Dragonslayer

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  “Calm down, Solène,” the Prince Bishop said. “I’ve already lost more people than I care to. I’m not going to send you into anything that you won’t be fully prepared for. It’ll mean some hard work and late nights because we don’t have much time, but when you go, you will be ready. You’ll have the support of the entire Order. If the dragon gets to a large city like Mirabay, the death and destruction it could wreak is unthinkable. Everyone needs your help to stop this beast. One way or the other, we will be going out to face it, and I’d very much like to have you with us.”

  She studied his face. He seemed to be sincere, but she had encountered many men who had seemed sincere and had proven to be anything but. Still, if the Order must go out to face the dragon, what choice did she have? She was one of them, and if she expected the benefits, she should be prepared to share the burdens.

  “I’ll do what I can,” she said. “I’ll start to look for anything that might help.”

  “Thank you,” the Prince Bishop said. “That’s all I can ask.”

  She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she hadn’t worked out how to read anything in that huge library yet. Instead, she smiled and nodded.

  * * *

  The Prince Bishop left in a hurry. In the time Solène had known him, it seemed he was always in a hurry. When he was gone, and she was once more in peace in the cavernous archive, she considered the alteration in her task. What the Prince Bishop proposed both thrilled and terrified her. She had never been a person of importance before, and now she had the most powerful man in the kingdom asking for her help. That she was expected to help slay a beast that had just killed the finest swordsman in the realm was less appealing.

  She hadn’t known Guillot well, but in their short acquaintance, he had done as much for her as any person she had ever encountered. More. He had walked into a furious mob and saved her from an unimaginably terrible death, and though life had made him bitter, he had never been anything but kind to her. There weren’t enough men like him in the world, and now there was one less. She had long since stopped grieving for things that were lost to her, but she could not shake the sadness that gripped her when she thought of Gill reluctantly riding to do his duty, with each step of his horse carrying him toward his death.

  No one else had done half so much for her. Dal Drezony and the Prince Bishop were doing their best to win her over, but only because she had something they wanted. From the start, Solène had realised that the Prince Bishop’s benevolence to her would only last as long as he found her useful.

  She took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. No matter how honourable her intentions, they would not be enough to bring down a dragon. If she couldn’t find an answer in that great, cavernous library of forbidden knowledge, she would almost certainly meet the same fate as Guillot.

  One thing she had learned since being introduced to the archive was that there was no cataloguing system, nor any organisation. Everything seemed to have been randomly shelved. She didn’t have the first idea of how to go about searching for information on dragons. She could search for years and not find anything. That left only the question of if and how magic might be of use. What kind of magic crafting would guide her to the information she needed? How could magic seek out something as abstract as written knowledge? Solène fought to gain control of her thoughts. Despite everything, she had always considered herself an ordinary person. How could an ordinary person achieve what others had failed to? Of course, she knew she wasn’t ordinary, but she was only starting to accept she was capable of far more than she might think.

  Taking a deep breath, Solène concentrated on dragons. Somewhere in the echoing cavern of a library, there was a thud. Wound tight, she jumped and almost let out a shriek of surprise. There was no one else down here and the door was at the opposite end of the room. She walked to the central aisle and peered down toward where the sound had come from. Magelamps mounted at the end of every shelf cast pools of warm light into the aisle, but between the shelves, darkness quickly reclaimed the territory. She collected the small hand lamp from the desk and advanced down the aisle as silently as she could.

  As she walked, she considered the magical defensive options she had and took some comfort in having those thoughts primed as she advanced along the aisles. There was no other noise in the library now, other than that of her rapidly beating heart. Reaching the shelf where she thought the sound had come from, she quickly popped her head and the hand lamp around the corner.

  A large book, bound in well-worn leather, lay on the floor. Letting out the breath she had been holding, Solène studied the vacant spot on the shelf above. The shelf was deep, so there was no reason for the volume to have fallen, unless whoever had put it there had done so carelessly. Considering every other book in that row was perfectly placed, that seemed unlikely.

  She took another look up and down the main aisle to satisfy herself that there was no one sneaking up behind her, then walked to the book and knelt. She brushed some of the thick coating of dust from the cover, then opened it and read the title page. Her heart sank when she saw the text was in old Imperial. Nonetheless, she could make out one phrase in the title:

  Seolfor Cercle.

  Silver Circle. A chill ran over her skin. Had she somehow drawn it from the shelf? Used magic without realising it? If her control was so tenuous, what damage might she to do others, or herself, as she grew more powerful? So much potential, but so much danger.

  She had other things to worry about first, though. She picked up the book and returned to her desk, wondering how she would go about deciphering it, and what it would tell her.

  Solène stared at the book’s cover page. She knew the Chevaliers had an ancient reputation as dragon fighters, so she could see the relevance. However, until she could understand the text, it didn’t matter how relevant it was. If magic could find the book, perhaps it could help with this also? She started to read, reaching out to the Fount for aid. A few pages in and her hopes began to fade. It wasn’t becoming any clearer.

