Between Honor & Glory

by Mark Finnemore



  Between Honor & Glory

  By Mark Finnemore

  Copyright 2011 Mark Finnemore

  *******

  Martyn skidded around the corner and nearly got run down by a plump boy driving a mule-drawn cart. He grabbed the back of the cart as it passed by, pulled himself up, and ducked behind the low wooden side as the gang of shouting men ran past, waving clubs and hayforks.

  After the cart turned another corner, and the men disappeared from view, Martyn sat up.

  "What in all the bloody hells are you doing in my wagon?"

  Shocked by the bellowing voice of the foul-mouthed boy, Martyn turned and saw it wasn't a child at all, but a short stocky man with a waist-length red beard.

  "You . . . you're a dwarf!" Martyn gasped.

  "And yer a damned highwayman!" The dwarf dropped the reins and picked up a half moon-bladed axe. "Defend yerself!"

  "Whoa!" Martyn held up his hands. "I'm no highwayman; I'm just . . . umm. . . ."

  The dwarf studied the stowaway – a skinny young man with a stubbly beard more akin to a dwarven maiden's than a rightful man's. "What do ye want then?"

  Martyn sat on a bag of oats and extended his hand. "Martyn's the name."

  The dwarf ignored Martyn's hand. "Why're ye running from that gang?"

  "Well. . . ." Martyn struggled for a convincing excuse, but nothing came to mind. The truth would have to do. "I got in some trouble with the Reeve's daughter. She practically threw herself at me – I know a fellow like you can understand that! Well, one thing led to another . . . now she's pregnant, and . . . well, you understand, right?"

  The dwarf nodded. "Oh, I understand."

  Martyn let out a relieved sigh.

  And then the dwarf shook his head. "Have ye no honor at all, then?"

  "Honor?" Martyn said. "Where's the honor in changing diapers? I'd rather be out changing the world!"

  The dwarf snorted. "Ha! You've already changed the world, Boy! And where's the honor in running from responsibility?"

  Martyn began to speak but the dwarf cut him off with a wave of his calloused hand.

  "Ah, save yer bluster fer someone who might actually believe it. I'm not one of yer goat-headed chums from the pig-sty or the dirt-farm or wherever it is ye hail from. So, what's the real story, then – do you love this woman or not?"

  Martyn spotted a jug of ale in the back of the wagon and nodded toward it. The dwarf shrugged and Martyn upended the jug, took a long pull, and lowered it with a belch. He took another drink before answering. "I do love Ashby – that's her name – but her father is the reeve and he's not happy with her choice of men – that being me."

  The dwarf nodded. "So that's why his men ran ye out of town – yer not good enough for his daughter? Well, no man ever is. But ye won't impress him by running away. So, what do ye plan to do?"

  "Do?" Martyn shrugged. "I guess I have to find a way to get some money. Then the reeve will think I'm worthy. Anyway, what're you doing here – are you on your Gallivant?"

  "What do you – a human – know of the Gallivant?" The dwarf spat the word "human" as if the taste of it sickened him, then he grabbed the jug and upended it, washing the taint from his mouth.

  Martyn smiled. "Despite my ignorance about women, I am a man of some education."

  The dwarf rubbed his beard, took another swig from the jug, and then nodded. "I'm Bizlow of the Ironbones clan," he announced, "twenty-seventh son of Genbar the Giant-slayer. My quest is the life of Sisspahn, the white drake of the north."

  Martyn's face reddened from holding back laughter.

  Bizlow shook his head. "Humph! I'd heard you humans were a cruel lot."

  "Me cruel?" Martyn said. "I'm not the one off to murder a dragon!"

  "Dragons are vile, gem-hoarding beasts."

  "I've heard the same about dwarves. . . ."

  Bizlow drained the jug and tossed it into the back of the wagon. "Humans – yer humor is as weak as yer ale!"

  Martyn shrugged. "The tales say Ice Drakes are as big as longships, with teeth and claws like icy swords and breath like frozen death! How are you gonna kill it?"

  Bizlow pulled a roll of oiled canvas from under his seat, unrolled it, and held up a crossbow bolt. "With this!"

  The bolt looked perfectly ordinary to Martyn, save for a few faint runes scratched into the shaft – something an unscrupulous hawker might pass off on an unwary dwarf as a genuine relic. Martyn could no longer contain his laughter. "You seek to slay an Ice Drake with that . . . that . . . tavern dart!"

