by Alex Sapegin
“The boy’s that serious?”
“More so! One’s blood curdles from the thought of the were-dragon’s power. The High Prince had good reason to ask you for carte blanche in order to find him. The young and still quite ambitious dragon played Miduel for a fool and removed the map from the last bit of the helrats’ archives. If everything goes as we were saying, the crown will be missing several of its subjects, and a new enclave will be formed in the Marble Mountains. We need to prepare ourselves for the possible loss of a small chunk of our territory and attempt to tie the were-dragon to ourselves.”
“How?” the monarch said, surprised.
“It’s not possible to do that directly, but we can get his friends on our side since they are now under the dense hood of the Secret Chancellery. The kids turned out to be nimble creatures indeed—befitting for friends of that formidable creature—and managed to hide for a while on our dear General Olmar’s homestead.” The old warrior lifted one eyebrow skeptically. “The young men signed two-year contracts. It’s somewhat difficult to root out fugitives in the army. The army counterespionage service really doesn’t appreciate anyone meddling in its affairs. They both showed up at the storming of Ronmir and earned the rank of officers.”
“What do we get out of it?” Olmar spoke up.
“The dragons are molting, which means we can bargain for their scales and blood, just what the helrats were getting by killing them, we, with the right approach and organization, can get from the live lizards and willingly. I hope I don’t need to explain to anyone just how valuable the dragon’s blood is? And the firepower of one dragon mage? What our boy did in Ortag and the surrounding areas is simply indescribable.”
“I don’t understand why the lord of the Icicles attaches such importance to the were-dragon?” asked the chancellor.
“The were-drag is capable of pumping mana from the astral plain. The level of mana in the former monastery after he destroyed the Servants of Death was over fifteen bell!”
At that, the chancellor whistled quietly.
“How do you plan to recruit the dragon’s friends?” he asked.
“Heavens, no! No recruiting.”
“The chancellor asked the right question,” the king put in.
“The young men manifested miraculous heroism during the battles. Why not write a small article about this in the newspapers? First give the general facts, then out sly journalists will plump up the facts—and then the newspapers with their portraits will come out. The crown appreciates the merits of young people; the heroes will receive rewards from the hands of His Majesty. For the sake of such a thing, you can sacrifice a couple of confiscated estates from Lailat. The country needs heroes, young people need an example to follow: and here is a living example, more precisely, two examples! This way we kill two suls with one stone: we’ll one-up the Rauu, and raise patriotic sentiments in the youth environment.”
His Highness poured himself some wine and paced back and forth in front of the window. He didn’t like the fact that instead of affairs of state, he had to attend to covert intrigues within the country and between their allies. The ancient elf had impressed Gil, essentially taking the reins of government in the Rauu principalities into his own hands. Miduel never mixed professional and personal. The old elf was known as a notorious schemer, but he never directed intrigues against his allies. His ban on any activity involving the orc’s daughter was a sign of his character. With her help, they could pull countless tricks on the Steppe! Instead of that, the old elf decided to keep the peace with the were-dragon. It was a strange decision. Clearly the High Prince’s interest in the winged boy was hiding something else.
“I approve the newspaper campaign. Let’s return to the subject of the Arians. What are we to do?”
General Olmar stood up. Examining all present with his eagle eye, the old commander rested his palms on the countertop:
“I suggest turning all the information we have over to the king of the dwarfs and the Great Prince of Mesaniya. It’s time for them to build some fortifications for themselves.”
Tantre. Orten…
“Hey there, could you give me a paper, please.” Timur summoned the street vendor boy over with a hand gesture. The boy caught the small coin on his way there, darted to his customer, and slipped him the latest copy of “The Times.”
“Dragon Insanity! Flying Beasts Destroy Third Castle! Herds of Dragons Attack Humans!” the distributor of the press shouted at the top his lungs, waving the newspaper, and, scratching his dirty heel and adjusting his cowlick, rushed into the crowd.