  She sat back in her chair and let out an exasperated breath. If the Prince Bishop had figured out how to read this, then surely she could.

  Something dal Drezony had said popped into her mind—words focus thoughts, and sometimes speaking out loud could help shape magic. She leaned forward and began to read aloud in as stentorian a voice as she could muster. She chuckled at the way her voice boomed down the cavernous archive, but continued, enunciating each oddly sounding word with precision.

  All the while, she tried to keep her mind open to the Fount, willing its energy to coat her words. Her skin began to tingle as she continued for several pages. She was so focussed on pronunciation and the Fount that it took some time before she realised the words were making sense. With a loud, maniacal laugh of victory, she returned to the beginning. The print on the page was no different to her eyes than a news sheet produced that morning. She could read the entire title now: The Rule of the Order of the Silver Circle.

  The book started with an outline of the characteristics that should be expected of a Chevalier, and not a single one tallied with what she had heard of their modern counterparts. It moved from there to descriptions of their various uniforms, from attending at the Imperial court, the governor’s court, all the way down to daily wear when likely to be seen in public.

  After several pages her enthusiasm began to wane. She couldn’t see how anything here was important—just rule after rule about how the Chevaliers were supposed to conduct themselves.

  She drummed her fingers on the table and licked her lips. The air was dry, probably a good thing considering the presence of so many irreplaceable books. She made a mental note to bring a water skin with her in the future, then returned to the book. She flipped page after page, then stopped. Her eyes were locked on a chapter heading.

  Initiation Rites for New Chevaliers.

  She recalled the Prince Bishop mentioning that he thought the Chevaliers’ dragon-slaying ability had something
to do with their initiation rites. Solène started to read, carefully and slowly, and her eyes widened with fascination. The ceremony itself had religious undertones, the themes of which were familiar, as the same gods that were worshipped in Imperial times still prevailed. The involvement of the Imperial mages interested her the most, however.

  Anyone with even the most cursory knowledge of history knew how bannerets came to be, as magically enhanced bodyguards for the Imperial mages. When the mages grew powerful and greedy, the bannerets rebelled. The ensuing war tore the Empire apart, but freed the people from the mages’ tyranny. Magic was outlawed, while the bannerets took on legendary, heroic status. Although they were no longer magically enhanced, they remained an important part of society. Every parent of a son, to some degree, harboured the dream of seeing them go to an academy to earn their banner. It was the great leveller, something a man from the most humble of origins could earn if he worked hard enough and had the talent.

  In theory, at least. Solène had come from a poor farming village and had never even seen a banneret until she went to Trelain. It was hard to imagine that any of them had come from backgrounds similar to hers.

  Candidates for the Silver Circle, it seemed, were selected from experienced bannerets. Battle-hardened veterans who were considered among the best fighters alive. The text said the ceremony extolled virtues such as honour, mercy, and charity, but did not specify exactly what was said. Then the new initiate stepped forward to be anointed by an Imperial mage, a very high-ranked one it seemed, although Solène didn’t recognise the title given. They placed a drop of water from a cup—a cup referred to with great reverence—on the initiate’s tongue, and the initiate became a Chevalier of the Silver Circle, an already formidable warrior now somehow magically prepared to do battle with dragons and survive.

  Her cynical eye was quick to separate ceremony from anything that might have a real effect, and the cup was what stood out. It was possible the Imperial mages had the power to materially improve the initiates—they had been capable of feats that gave Solène a headache just to think about. However, the one thing she had quickly come to understand was that Imperial mages viewed magic as a science. That had put them at odds with the lands the Empire had expanded into, where it was viewed as a mystical concept, the interaction of the gods with the physical world. Nothing about what they had done, or the methods the Order was trying to adopt from them, wasted time on ritual when it came to the actual use of magic. Everything was considered, measured, and recorded. The cup had to have some significance or power of its own.

  Her first instinct was to seek out information on this cup, but she was exhausted from the effort of deciphering the text. Every morning at the Priory was an early one, and she needed to keep her mind rested and sharp if she didn’t want to end up injuring herself. It would have to wait until tomorrow.

  CHAPTER

  34

  Guillot woke the morning after Leverre’s departure and glanced out the window, wondering how long he had slept. It looked close to noon, but after the past couple of days, he reckoned he could be forgiven for sleeping late. Although his body still hurt in more places than he could count, he felt moderately refreshed.

  He turned his mind to how he would spend the next few days until help arrived. Dal Sason wasn’t going anywhere and Gill had no desire to sit at his bedside and make small talk when the man wasn’t sleeping. He got up and dressed, then stopped in the doorway of his room. The sweet scent of wine and ale carried up on the warm air from the taproom. How long could he stay there without giving in to temptation? A few days. Possibly a week. Perhaps more? He had already cracked, albeit briefly, and today he felt a little more balanced than he had at that moment.

  Dal Sason wasn’t in any danger from his injuries. All he needed was rest until the Order’s healers got there, and Gill couldn’t do much to contribute to that. He drummed his fingers against his thigh for a moment, then headed for the stable yard. He needed something to keep him out of the taproom.