  "It's a dragon-slaying bolt," Bizlow said. "Snuck most cleverly from the Ironbone's weapon vault."

  "Snuck? Stolen, you mean! And you call me a highwayman!"

  "All right then, that's enough!" Bizlow yanked on the reins and the mule trudged to a stop. "I'm on serious business here and I've no time for yer foolishness. Get out of me wagon!"

  "Wait!" Martyn looked back to make sure Ashby's father and his men weren't following. He couldn't see them, but that didn't mean they weren't out there, stalking him. "Please, let me ride with you a little longer. I promise I'll be quiet."

  Bizlow scratched his beard. "Ye mentioned an education. Can ye write?"

  "Yes." Martyn nodded proudly. "But lucky for me writing won't help you slay a dragon, so you can just drop me off at the edge of the next town and—"

  Bizlow cut him off with a gruff laugh. "Oh, I don't need ye to do any fighting, Boy, I need you to chronicle me deeds. And maybe you'll even learn something about honor along the way."

  #

  They rode northward along the base of the Iron Cliffs, toward what maps called "The Broken Lands" – reputedly home to dragons. The land degraded into lifeless rock, with house-sized boulders scattered randomly about as if carelessly dropped by the hands of the gods.

  Martyn had intended to slip away earlier – he certainly had no interest in following Bizlow to his death – but then he decided that Bizlow's quest was the answer to his own problem: First-hand accounts of dragon-slaying brought sure income; chronicling Bizlow's quest would earn him the money to prove his worth to Ashby's father!

  True, the dragon would almost certainly kill and devour Bizlow at the end of the story, and that would be tragic, but then tragedies were more popular than ever these days. And Bizlow's mind was obviously set – who was Martyn to talk him out of his destiny? No, he'd just stay far away from danger and chronicle the events like Bizlow asked him to.

  Martyn took out a spike of hard charcoal and licked the end. First he needed to establish Bizlow's motivation. "So, why do you want to slay this dragon? Did it raze your crops and eat your goat herds?"

  Bizlow grunted in what Martyn had come to learn indicated a negative response.

  "Did it burn your village?"

  Again the grunt.

  "Then why?"

  "My first brother attempted to swim the Tyver River. But dwarves are not strong swimmers and he was carried over the falls to his death." Bizlow held up his hand to forestall Martyn's expression of regret. "He died seventy-two years before my birth. He was a fool. And my next seven brothers were even greater fools."

  "Eight of your brothers were swept over the falls!"

  Bizlow nodded. "The ninth succeeded and was honored with a high place in the clan. But swimming the river is no longer enough. Each man must outdo the other males of the clan."

  After a moment's silence Bizlow continued. "Six more brothers died in attempts to survive a plunge over the falls, until my sixteenth brother succeeded inside an ale cask stuffed with furs. Now young warriors ride the falls for sport, though many still do not survive."

  Bizlow took a drink from an ale jug and passed it to Martyn. "My brother Ryhaab – who I was fond of as
he was only nine years my senior – set out for the drake Sisspahn's lair on his Gallivant a year ago. He never returned."

  Bizlow held up the bolt. "But Ryhaab did not have this!"

  Martyn looked at the bolt; it seemed too slender a shaft to hold all of Bizlow's hopes. Martyn had a hard time believing it would slay a dragon with a mere prick of its skin. And that assumed Bizlow could even hit the dragon with it! Bizlow's aim had improved somewhat, but he still had difficulty hitting a broad-trunked tree at fifty paces, and that with the tree standing perfectly still and fully cooperating!

  And Martyn was beginning to actually like Bizlow, despite his surly veneer. He was even tempted to point out that Bizlow was throwing his life away for nothing. But then talking Bizlow out of his quest wouldn't earn him the money to win Ashby's father's respect. No, he'd just stay at a safe distance, armed with his charcoal pencil, ready to escape with his life and his story.

  "So, how many sons does your father have now?" Martyn asked.

  "Four," Bizlow said. "Including my younger brother, who has yet to set forth on his Gallivant."

  "Four out of twenty-eight!" Martyn shook his head. "And do you want your younger brother to throw his life away too? Do you think your father wants you both to die?"

