Torturous Alliance

by Kristine Lichtlider

  “Draw your blade, sire,” he said through gritted teeth “I'll not cut down an unarmed man.”

  “Consider me armed,” said Drakken, drawing a blade meant as much for ceremony as fencing. It was a longer sword than Lucille, but it had designs on the hilt that Mannix believed would make it difficult for a sweaty hand to hang on to. Drakken did not appear to be sweating, however, while his own clothing clung to his flesh with moisture.

  Mannix tried a thrust to the king's belly, and was shocked when the man did not attempt a parry, moving his own sword out to the side. Lucille's tip penetrated the king's fine magenta doublet, and then the blade bent behind Mannix's hand. He withdrew the blade, stunned, as the king had not backed up even an inch. It felt as if he were thrusting his sword into a tree trunk.

  “Hidden armor?” said Mannix. The king merely shrugged, an arrogant smirk crossing his wizened face. Growling, Mannix tried another thrust, then another. This time the king smoothly pivoted to the side on his heel, making the sword hit only empty air.

  Drakken began to give ground, still not employing his own blade. Mannix was an accomplished fencer, and still remarkably spry for his age, but it seemed he could more easily pierce the crescent moon in the heavens than the man's body.

  Growing angry, Mannix aimed a wild stab at the King's head, something an amateur swordsman might attempt. He stared in shock as Drakken's empty hand flashed up like summer lightning and clutched the sharp blade in it. Mannix tried to disengage, but incredibly his sword was held fast by the king's knobby fingers.

  “You are quite skilled, Lord Mannix,” said Drakken “but you are just a man. While I...am a KING!”

  Drakken punched out with his sword hand, connecting a solid blow to Mannix's jaw. The lord spun around in a circle from the impact, sprawling to the stones on his belly. He lay still as death, causing Kate to scream. Despite the angry shouts of the arbiter, she dashed to her father and flung herself upon him. To her relief, he breathed yet, but a line of blood trailed from his mouth. She stared up at Drakken as he approached, tears filling her soft brown eyes.

  “Stop,” she said “please, I beg you, stop!”

  Drakken turned to regard one of the Templars.

  “Give us some space, will you?” he said calmly.

  The Templars sprang into action, using harsh words and even shoves to move the party guests and servants from the garden. The king's uncanny display had many of them in shock, but with large, angry men armed with swords and strong as bears prodding them they quickly fell in line.

  Soon the garden was deserted but for the Templars, Drakken and the Mannixes. Drakken crouched low to look in Kate's eyes, a gentle smile on his face.

  “You would have me spare him?” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “He must have been tricked, or had a brain fever, he would never betray you willingly, sire.”

  “He will be imprisoned in the Tower of Woe,” said Drakken, causing Kate to sob “alive, and well treated, so long as you obey my every whim. I grow old, Lady Katherine, and desire an heir to carry on my line. I have chosen you to be the bearer of my children.”

  Kate looked up, her eyes blinking away tears.

  “Why?” she said, sniffling.

  “That will become apparent soon enough,” he said, sheathing his unmarked blade. “Come to the Keep on the morrow. You will see that your father is well cared for, and then we have matters to discuss. And do bring your heretical deck of cards with you, dear. I have use of it.”

  Kate nodded, sobbing again as the Templars roughly dragged her father from the garden.

  “Gently, now,” said Drakken “that is the future grandfather of my children you handle.”

  She lay crumpled in a heap weeping long after the king had left. Any servant who dared try and comfort her was met with angry snarls. Soon she was alone with her despair, with only the crescent moon to comfort her.

  Seamus was drifting deeper in unconsciousness and the sea, and he was fine with that. No more pain in his heart from the loss of Fennik. No more winces and gasps from fair maids when the beheld his scarred visage. His only regret was that Roikza would probably not understand where he had went...

  He felt a sharp pain in his shoulders, jolting him back into reality. The heavy, thick anchor chain of the merchant vessel had appeared to be moving as he sank beneath the waves. Now it had stopped, and he realized that it was because something was holding him fast. He reached up and felt the sharp, pointy things digging into his flesh, and was shocked to find the familiar feel of Roikza's talons. She was trying to save him, but lacked the strength to do more than slow his descent.

