The Dragon Lord

by Peter Morwood

  It was five years ago, and he was armoured to the neck. Heaven and the Light of Heaven knew where his helmet was. He lay flat on his back as he lay now. Instead of stone pavement beneath him there was grass. Instead of tulathin gazing down at him he saw his brother Joren, shocked and concerned. The wreckage of an assault-course jump was scattered a little distance beyond. Aldric’s horse was grazing near the pieces.

  And there was pain, just like now, a grinding, gnawing pain which worsened when he moved. Aldric tried to lift his head, but it seemed as if a great weight strapped to his brow was pulling him back and down. Someone – was it Joren? – leaned over him and pressed darkness against his eyes.

  “I fell off, Joren. Not the horse. Not thrown. My fault. I fell. And I think. I broke my arm.” The words were clear enough in his memory, but they came out in a drowsy mumble as the drug took effect.

  After that, he said and saw and knew no more.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Kathur lay where Voord had flung her when he finished after slimy pain-wracked hours. She sprawled across her bed, a bed she would hack apart with her own hands rather than leave it and its memories under her roof for one more day. And she wept.

  Kathur’s tears weren’t those of shame, even though she was experiencing it for the first time in five years as a first-rank courtesan. Born of the harsh sobs which racked her, they held more frustrated rage than anything else. Though she had been terrorised, agonised and subjected to a cynical and systematic degradation, there was no way in the world she could gain requital for it. The Drusalan woman dabbed a wincing hand at her mouth for perhaps the hundredth time since Voord’s departure. It had been full-lipped and the colour of ripe cherries. Now it was puffed and split and bruised plum-purple.

  There was a pallid light of oncoming dawn beyond the shuttered windows. Soon the house-servants would appear, with their mask-like faces showing nothing of thoughts or disapprovals within, and their quick, capable hands which would tidy the aftermath of the night with no reaction to what they might touch. Just as they had done so many times before.

  Except that now wasn’t like all those other times.

  None of those other times had ever left her feeling as she felt now. None of them had left a dead man stiff and cold on the floor at the foot of her bed. None of them had left the contents of a shattered skull soaking into the rugs. None of them had left the taint of death hanging on the air. Kathur tried to close her nostrils to the stink and her mind to its source, rolling onto her side to stare at the blankness of the wall beside the bed. She would willingly have stared at anything so long as it wasn’t the corpse with its smashed half-expression of surprise, or the door which still gaped wide like the corpse’s slack-jawed mouth, or even at the room where her snug and sybaritic world had been torn asunder.

  As she lay there trembling, skin slick with the icy sweat of nausea, her hearing seemed to grow uncannily acute and she could hear minute noises with utmost clarity. Noises distant, like the tick of a bird’s claws and the rustle of its feathers as it perched to preen on the sill beyond the window. Noises close, like her heartbeat and breathing, and the whispering of silk disturbed by the rise and fall of her own ribcage.

  And noises impossibly near, like the soft movement behind her back.

  Kathur’s heavy eyelids snapped open, her eyes going wide in sockets that no longer seemed deep enough to contain them, like emeralds poorly set into a mask of carven ivory. It was no sound made by a servant for they were quiet, but this was stealthy. Hope and horror fought for precedence in the half-dozen slams of her racing heart. Because it might be Kourgath. Or it might be Voord again.

  Her head jerked up and around to look over her shoulder, but flinched backwards in the self-same movement with a shrill small mew of terror. The glittering point of a sword hung unmoving on the air less than a handspan from the fragile bubble of her left eye, and it was many beats of her racing heart before her fearful gaze shifted from the weapon’s point to the person holding it.

  They were neither Voord nor Kourgath after all.

  This intruder wore a long riding-cloak whose hood was so deep and pulled so far forward that it resembled the cowl of a holy man. All that showed of the face within the hood was an inch or two of smooth chin, and it was impossible for even someone as experienced as Kathur’s to read anything from that. But the thrusting-sword drew back a considerate distance and swung to one side. A dry metallic scraping accompanied the small movement, and that told her something more. Whoever and whatever this person was, they wore armour.