  "No," Bizlow said. "But a coward will not earn a place of honor in the clan. And who are you to preach respect for life anyway? You're running away, leaving a fatherless child behind!"

  "Well, at least I—"

  Martyn's intended retort was replaced by mumbling terror as a giant shadow swept across the sun. It soared away, then turned in a graceful arc and headed back toward them. It was a dragon!

  Bizlow grabbed the crossbow, clumsily fit the bolt, and raised the bow in trembling hands.

  "Shoot!" Martyn yelled.

  Bizlow's nervous finger jerked, sending the bolt sizzling through the air. But the bolt arced below the diving beast and fell to the ground, shattering against the rocks.

  Doom filled Martyn's gut as they scrambled off the wagon and took cover behind a boulder.

  Bizlow drew his axe. "Looks like we do this the old fashioned way."

  The ground shook as the dragon landed.

  Martyn took a steadying breath and peered around the boulder. The dragon appeared in no hurry to devour them, taking its time stretching and folding its leathery wings. It wasn't as big as a longboat as the stories said, but it was still huge – four times the size of a horse, plus the tail, long neck, and a head the size of a coffin. It was beautiful in a chilling sort of way, its skin a scaly rainbow of glittering copper, amber, emerald and bronze, the colors changing in liquid ripples as the fading sunlight swept across its body while it crept toward their feeble hideout.

  "Ye shouldn't have yelled," Bizlow grunted. "Ye made me shoot before the beast flew into range."

  "You should've given me the bow," Martyn countered. "My aim is better."

  "The quest is mine," Bizlow said. "As was the bolt."

  "Miertztryke!" The dragon's voice was horrified. "A dragon-slayer? I sensed magic, but . . . you tried to kill me!"

  It took Martyn a moment to realize that the dragon's words came not to his ears, but to his mind. He turned to Bizlow. "It really was a dragon-slayer?"

  "Of course," Bizlow snapped. "But how did the beast know?"

  A head like a huge ocean pike's peered around the boulder. "Surely you know dragons can read men's minds? Comes from eating their brains!"

  Martyn leapt back into Bizlow and knocked them both to the ground. As they fell, Martyn could sense the creature's amusement.

  "Forgive me! You two are obviously in no mood for jests. I knew it was Miertztryke because I saw it in your minds and I felt the magic – natural talents that all dragons share."

  "Don't toy with us beast," Bizlow snarled. "Eat us and be done with it."

  The dragon's scaly jaws twisted stiffly. "Thank you, but I've already eaten. Besides, my line does not eat humankind, though some do, to be sure. And my name is not 'beast', but Mooralum. Now, why did you try to kill me?"

  Martyn rose and brushed the dirt from his clothes. "He wasn't trying to kill you in particular; he seeks the dragon Sisspahn."

  "Sisspahn is ten times my size and cruel as death," Mooralum spoke into their minds. "With the Miertztryke you had a slim chance; without it you have none. Why do you seek to slay him?"

  "For honor," Bizlow said.

  Mooralum's sigh filled their minds. "What you seek is glory, not honor. And what you will find is your graves!"

  #

  The encounter with Mooralum fully convinced Martyn of the futility of Bizlow's quest, especially without the dragon-slaying bolt. And no matter how many times he told himself that he needed to do this to win Ashby's hand, he still felt guilty about witnessing Bizlow's certain death, and worse – profiting from it.

  Bizlow seemed to be reconsidering as well, but then they met a group of dwarves from the Red Hammer clan. Not a word was spoken as the two groups passed each other. Martyn assumed that he caused the dwarves icy response; Bizlow insisted the silence was directed at him.

  "You saw the device on their shields?" Bizlow asked.

  Martyn nodded. "Your clan is at war with theirs?"

  Bizlow shook his head. "You see this?" He slapped his own shield, a plain round buckler devoid of any distinguishing mark. "They had no idea I was of the Ironbones clan, or any other clan for that matter. Nor would they care. I was beneath their notice, insignificant, another stone on the ground to be ignored. I am without family, without honor, unworthy of greeting, whether amicable or hostile. To them, and any other dwarf, I am nothing!"

