Dragon's Trail

by Joseph Malik

  “You need to teach me the rules around here, Goddammit.” Jarrod grumbled.

  “I will. And until I do, you do exactly what I say. Let me see that,” Javal put a thumb on Jarrod’s swollen jaw. Jarrod lurched upright and snorted in a deep breath at the comets that tore through his head as the knight prodded.

  “Whew,” Javal estimated, “Is that where he kicked you?”

  “Ow! Yeah.”

  “That must hurt like hell. Are you missing any teeth?”

  “No, I’m good,” Jarrod said. “Who was that motherfucker?”

  “Wow. Good word,” Javal said after a moment’s thought. He unbuckled a legging and tossed it aside before continuing, in lower tones, “That motherfucker was Lord Loth of Hwarthar.”

  Jarrod bent at the waist and shed his mail with a grunt, a thunk, and a jingle. “Means nothing to me,” he admitted quietly, standing upright again.

  “He killed my father.”

  Jarrod was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. He hated hearing that people had died, for he never knew what to say. He didn’t wholly believe that anyone ever knew quite what to say.

  “Don’t be.” Javal blew his cheeks out at the memory. “He slew my father on the field, quite honorably. I can draw no animosity there.

  “Loth’s one of the finest warriors in all of Gavria, maybe in the world. I myself have met him on the field half a dozen times. Last I heard, they’d made him a general.”

  “A warlord? Wait a minute. He’s a general from Gavria?” Jarrod’s words were hasty and slurred with confusion. “Why didn’t you take him? Why didn’t you let me take him?”

  Javal shrugged. “He’s here as a guest of the crown. That makes him as good as a citizen.

  “For one Gateskeeper to slay another is murder. We could have dueled, but I had no reason to—and truth be told, I doubt if I could take him in a duel.” Javal sighed and shook his head, laughing quietly. “I can’t believe you threw him on his ass.”

  Jarrod swelled with pride.

  Javal continued, “If we were at war, things would be different. But we’re not at war with Gavria. Well, not yet,” he added with a knowing grimace.

  “So, what’s he doing here?”

  Javal was silent.

  “That’s treason, isn’t it?”

  “Breathe a word to that end and you’ll be much worse than dead.”

  Jarrod put a hand to his head. “What’s our move?”

  Javal had an answer for that. “We watch. And listen. The king’s eyes and ears, remember?”

  “And, on that,” Jarrod brought up another point, “Why is it, you don’t have to call Prince Albar by his title?”

  Javal underhanded his other legging ungracefully onto the first, and, bared from the waist up, ran his fingers through his hair time and again to dry the sweat. There was not a wasted ounce on him anywhere; his muscles rippled like leaves in a slow breeze. “Well, as many people tend to forget—Albar included—he’s not a prince yet.

  “I’ve known Alby since we were boys. He’s not of royal blood, much as he thinks he is. He’s a Hillwhite.”

  “I’m going to guess that’s a patrician family,” Jarrod said.

  “Yes. The Hillwhites could buy Gateskeep Palace outright if they wanted,” Javal grumbled. “But I’ll not address him as royalty until he marries. Frankly, I think he’s a complete ass, and I’d not have a qualm about beating the feathers out of him. Of course, once he’s prince, I’ll have to kiss his bedslipper,” Javal sat down on his armor chest. “That’s the way of things.”

  Jarrod nodded in forlorn agreement. “So, what’s next?”

  “We’ll get you to a healer. Clean up your face, and I’ll show you where.”

  Two floors above their rooms, Javal asked Jarrod, “Have you ever been kicked by a horse?”

  “Not yet. The day is still young, though,” he admitted. “Why do you ask?”

  “Anything similar?”

  “I once hit my head bungee-jumping.”

  “Bungee-jumping?”

  “Bungee-jumping. Yes.”

  “Bungee-jumping.” Javal fed the word to his mouth a few times. “We’ll think of something.” He pushed open a heavy door. “Durvin?”

  Inside was a wooden cot with a feather mattress, a desk with a human skull and various sorcerer’s doohickeys—mortar and pestle, vials, candles, the usual stuff Jarrod pretty much expected to see in a healer’s chambers; one wall was composed almost entirely of books, and a bleached human skeleton hung near the arrowslit. In a moment, a tangle-headed youth in a wrinkled tunic entered from the next room, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  “My lord? Ah, Sir Javal. Good to see you, again. Another arrow wound from an outraged father?” He looked the knight over. “You don’t seem to be—Ah.”