  “No noise.”

  The figure’s free hand moved across the hood’s opening in a gesture Kathur understood at once, a quick, neat blending of the sign for silence and the threat of throat-cutting. She swallowed and nodded hasty agreement while trying to fit a nervous smile onto a face which didn’t want to carry it. Her own throat, though sore from screaming and other things, was still intact. She wanted to keep it that way.

  “And no movement.”

  Kathur felt like a mouse beneath the flight path of a kestrel, with movement the last thing in her mind. As she lay still her anonymous visitor stalked about the room, moving with all the lethal grace of a hunting cat despite the voluminous folds of the oversized cloak. It would take little provocation for this individual to react with a burst of killing violence, for whatever else the cloak concealed it made a poor job of hiding tension, apprehension and rising irritation. The dead man on the floor got just a cursory glance, but the spent telek dart buried for half its length in a wooden panel attracted far more attention.

  “So.” The blank blackness of the hood studied distance and trajectory, drawing conclusions from them all. “So, and so, and so… Did the Alban do this?” The question snapped out harsh and clear after the muted introspective muttering of voiced thought, and again Kathur jumped. At first she didn’t answer, and earned a volley of angry words in an unknown language.

  “Talk to me, damn you!” The voice returned to Jouvaine again, more heavily accented than before and using the simplest form to make each word’s meaning clear. “Did the Alban do this? And if he did, why?”

  Whatever patience had once been in that voice was eroding fast, and as the cloaked figure took two long steps forward it led with the levelled sword. Now not only accent but tone and even pitch were impossible to ignore. There was something wrong about all three, something very wrong indeed, but still Kathur couldn’t place what instinct said was obvious.

  “Why, and when, and where is he? What’s been going on here?” The hood was pushed back then shaken clear of its wearer’s head, and Kathur realised at last why this man’s voice sounded wrong.

  From another woman, it sounded right.

  *

  “I can’t help but think,” muttered Gemmel half to himself, “that I may have caused last night’s fog.”

  “You?” Dewan ar Korentin flexed the big muscles of his shoulders and back in a huge yawn-and-stretch. Gemmel had been reluctant to enter a tavern and Dewan had given way to the old man’s doubts, instead spending the chilly night in a farmer’s hay-barn. Now there were kinks in the Vreijek’s spine which might be there forever. He was getting too old for this, too old and too soft. Like it or not, wizard’s objections or not, tonight they would sleep in beds like human beings, not rats in a rick. “Why say so? And why worry? It’s gone.”

  “I say so because I believe so,” said Gemmel, “and I worry for the same reason. You saw what happened last time I used this thing.” Dewan looked at him, then at the Dragonwand, and grunted expressively. He remembered only a part of the incident on the beach, and Gemmel had been slow about telling him the rest. Once heard Dewan understood why, and had no wish to hear it again. He could sleep better without more details of his own brief death.

  “I wonder what else you might believe, old man. And what else might happen because of it.”

  “That, friend Dewan, is something we may find out before much longer.”

  The morning
bloomed around them like a flower. Dewan had been right: the fog was gone, leaving in its wake a cloudless, chilly blue sky which toned through pastel shades of rose and saffron towards where the sun rose on their landward side beyond a screen of tree-clad hills. They were still very close to the sea, moving northeast towards Tuenafen Port on the Inner Coast-Road. The Outer Coast-Road, though less busy, ran a hazardous course along the limestone cliffs which marked the Empire’s western boundary, and in rough weather was prone to lose stretches of itself into the hungry sea.

  “Look there!” Ar Korentin pointed with the full length of his right arm towards the ocean and the black speck scudding across its beaten-metal surface. “Warship,” he pronounced with such authority that Gemmel didn’t argue, though he drew a long-glass from his satchel and studied the distant speck before agreement.

  “As you say, a warship. And a big one. Bigger than I’ve ever seen.” He passed over the long-glass. “What is it?”