Slipping the paper under his arm, Timur stepped towards the barracks of the training regiment quartered in the Middle. He’d have something to read this evening. Crazy dragons. Hm. If he wasn’t mistaken, Kerr had reached his fellow tribesmen’s nests, and now the angry Lords of the Sky were destroying the helrats’ lairs. It was a worthy job, pleasing to the Twins.
The commandant’s errand boy, who appeared at the School three hours after class began, handed roi-dert Soto an order, according to which he was to appear in person in front of the commander of the training regiment. Rigaud, for the sake of some company, was offered a one-month contract. The brand new newlywed was wearing a fat husband’s bracelet on his wrist. He glanced at Timur and waved the paper.
“It’s more fun if we’re in it together!” the skinny guy grinned gleefully.
“Tell that to Marika.”
“It’s okay, she’ll understand. We could use some extra money,” Rigaud answered and touched the crystal Kerr had given him. “I want to buy a house in the Middle, and I have no desire whatsoever to bargain with Kerr’s stones. I’ve got a feeling down in my heart that we’ll need them; boy, will they come in handy. The rector can do with one tiny chip!”
***
Oh Nel, intercessor, oh how my hands hurt. It feels like they’re going to fall off. Timur, not undressing, collapsed onto the bed. I wonder where the volunteer offices found those dolts? Stupid villagers, incapable of putting a couple words together, and they’re making them second-in-saddles! Probably be better off with the rat-like guys from the dock-side areas. You can bet your bottom pound the cunning company used to earn their bread through robbery or were members of a thief guild. The tattooed recruits’ lack of magic bracelets on their ankles was not an indicator of security. At least I wouldn’t turn my back on them in a dark alley. Although it’s disgusting to stand in front of these rats too—they’re home-grown thugs, they’re muddy the water in the wing, but it’s okay; he’ll beat the idiocy out of them or drive them into the grave; otherwise, they’ll drive him to the grave.
For over a week now, he and Rigaud had been acting as instructors, training the new recruits of the newly formed wing, which consisted of griffons caught around Ronmir and volunteers picked up in the outskirts of Orten. The skinny guy was having a great time. The commander was using him as civilian personnel. A flexible schedule, payment at the going rate, no jerks hovering over his head and behind his back. Awesome! He should have such a life. But what a life he did have! An officer of His Majesty’s army should be an example for others to follow, and punctuality not the least of his admirable qualities. The wing’s commander, alert-dert Togo, could not care less that his subordinate was studying in the School of Magic. His order stated: be there at five, which meant at five o’clock and not a second later. Move your feet, officer. It was an exhausting regime: first, they squeezed the juice out of him in school, then they hung him out to dry at the regiment. Thanks to the commandant, kind soul. He didn’t forget the guys. Apparently, he thought that the participants of the storming of the enemy citadel would not be hampered by some extra money since the allowance granted didn’t cover the bookworms’ costs. He decided to contribute to the financial issue. The bosses weren’t aware that the sale to Rector Etran of one fragment of the statue of Hel, donated by Kerr, enabled the friends to retrieve five thousand weighty round coins of a tender yellow color.
The commandant
, to speak frankly, didn’t give a pile of griffon dung about the wetbacks that had donned military uniforms, but a strange guy from army intelligence, nodding from behind the back of a no-less-strange scout, and a pencil-pusher from the Secret Chancellery urged him to assign the designated persons to the training regiment. He wasn’t able to discover the reasons for the secret service’s interest in the young men. Moving his eyebrows to the center of his face, the clerk from the Secret Chancellery advised him not to get involved in the ruinous swamp of politics, because he’d come across dozens of people who, in the prime of their life, because of idle curiosity, were sent to the halls of the Twins. Please don’t repeat their fate. Not a single muscle on the commandant’s face moved, but his palms started sweating. Competing offices rarely collaborated. Now he was observing more than collaboration…. Members of different departments were, in good friendship, blowing on the same bagpipes. A joint game was possible in one case only: Duke Drang and Marshal Olmar, who had received the coveted title just two days ago, agreed to join forces. Or, His Majesty had clocked them both on the head, stuck their faces in the mud….