  The thought of the little dragon drowning because of him lit a new fire in his chest. From where he found the strength, he could not tell, but he managed to get his limbs moving again. His lungs screamed for air, and he had to clamp his jaw shut tight to avoid sucking in a great draught of sea water. His own effort, combined with hers, had the anchor chain moving again, this time in the opposite direction.

  Kicking his legs, the surface seemed tantalizingly close. When he was mere inches from the air, his body demanded that he take a breath, and as soon as he hit the surface he began coughing and choking. Roikza, sprang off his shoulders and flew in a circle, making surprisingly loud rasping sounds. His one eye stared up at the hull of the merchant ship, still rocking from the waves kicked up by the dragon's escape.

  Summoning all the strength he could muster, he swam for the docks. The wooden planks were over ten feet above him, and he was forced to cling to a wooden pylon as the waves alternately shoved him against it and tried to suck him away.

  The barnacles encrusting the pylon provided some grip, and he briefly contemplated trying to climb it, but his arms felt as if they were weighted with lead. Roikza landed on the dock above him, snaking her head over the edge to hiss at him insistently.

  “There's the little monster,” he heard Stella's voice say. “What's she doing?”

  “Isn't it obvious, naked witch?” said Murdoch “Our dragon slayer must have fallen into the water here.”

  “Hey!” He shouted, setting off another coughing fit. “I'm down here!”

  A moment later Roikza scrambled out of the way as Murdoch lay on his belly and thrust his face over the side.

  “Dragon slayer!” he called. “Many witnessed your triumph! Even now those not in mourning are exalting you! Get up out of that water, and get what is rightfully coming to you!”

  “I can't,” gasped Seamus “my hands are weak, and beginning to slip.”

  Murdoch disappeared, and he heard the man's voice shouting for a rope.

  An hour later, he sat inside one of Port Gar's fancier pubs, a half dozen empty mugs on the table before him. People had jam packed the establishment so tightly Seamus could not see the walls. A whole roast chicken was placed before him, and he would have eaten it but for his stomach feeling like he'd ingested the dragon's acid blood. Stella and Roikza were eager to help him devour the feast, however.

  Smiling at yet another well-wisher who painfully slapped his lacerated shoulders in a congratulatory way, he turned to regard the wizard. She had claimed the chair next to him almost immediately, and kept looking at him out of the corner of her eye, a mix of admiration and wonder on her face.

  “You are a true hero, dragon slayer!” said a man with a long scar on his face. “If the Fish Gutter guild can do anything for you, anything at all, just let me know.”

  “Thanks, my good man,” said Seamus with all the grace he could muster.

  “Seamus needs nothing from a bunch of thieves and cutthroats,” said Stella, putting her hand on his forearm, which she had been doing a lot since they had sat down.

  “Stella,” he said darkly “the man is being gracious.”

  “It's all right,” said the man, winking at him “rumors will spread, after all.”

  As he melted into the crowd, Seamus turned his gaze upon the wizard and frowned.

  “What was all that about?”
he said crossly.

  “The Fish Gutters are a front for the Thieves’ Guild,” she said bluntly. “They pretend to be engaged in helping the community, but really they run most of the brothels and hash dens in the city. You are too good a man to be involved with their kind of 'help.'“

  Seamus swallowed hard, thinking that joining such a guild would have been high on his list of priorities a few weeks ago. Now, it seemed as if his world had changed once again.

  “How does it feel,” said Stella, breaking him out of his reverie “to be a hero?”

  “Hollow,” said Seamus “my brother is still dead, my face is still ugly and my hand crippled, and the dragon escaped.”

  “Do you think it will return?” said Stella. “You are the expert, after all.”

  “Stella,” he said with a sigh “I know as much about dragons as you do. I didn't even know that Roikza could swim until today. I hope she's all right, once we got back to the watch station she collapsed on a chair and has been sleeping ever since.”