  Dewan squinted, then held his breath. The wizard’s glass was more powerful than any he had used before, and just the beat of his own pulse was enough to send the magnified image dancing wildly. He took a couple of seconds to fix the vessel in its field of view, and a few more to get the delicate focus right. Then he said something malevolent in his own language which provoked a raised eyebrow from Gemmel and suggested a certain familiarity with Vreijek obscenities.

  “Something best not done in public, please,” he said. “Apart from that, what is it?”

  “A battleram.” Dewan’s ‘of course’ was unspoken but there all the same. “I should have guessed. Anything else would be too small to notice at… A mile and a half?”

  “Nearer two. Out of Tuenafen?”

  “Yes. There isn’t another port on this stretch of coast that can take battlerams, unless they’ve built one in the past few years and kept it secret. Which,” he slid the long-glass shut and handed it back, “I very much doubt.” Then he stared at Gemmel, guessing they shared the same thought.

  “Aldric.” Gemmel said it first.

  “We’re too late.”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether he’s aboard that ship and if he is, on who put him there. And on its destination.”

  “You know more about this business than you’ve let slip before, don’t you?” Dewan made the accusation deliberately and watching the sorcerer’s reaction.

  “More, but not enough. King Rynert is good at keeping secrets.” Gemmel said nothing more for a while as he watched the distant battleram dwindle beyond sight, thinking unguessable thoughts about kings, and conspiracies, and other matters that were of importance only to himself. Then he glanced at the sky. The sun was well up now, though still concealed by the wooded high ground, and its glow was already giving a hint of warmth to the late autumn morning.

  “It’s going to be a good day,” he said at last, unslinging his satchel and taking a pack of biscuit and dried meat from it. “Breakfast?”

  “Thanks.” Dewan took a helping of smoked beef that might have been the leather offcuts from a saddler’s workbench, and twice-baked slices of wheaten bread which looked like slabs of treetrunk. The food required as much effort to eat as if they had really been what they merely resembled, and breakfast was an exercise in chewing rather than a meal. “By the way,” the Vreijek said, disposing of his first mouthful and washing it down with a swallow of black, bitter beer, “I’d sooner you said nothing more about the weather.”

  “Because it might be unlucky?” Gemmel squashed the beginnings of a smile. “I hadn’t thought superstition would be one of your vices.”

  “Call it caution. Since I met you I’ve grown very… Very wary of who says what, until I’m certain of it. The Valhollans have a proverb about that. ‘Don’t praise the dawn until sunset, don’t praise the ale till you’ve drunk it, don’t praise a maid till you wed her, don’t praise a wife till you bed her—’ ”

  “I feel like praising the ale, so pass it over.” Gemmel drank and made a face. “Not much praise here. This Hertan brew doesn’t travel well. Yes, I know the proverb you mean, and it goes on and on rather. Why that in particular? You’re not one for quoting things.” He glanced at the Vreijek. “Especially words from Valhol. What made you think of it?”

  “Just a thought. An idle notion.”

  Gemmel looked at him, and drank more beer, and said nothing at all.

  *

  When they stopped again the day hung on the cusp of noon, and Dewan surveyed a scene he hadn’t expected. For the past hour he had been talking up the tavern where they planned to rent horses and stop for a midday meal. It was no longer there. Parts of its structure remained, but most of those were blackened charcoal and the rest were shanty constructions of raw timber and thatch. Everything else was gone.

  “So much for lunch,” said Gemmel. “I still have some beef and biscuit if you want it.” He didn’t even feign enthusiasm at the prospect. Dewan looked at the mess with a mixture of annoyance and regret, then stalked across the charred ground to ask someone what had happened. He found out more than he had been expecting, and knew enough to make educated guesses when blank spaces in the second-hand story gaped too wide.

  “Their description was close enough. Aldric was here; he was injured a little when he rescued horses from the fire, and went off with a woman who was caring for him. It all sounds staged, and I think this place was torched to move its residents out. Look at the damage: bedrooms gone, stables gone, taproom and kitchen almost intact, but no-one seriously hurt. They wanted whoever stayed here to go elsewhere, and the closest alternative is Tuenafen. So we’re going there after all.”