  Javal winced off the assumption as Jarrod quipped, “Discreet, all right.”

  The knight’s voice was an arrogant hiss. “Tend to your own wounds, boy.”

  The healer, Durvin, took Jarrod’s swollen jaw in his hand. “Hold still, sir. Hmm. Punched? Clubbed?”

  “Alertness training,” Javal stated, his tone authoritative. He turned his voice to Jarrod, “Right?”

  Jarrod shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Also, he has the season’s fever, and an infection of the bowel that makes him weak.”

  “Hmm. All right. Sit you down, on the cot, sire.”

  Jarrod sat. The boy handed him a vial of something gray, thick, and nasty-looking to hold, then went to rummaging through his desk. “So, what was all that bustle about out there? It sounded like a fight.”

  “A bully getting his comeuppance,” Jarrod grouched.

  “Good to hear. When it turns black, drink it all,” he instructed, then turned around to face his patient, “And trust me.”

  In one hand he held a small stick resembling a conductor’s baton, and in the other, the skull. He chanted something incomprehensible, again and again and again, and Jarrod saw the contents of the vial in his hand begin to swirl and darken, though it was only slightly warm to the touch.

  “Drink it, sir.” The healer touched Jarrod’s jaw with the wand-thing and Jarrod tipped the vial up and downed it.

  He found the vial’s contents lukewarm, and tasting of smoke and licorice.

  “That’s pretty good,” he admitted.

  He immediately felt his sinus troubles disappear, and the throbbing in his face, and his gut-ache, simultaneously and with such urgency, they left him with a void of sensation that made his head reel.

  “Better, sir?”

  Oh, yes. “My God.”

  “And mine. Come back at dawn, every day for ten days. Don’t be late.”

  Javal promptly thanked the young healer, and steered Jarrod down the hall.

  “What’d he do to me?”

  “Just magic.”

  “No,” Jarrod was adamant. “I mean, did he just numb me? Or did he actually heal me?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Jarrod waved his hands in frustration. “Big difference. Am I still sick, and I just don’t notice?”

  “Do you want to be?”

  “No. I want to be healed.”

  “Then you are.”

  The concept peeked around a corner at Jarrod and thumbed its nose at him.

  Jarrod spoke slowly. “I can’t be better, and not better. Am I asymptomatic but still sick?”

  “That is what I’m saying. Right now, your body doesn’t know the difference. Under Durvin, you’ll feel healed almost immediately, and you’ll heal quickly because of it. Healers like Durvin are a tremendous asset. They’ll stop the bleeding and send you right back onto the field and under the stress of battle—trust me—you won’t know the difference.”

  “I don’t know if I like that thought.”

  Javal shrugged. “There’s nothing to like or dislike about it. It simply is the way it is.”

 
; After another pensive silence, Jarrod bit his lip and nodded. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I. If we did, we’d be sorcerers.”

  “Well, I feel better, that much is certain.”

  Javal clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. What is ‘bungee-jumping,’ anyway?”

  “This is ridiculous!” Jarrod cried, slipping and falling to his knees for the umpteenth time. The calf on his shoulders bleated loudly and urinated, dousing him. “Ugh! C’mon!”

  Javal was fifty feet ahead of him, jogging effortlessly down the trail. “Come, Jarrod! Only another league or two!” he laughed.

  Jarrod knew the drill. Come autumn, that calf would be a hundred pounds heavier, and he’d be able to run the entire hunting course with its weight on his shoulders.

  Swearing a loud string of rugged English monosyllables, Jarrod arose and ran. The calf voiced its concerns about this entire operation. “Oh, and you shut up!” he warned it. “I don’t like this any more than you do.”

  Javal, of course, was now fifty yards up the path, and about to vanish from sight. As he did, Jarrod shouted, “If there’s a camera crew up there, I’m gonna kick your ass!”

  “Set the calf down.” Javal was waiting in the middle of the hunting grounds. Four huge marble pillars sat in the midst of a grassy clearing, in no particular pattern. Jarrod noted that a fifth pillar had long ago toppled and broken. The large moon with its slender dust ring was high in the sky opposite the sun, adding an odd pink hue that, to Jarrod, sharpened all the corners of the world. Wherever he was, it was a gorgeous planet.