  “Saddle my horse!”

  After taking a few minutes to gather what he needed for the trip, Guillot was clattering out of the town gates on his horse, on his way back to Villerauvais, or what was left of it. The village had been preying on his mind ever since they had discovered it burned to ashes. Part of him couldn’t believe that was true, insisting that it was some horrible dream so vivid that it had remained with him when he woke. He needed to look through the remains—make sure that whatever he could find got a proper burial.

  He had gone several miles before realising he hadn’t told dal Sason he was leaving for a few days, and considered turning back. That would likely mean him remaining in Trelain overnight, and then who knew what would happen?

  He had gone several more miles before he remembered the last time he had felt so strong a compulsion to return to Villerauvais, to return home. It was just after his judicial duel, when he had been handed his banner—the small, embroidered flag every banneret received on graduation and could fly as a mark of honour—in shreds, the greatest dishonour a swordsman could receive. Worse than everything else. Almost everything else. All he had worked for had been falling apart around him, like a great, beautiful house of cards collapsing in chaos, but he still had somewhere to run to. Now there was nothing. Nothing but a black smudge on the ground.

  He wondered what the dragon was doing at that moment, how many villages it would destroy and how many people it would kill before they were ready to try to slay it once again. It occurred to him that he might cross its path on his trip back to Villerauvais, and the thought sent a shiver down his spine. Despite everything that had happened, despite the rut he had allowed himself to slide into, he wasn’t ready to die. Killing the dragon was more important, however. If that meant dying, he had to make peace with that.

  Gill arrived not long after nightfall. Were it not for the fact that he knew the area so well, he might have completely missed it—there were no features to tell a traveller by night that a village had once stood there. Whether it was the fear of ghosts, or respect for the dead, he stopped some distance from the ruins to make his camp for the night. Despite himself, he slept soundly. There was, it seemed, something to be said for complete exhaustion.

  * * *

  When Gill crawled out from his blankets the next morning and surveyed the place that had once been his home, he was dismayed. It was hard to believe that only days before, people had made their homes there. He circled the village, staying well clear of what would have been the town’s boundary. How long would it be, he wondered, before grass and weeds reclaimed the ground? The task of digging through the ash to find bones would take days, or even weeks. He was no priest, so any words he said before putting them in the ground would have been hollow. It occurred to him that a far better tribute was to complete the task he had set himself. Kill the beast. Avenge his people.

  He urged his horse in the direction of the manor house and spurred it to a slow trot. He could tell even from a distance that it had suffered the same fate as the town, but there were items in the house that were important to his family—jewellery, heirlooms, and such—and curiosity dictated that he at least check to see if any had survived.

  With so many memories of the place—a building that had stood for centuries before he was born and which, he had thought, would stand for centuries to come—it was discomfiting to not see it there. It had been a stone structure, so he’d expected more of it to remain standing. With all the timber support—once concealed under carpets and behind plastered walls—burned away, it seemed to have simply fallen apart, the great chunks of cut limestone lying haphazardly around what had been gardens when his mother lived.

  He tried to picture where everything had been, the study, the lounge, the kitchen—that was easy, as its great stone fireplace stood a lonely vigil in the centre of the ruin. The rest had nothing to mark its presence but Guillot’s memory. He stepped over fallen stones into what had been the hall, his boots crunching on the ci
nders beneath his feet. He felt the numb anguish that often preceded tears, but none came. He had not lived in the house since he was a child, nor had he even visited it with any regularity, but he could not have predicted the effect its destruction had on him. So long as it had remained, there had been hope that one day he would come out of the shadows and properly take on the mantle of Seigneur of Villerauvais. Now that would never happen.

  What could he do? Make another futile attempt against the dragon to prove he wasn’t a coward? Would a heroic death redeem his destroyed reputation? Gill wandered through the remains, kicking at the ash and bits of debris, occasionally seeing something vaguely recognisable and trying to remember the last time he’d seen it intact. He had not gone far before he found himself staring down a flight of stone steps leading into darkness below.

  At first Guillot thought he had reached the kitchen, beneath which there was a small wine cellar and ice store, but a quick glance at the lonely fireplace told him he was about where his father’s study had been. He frowned and stared down the dark stairway, rummaging through the clutter of his memory for any old cellar he might have forgotten about. He had spent a lot of time in his father’s study as a boy, playing with tin soldiers on the rug while his father worked at his desk. He couldn’t remember any door other than the one that led in and out of the room, nor could he remember any flight of stairs leading to a second cellar. If he’d known it was there, he would have explored it—he had been a very curious child.

  He went down several steps, his right hand instinctively resting on the handle of his sword, then stopped, realising that whatever was down there would be hidden by the darkness. He skipped back up the steps, thinking that having Leverre around would have been useful at that moment. A few minutes of kicking around in the ash turned up some fragments of wood. A few moments hunched over the pile with his tinder box got a fire going, and soon enough his makeshift torch was bright enough to be of use.