  Gemmel had just taken a mouthful of pork stew spiced with cinnamon, cloves and garlic – the tavern was making a determined effort to get back on its feet and its regular patrons were loyally undeterred by the state of the place as long as the kitchen was working again – but Dewan’s comment leached all the flavour from it.

  “Who are ‘They’?” he said.

  “Kagh’Ernvakh.” Dewan broke bread into his own portion, Vreijek-style, and sank a chunk or two with his spoon then tapped for emphasis on the edge of the bowl. “I can’t think who else would have authority for arson.”

  “Kagh’ Ernvakh?” Gemmel repeated the Drusalan words. “The Honourable Guard. The Guardians of Honour. Names like that make me uneasy, Dewan, because the contents seldom match the label. What are they?”

  “The Imperial secret police. Prokrator Bruda may be their commander, but my informants tell me his subordinates have been showing unhealthy interest in his Alban connections. I warned Rynert about it – he paid no heed – and they may have learned something about Aldric as well. Alba has spies in the Empire, and the Drusalans return the favour. If someone in Tuenafen can be persuaded to tell me about…” His voice trailed off as Gemmel looked down at his food then pushed it away. “Don’t lose your appetite, old man. Persuasion covers more than you think: bribery, coercion, blackmail, even the calling in of old favours. I don’t want to hurt anyone, any more than you do.” Dewan lifted another chunk of bread, stared at it thoughtfully, then ripped it across and across. “But if I have to, then—”

  “You will.”

  “This is a rough game, without rules. Yes. I will.”

  Gemmel wondered how sincere the threat might be. Dewan wasn’t an Alban and paid no heed to their code of honour, but recent events suggested King Rynert of Alba didn’t either. The wizard’s mind was more and more concerned with how his own honour might be weighed in the balance and found wanting. If only it was possible to turn back time and undo past events… For the briefest instant he thought about the great hold beneath Meneth Taran, and the things stored there, then dismissed the idea. That way was even more disreputable than trying by his own unaided efforts to recover what had been lost.

  “So what’s going on, eldheisart?” he asked, and his use of Dewan’s old military rank was no accident. The Vreijek was – or seemed �
� unruffled by it.

  “Someone wants Aldric Talvalin and will pay a large amount of money for the privilege. Witness the battleram we both suspect has him aboard. Or they have authority to use a Fleet warship, the same authority that let them burn this place. I don’t know which worries me the most.” He drank more wine to flavour his mouth and wash away the sour dryness of failure. “And why would they want him? I should have asked Rynert that much at least.”

  “What a waste of breath that would have been!” snapped Gemmel. “He tried to have us both killed, and being nosy might have made him do it sooner.”

  “Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. At least Aldric’s still alive.”

  “How many days ago did all this happen?”

  “Two, no, it would be three now.” Dewan spent a few silent moments finishing his stew, and a quizzical expression crossed his face as he swallowed the last mouthful. “Would Marek Endain know anything about it?”

  “Marek has his own troubles.” It had been Gemmel’s idea to send the Cernuan demon-queller after Aldric and Dewan had reluctantly agreed, even though it seemed more risky than useful. Marek’s last report had been a garbled thing, full of wild surmise, ending with information that he was now councillor to the new Overlord of Seghar. Gemmel had found it amusing. The demon queller was only a professional acquaintance, a sharer of scholarly interests, and the thought of his rotund figure as the power behind any throne, no matter how small, still provoked a thin smile.

  Dewan shrugged and drained his winecup, throwing back his head to let the last fragrant drops flow into his mouth. Then he choked and dropped the cup. Its thousand-sharded smash on the table right in front of him snapped Gemmel from his introspection and he glanced at the Vreijek with sudden concern. The big man’s head was still tilted back, mouth hanging open, stained to the chin with a dribble of red wine which had missed its proper destination. Yet there were none of the signs Gemmel had feared, no shock of pain, no clutching at the arm or chest. The wizard stared skyward in his turn – and froze while he remembered reading how…