  Obediently, and quite cheerily, Jarrod knelt and swung the calf from his shoulders. It wandered off, not far. “I stink,” he warned.

  “Yes,” Javal agreed. “Here, we can talk.”

  “Talk, huh?” Jarrod stretched his hamstrings against an apple tree. Standing, he could squeeze his shin within three inches of his forehead, straight up over his head like a dancer.

  Javal whistled low in appreciation of the feat, then walked over and sat on one of the fallen chunks of marble. “Yes. Talk.”

  Jarrod tossed him an apple. “Hey,” he called. Javal was mooncalfing as it arced toward his face.

  With the pointed disinterest Jarrod would attribute to a Zen master, Javal caught it with an indifferent flick of his hand.

  “That was him, today,” he announced, rubbing the apple against his trouser leg.

  Jarrod leaned away from his foot momentarily. “What?”

  “King Sabbaghian. He was with Loth at the Keep.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can tell a foreigner just by his walk. You didn’t see him?”

  “I didn’t look.”

  “He didn’t want you to,” said Javal. “That wasn’t Loth’s style, kicking you to the ground like that. That was King Sabbaghian behind him. He wanted a diversion. He made his exit during the fight. I’m pretty certain he knows who you are. I don’t know how, but, ah—Good ol’ Alby,” he nearly laughed. “The look on his face—he figured we wouldn’t be here for twenty days, yet. Oops! Order of the Stallion’s here.” Then he grumbled, “It actually wouldn’t surprise me if Albar tries to kill us both.”

  “He hates us that much, huh?”

  Javal took a bite of the apple and chewed thoughtfully. “Albar has a chance at something great. He doesn’t want us to muck it up. I hate to think this way, but he has a lot to gain by siding with Gavria if things go badly for us.

  “You see, Princess Adielle rules Falconsrealm. Alby’s family rules nothing, though they control a great deal of the trade in Falconsrealm. They’re ore barons.

  “When they marry, she’ll still rule, and Alby will merely be an ornament. He won’t have any more actual power than he does now. Oh, we’ll all have to salute him, but,” he set the apple beside him on the rubble, “If he, if . . .” he stammered for a moment or two, re-organizing his thoughts. “I believe that Gavria is going to enlist Albar’s aid, and eventually they’ll use him, and those allied to him, to claim Falconsrealm. I don’t believe they can do it without his help. They’ve been trying to take all of Falconsrealm for a thousand years, and they just don’t have the resources to hold it. But if they can enlist the Falconsrealm chivalry, and the mercenary hordes of those loyal to Albar—and there a lot of nobles loyal to Albar, never underestimate him—they can launch the principality into essentially a civil war, and overrun it in the midst of it all.”

  “What does Al—? I see,” Jarrod answered his own question. “And Albar becomes prince. Or king, or whatever, if the secession succeeds. A-hah! The succession of the secession,” he punned merrily. “Da-dump.”

  Javal lobbed his apple at him. “Wiseass. You must be feeling better.”

  Jarrod ducked it with a laugh. “Much. No, but I think I understand.

  “No, wait,” he said. “Check that; I don’t. Where’s the princess in all this? I’d think she’d be pretty torqued if it goes down that way.”

  “I’d guess there’s trouble in paradise. I’ll be surprised if the wedding happens, and if it does, frankly—and don’t breathe a word of this—I don’t expect her to live a year.”

  “I’ll kill that motherfucker.”

  “She’s my cousin. You’d have to get in line.”

  “Wait—you’re royalty?” asked Jarrod.

  “It doesn’t leave this glen,” said Javal. “My father was brother to the king. I’m fifth, but really more like tenth, in line for the throne.” He ticked off on his fingers, “Adielle, Damon, either Albar, or Damon’s wife when he marries, any children between any of them, then me after all of them. I don’t want it. I set it aside to join the order.”

  “Jesus,” said Jarrod under his breath.

  “Very few people know, especially among the soldiery. I don’t want them thinking they’re being ordered around by a man like Albar. When you meet him, you’ll understand.