  “Your little dragon,” said Stella, pushing her glasses up on her sweaty nose “is full of surprises. Daveed left her in the cage, thinking you would want her to be safe-”

  “He was right about that,” said Seamus.

  “-but the beast is clever. She dragged a pair of cutters over to the cage with her tail and snipped the thin wire Daveed had used to close it.”

  “What?” said Seamus, nearly spitting out a mouthful of ale.

  “As I said, clever.” said Stella. “Where ever did you find such a creature?”

  “Found an egg one day while Fennik and I were starving in the woods,” said Seamus “I wanted to eat it, but he insisted that we wait for it to hatch. More food that way.”

  “It must have been quite a shock,” said Stella “when Roikza burst forth.”

  “She didn't exactly burst,” said Seamus with a chuckle “she scraped out very slowly, taking nearly a day. While I was watching her struggle, I don't know...I guess I kind of became attached.”

  He grinned, his eye lighting up with a pleasant memory.

  “Fennik was quite upset,” he said “that our meal became our companion. It was him that came upon the scheme of presenting ourselves a dragon slayers. Fennik...”

  He blinked his eye, wishing he had a patch over both of them so the wizard would not see his womanly tears. An unexpected gentle pressure touched his cheek, and he realized that Stella had kissed away a salty droplet. She smiled at him, her face more human that he had seen yet.

  “Sorry,” she said “you looked so...so sad I had no choice.”

  “Don't apologize,” said Seamus, swallowing hard. “It was just unexpected, that is all.”

  They stopped speaking for a moment as a gaggle of folk pressed into the already crowded common room and shoved their way over to their table. Seamus spent the next few minutes accepting their thanks (and drinks.) Stella sat back and smiled, glad to see the man enjoying himself for literally the first time since she had known him.

  “So,” she said after they were left to their own devices “the stipend of Port Gar is likely to be quite generous. You are a man of means now, Seamus. What are your plans?”

  His face became grim, and his eye narrowed to a slit.

  “Fennik is unavenged,” he said “the dragon still lives. I was hoping you could locate it for me with your magic.”

  “For the love of...why?” said Stella, her mouth dropping open.

  “To slay it, of course,” said Seamus with a sudden grin “what else do dragon slayers do?”

  “Oh,” said Stella, her face a bit downcast. “Right, of course. I had expected you to find a woman and settle down…maybe let me loose from my geas?”

  Or at least let me wear some damn clothes, Stella thought bitterly. She looked down at her naked chest and sighed. It wasn't even embarrassing anymore, just inconvenient. Like the way the wooden chair scratched her nude bottom, or the constant assault of mosquitoes.

  “I'm not much for settling,” said Seamus “my brother and I are...were vagabonds by nature. I like to travel, to see new sights and meet new folk.”

  “And swindle them,” she said with a giggle.

  “Those days are over,” he said icily, staring hard into his empty mug.

  “I,” said Stella, stammering “I didn't mean to-”

  “Forget it,” he said, rising to divest himself of the liquor he had imbibed. The crowd parted for him as he headed to the loo, some of them openly applauding. Stella watched him go, unsure of whether she should feel grateful for him forgetting to discipline her, or frustrated. There was something about being at his mercy that she found thrilling.

  “Make room for the dragon slayer!” said one man.

  “The Allfather, or whatever heathen god you claim bless you sir!” said another, patting him on the back as he passed.

  He gratefully closed the door to the smelly chamber behind him. After relieving himself, he returned to the common room to find a slender young man standing before their table. He was handsome despite his slight build, his face bereft of whiskers. Thick, curly blonde hair spilled out the edges of a three cornered cap that looked as if it belonged on the head of a ship captain. He wore a long tailed jacket that had once been of fine make but was now dingy and patched in numerous places. He had a lute slung over one shoulder, the numerous scrapes on its surface indicating it had been played a great deal. The man glanced over his shoulder as Stella pointed Seamus's way, and the youth strode up to him and eagerly pumped his hand the way the Northerners did.