  #

  The weather turned as foul as Bizlow's mood soon after. A wet clinging snow fell and an icy wind clawed through Martyn's drenched clothes. Martyn was almost relieved when they found the cave, even if it did lead to Sisspahn's lair. The feeble fire they scraped together did little to add warmth; the wind slithered in, wrapping them in silent coils of icy misery.

  Evidence of previous dragon-slayers littered the cave – bones of last meals, ashes from other fires, last words scratched into the stone walls. Some were words of boasting, others of regret and fear, others undelivered messages to loved ones.

  Martyn drew his dagger and carved "Ashby, I'm sorry" into the frozen stone.

  "I'll go on alone from here," Bizlow announced.

  "But . . . I thought you needed me to record your deed."

  "If I come back, you'll know I succeeded. If I don't. . . ."

  As Bizlow's words trailed away, Martyn drew a slow frigid breath. He knew the dwarf was giving him a way out, and he also knew this was his last chance to return the favor.

  "You don't have to do this. It's not worth it."

  "The price of honor is high," Bizlow said. "I don't want to live out my years like you – a man without honor or family."

  #

  Martyn watched Bizlow head down the lone passage with lantern in hand. He shook his head and shouted after the dwarf, "Better a man without honor than a man without life!"

  He fell into a miserable silence as his words echoed down the passage. Not even he believed those words anymore.

  The wind sighed through the cave as darkness gradually swallowed the light of Bizlow's lantern. Martyn blew out a frosty breath and lit a pine torch from their sputtering fire. He couldn't let Bizlow go on alone, not without knowing he'd never be worthy of Ashby no matter how much money he acquired. Damn Bizlow and his incessant talk of honor!

  Martyn grabbed the crossbow and headed down the passage, falling many times on the icy floor. He laughed bitterly through numb lips – he hadn't even seen the dragon yet and already he was bruised and aching!

  He found Bizlow at the foot of a steep icy incline and watched silently as Bizlow clawed his way a few feet up the slope before sliding back down again.

  "Lend a hand if yer coming," Bizlow said. "But stay back when we find the beast. Yer job is to witness my deed, not to die trying to be
a hero!"

  Martyn snorted out a plume of frost. "You needn't worry about that!"

  They puzzled over how to ascend the frozen slope. They attempted to cut steps into the ice, but a stream of water drizzled constantly down, perpetually filling and refreezing the steps, leaving them back at the bottom. Eventually, they worked out a combination of shallow steps along with handholds made by driving crossbow bolts into the ice.

  When they finally reached the top, Martyn slung the crossbow over his shoulder and slipped the last bolt into his belt – the rest sprouted from the frozen slope like snow-stunted pines. But it was unlikely that any number of normal bolts would help them anyway; they'd be no more bothersome than splinters to the dragon.

  Martyn wondered that he'd never questioned the tales of dragon-slaying he'd heard as a youth. The dragon was always as big as a gold lender's house, with claws like scythes and breath like the furnaces of hell, but the hero never failed to slay the dragon with a well-placed stroke of his sword, or by spearing it just so with his lance, and none of the listeners, himself included, ever seemed to realize the impossibility of it all. You could just as soon sink a ship with a sling stone.

  #

  Martyn followed Bizlow down the tunnel. His knees seemed to melt as they crept forward, breathless and silent, listening for any sounds. But a dragon must possess more acute senses than a man, Martyn reasoned; it might be just around the next corner, ready to end their foolish quest.

  The passage ended at a narrow ledge. They crawled to the edge and peered over. The lair opened before them, empty of dragons, though a slaughterhouse stench lingered and sunlight entered through a hole in the ceiling large enough to sail a ship through. Or fly a dragon through.

  Below, icy heaps of coin and treasure carpeted the cavern. But bones littered the floor as well, bones of huge fish and other animals, and the bones of men too, some still encased in their useless armor.

  "I'm going down."

  Bizlow's whisper stopped Martyn's heart for an instant. He took a deep breath to settle his squirming gut, but the stink of the place rendered the attempt worse than useless. He swallowed back vomit, unslung the crossbow, and loaded the last bolt as Bizlow trudged down the icy ramp.

  "By my mother's beard!" Bizlow slid to a stop before a squat suit of plate armor. "It's Ryhaab! My brother! See the crack in his skull from the rock-lifting contest? Aye, and that rock was sorry it chose his head to fall on – broke it clean in two!"