  “Another thing: I worked my way up through the ranks. Never forget that. Once you’re knighted into the Order of the Stallion, any consideration for commission will be strictly on merit. Your lordship, your lands, your family, your wealth, all get set aside because of what we do. The other orders, not so much.”

  “I won’t say a word,” said Jarrod. “What does Gavria get out of helping Albar take Falconsrealm?”

  “Long Valley, the Shieldlands, the fertile lands. They wouldn’t have to pay us for their food. And those on the Gavrian War Council get their names sung around the fire for the next fifty or hundred years, until we kick their asses and take it back.”

  “Doesn’t Gateskeep already have farmland? That whole area north of Long Valley.”

  Javal winked at him. “You’re sharp. Our people wouldn’t starve, not even close. But the lords of the Shieldlands would be killed, and once we don't have to trade with Gavria, Gateskeep would lose its primary source of iron and gold. Our wealth is in the Shieldlands. The Hillwhites control most of the silver for Falconsrealm, and what iron Gateskeep has.”

  “Well, shit,” Jarrod said. “If Gavria takes the Shieldlands, the Hillwhites control the war. If they control the money and the iron, they could effectively hand Falconsrealm over to Gavria with a handshake. If they decide they don't like us, we're in a lot of trouble, my friend.”

  “They don’t like us,” said Javal.

  “Then we’re in a lot of trouble,” said Jarrod.

  “You grasp complex things quickly. I'm going to enjoy training you.”

  “Let's keep going. Tell me about King Sabbaghian.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Javal. “King Ulo Sabbaghian, ruler of Ulorak. Lord Sabbaghian, now. They’re calling him Sabbaghian the Silver. He’s a Gavrian. Raised in your homeland.”

  “Crius said that. I remember now.”

  “I think I only know what you already know. He’s the son of a great sorcerer. Some say the greatest that ever lived.”

  “Naturally,” Jarrod muttered under his bre
ath. “So, this guy’s a sorcerer too?”

  “And a good one. He probably wasn’t much to speak of on your world, but here . . .” as Javal’s voice trailed off, Jarrod fought back a shudder. Javal said, “I imagine Gavria is just as scared of him as we are.”

  “Yes, but they’re giving him a seat on the war council,” said Jarrod. “When he becomes Lord High Sorcerer, his power is only going to increase. He’s now part of the problem. At least, that’s how I understand it.”

  “You’re probably right. But he’s heavily guarded, hence Loth’s presence. I imagine Loth’s true mandate is to slay him if he gets any ideas.

  “Usually, our fail-safe with regard to Gavria is to have members of our spy network assassinate the masterminds of the enemy’s campaign, and then we counterattack as chaos ensues. However, Loth’s presence—and Loth is of value to us, now, in his duty as Sabbaghian’s shadow—negates this. We can’t get an assassin near him because of Loth, and we can’t kill Loth because he’s the only thing keeping Sabbaghian in check. That’s why I didn’t duel with Loth this morning, or let you.”

  “So you figured this all out while we were kneeling, there?”

  Javal arose, and said, “Yes, and I’ll teach you to do it, as well. Get your calf.”

  “Northboy!”

  “Whoo-ee! Hair like a pretty girl!”

  “Arms like a pretty girl!” joked another. Jarrod received a clap on the back from Javal and went to stand with the twenty or so other knights, riders, soldiers, and hopefuls. This was not free sparring; this was military training for field soldiers. Toughs in piecemeal armor sent from the remotest keeps puffed out their chests and licked their lips with faux bravado. Knights were designated by steel spurs and cloak pins; officers by shoulder braids.

  Mercenaries on scutage were conspicuously absent, Jarrod noted.

  He wore his battered practice armor over a bull-rider’s vest. This armor was the most protective thing he owned—maybe moreso than the man-at-arms harness he’d left behind—and was the least authentic: a cuirass and pauldrons of black high-density polyethylene cut from chemical barrels with memory foam glued behind, the whole belted together with scalloped lames for his upper arms and broad hanging tassets to cover his hips and upper legs. He had leggings to match. It was crude, lightweight, ugly, and damned near bulletproof. He carried a dented sugarloaf helm under his arm and his larger roundshield. He hoped that the dings and slashes on his practice armor would give him some street cred. He’d left his rider’s pin off; he didn’t want to get his nice cape muddy.