  “Greetings to you, master dragon slayer!” he said with a wide smile full of straight teeth. “I must say, your victory was inspiring! Whatever was going through your mind when that beast was bearing down on you?”

  “Don't get killed?” said Seamus in annoyance.

  The youth threw back his head and laughed more than the jest was worth. He clapped Seamus hard on his injured shoulder and steered the big man back to his seat.

  “Wonderful,” he said “I can tell that we are going to be the best of friends, you and I.”

  “I don't follow,” said Seamus, scowling as the youth claimed an astonishingly empty chair and dragged it beside him.

  “Of course not,” said the youth, slapping himself on the side of the head, which made Seamus's hurt more for some reason. “I have not even introduced myself! I am Juan Sanchez Villa Lobos Trejo, minstrel extraordinaire.”

  “What?” said Seamus, as Stella snickered.

  “Call me Lobo,” said the youth “everyone does.”

  “What can I do for you, master Lobo?” said Seamus. “Surely you have no dragons that need slaying.”

  “It is not what you can do for me,” said Lobo, his blue eyes shining “but what I can do for you!”

  “I don't follow,” said Seamus.

  “What is the difference between a hero and a legend?” said Lobo.

  “I have not time for riddles...” said Seamus.

  “It is no riddle,” said Lobo. “Allow me to explain. You see, a hero is exalted by his contemporaries, the folk alive in his time. A legend is exalted by all the generations that follow. Do you know what makes them so?”

  “I can scarcely wait to find out,” said Seamus darkly.

  “Showmanship,” said Lobo, pounding his fist on the table for emphasis. “Now, you are an exceptional fellow, no doubt, but how will folk in lands far from Port Gar know of it? You could boast of your deeds yourself, but, between you and me, that kind of makes one seem a bit conceited. But if you have your own, personal minstrel to crow about your prowess, well, people remember you.”

  Seamus rolled his eyes, turning to address Stella.

  “The coin is not even in my purse,” he said “and there are already those who wish to spend it for me.”

  “Perish the thought,” said Lobo, looking shocked and hurt. “I seek little compensation, just a pittance to cover food and creative costs.”

  “Creative costs?” said Seamus incredulousl
y.

  “Let's not worry about the details at a time such as this,” said Lobo. “I can see you are skeptical, and wish for a demonstration. A moment.”

  Lobo stood up and dragged his chair away from the table. Standing nimbly upon it, he took his lute from off his shoulder and began to strum on the strings with a rapid tempo that soon drew the attention of all gathered. Seamus had to admit he was quite skilled as his fingers danced along the strings.

  “Good people,” he said in a surprisingly loud voice “your indulgence, please, for a song I have just written about our dragon slayer!”

  A brief cheer went out as Lobo began to pluck at the strings again. He began to sing, his voice pleasant if lacking the baritone of a full grown man.

  The Dragon came from the sea,

  To have itself a bite,

  Of the flesh of goodly folk,

  who nearly died of fright.

  The beast was terrible, big and fierce,

  With breath as hot as the sun,

  But then came the mighty slayer,

  To save us, everyone.

  The city was shattered, good folk lie dead,

  But the slayer was not afraid,

  He gripped his mighty spear and shield,

  His wrath could not be stayed.

  The two did clash in a fierce battle,

  Two titans by the sea,

  He slew the mighty dragon,

  And set the people free.

  As the song ended, a cheer went up once more. Seamus flushed, embarrassed by all the attention. His brother had been the sociable one. He turned to comment on Lobo's prowess with the lute to Stella, but found her face scrunched up in anger.

  “No mention of the wizard who enchanted the spear,” she said. “Why do men at arms get all the credit?”

  “I don't think he meant it like that,” said Seamus as Lobo sat back down, his three cornered hat now filled with silver coins.

  “You see?” he said, jingling the haul at him. He reached within and grasped a generous handful and placed them on the table. “For you, slayer!”

  “You are quite skilled,” said Seamus appreciatively. “Still, I am not certain I need a minstrel.”