark saw several of them mount horses and gallop into the city. A moment later, Ridmark and Calliande rode through the gate, and he looked around Cintarra’s northern forum. Like the forums of Tarlion, it was a large market, lined with shops and stalls. Unlike Tarlion’s forums, Ridmark saw ragged men and women and children lurking in every alley, watching the horsemen with hard eyes. Every one of the shops had an armed guard outside, cudgels in hand.

  “My lord,” murmured Niall. “Over there. That horseman?”

  On the eastern side of the forum, a man sat atop a horse. The man wore chain mail and a stark black tabard. A sigil of a gray club had been worked into the front of the tabard. No, not a club – a scepter.

  “That’s the sigil of the Scepter Bank,” said Niall. “Cyprian had them made.”

  “Cyprian?” said Calliande.

  “The Master of the Scepter Bank,” said Niall. “I don’t know if it’s true, but people say he’s the real ruler of the Regency Council.”

  The black-clad horsemen galloped away, no doubt intending to bring news of the Prince’s arrival to the Master of the Scepter Bank.

  ***

  Chapter 2: The Regency Council

  Ridmark followed Accolon’s escort as they rode south for the Prince’s Palace. Surrounded by loyal knights, Accolon was as well-protected as anyone could be. For that matter, while Calliande preferred to use magic to heal, she was formidable in a fight, as several of the Signifier’s dragons had found out the hard way. And Accolon himself now had a soulblade, which made him more dangerous than a normal man.

  Yet Ridmark regained vigilant, watching the streets and alleys around them. The Drakocenti had gone to a great deal of effort to kill Accolon. Though Ridmark wondered why they had gone to all that trouble.