“To Targ with their secrets, I’ve only got one backside,” the commandant decided. “Putting my butt on the line isn’t worth the effort. And the request, what’s a request to me? It won’t cost me anything to wave a couple of orders around and ask the objects of interest of the secret service to serve the Motherland.”
Stretching his whole body, Timur took the newspaper from his pocket. The letters jumped around before his eyes. He was so tired, his eyes were crossed. Setting the crumpled “Times” aside, he threw off his boots and uniform and got in the shower. Standing under the icy water, his forehead resting against the wall, he thought about Lubayel. The Snow Elf had sent him a letter saying that the Rauu would arrive in a week. The princes were sending two mage regiments to Orten and Kion. Soon the School would be crawling with Icicles. If only it would be sooner…. Rigaud and Marika would probably be surprised. That thought put a smile on his face.
Timur turned the water off, got out of the shower cabin, put clean shorts on his wet hips, and sat down on the edge of the bed. What’s happening in the world? Hm, the province of Atral. The third castle’s been destroyed by a flock of dragons in the foothills of the mountains. The winged killers did not leave a single person alive. Baron von Strog died along with all his household members, servants, and guests in the mountain monastery. As for the monastery, by the way, not a single stone left on stone…. Looking up from the article, Timur looked at the map of the kingdom hanging on the wall. There were more than half a thousand leagues from the Baron von Strog’s castle of to the first one, Larno’s, destroyed a week ago. Kerr was far away.
Timur turned the page. There was an article in the center spread about the storming of Ronmir. He didn’t bother to read any further. The newspapers lie anyway….
***
The letters were blurring, dissolving, swimming, dancing around in a circle. The paragraphs lined up in even rectangles and attacked one another. Sparks from the explosions of large fortress chuckers flashed on the surface of the newspaper sheet. A morning fog ascended to the sky from all the blasts. The walls of Ronmir appeared before his eyes, breaking up the white cloud. There was fire everywhere, people rushing about among the charred ruins. Griffins, lined up in attacking formations, were plowing through the camp to their cawing, which was magically increased in volume for effect. Bits of the walls were flying from the fortress in every direction; tiles were whistling as they flew by, the heavy ceiling beams were hammering the pavement and the surviving rooftops. In a second, the fortress walls were overcome by an all-consuming flame. The red tongues of fire formed into a human-shaped figure. He knew this fire-person. The fire couldn’t change Nimir’s facial features. The first-in-saddle smiled sadly, extended his hand, and touched Timur on the shoulder:
“Timur, stop dozing!” he said, in Rigaud’s voice for some reason. “Wake up!”
Timur opened his eyes and stared at the voluntary “alarm clock,” uncomprehending. His heart was pounding, and his whole body was covered in a sticky sweat from the nightmare.
“Come on, it’s okay, wake up.” Marika then came into his line of sight. A thin, cool hand lay on his forehead. “It’s okay, it was just a dream.” Her spouse stood beside her, looking at his friend with a worried expression.
“What is it?” Timur asked. “You guys look so worried, I’m starting to worry too. What happened?”
“Your door wasn’t locked...,” Rigaud said, fidgeting with his bracelet. Apparently, it had become a new habit of his. “You never showed up this morning for training in the park. I didn’t know what to think. You’re always so punctual, and then you went missing….”
“Rigaud came running from the park, said you were missing. Well, we decided to pay you a visit, sorry we’re uninvited,” Marika continued instead of her husband. “The door wasn’t locked.” The young woman fell silent and looked cautiously at her host. Her nervous little fingers pulled at the skirt of her flowered dress. “You were just really groaning in your sleep and grinding your teeth, and I actually got the shivers at the sound of it.”
“Ronmir?” Rigaud asked quietly.
“Yes,” Timur answered. The two fellows glanced at one another with understanding and nodded. “Wait five minutes. I’ll hose off, and we’ll go get breakfast together.”
***
Marika was the first to notice something strange.
“Honey, what’s wrong? You’re as white as a sheet,” Rigaud said, hugging his wife around the waist and kissing her cheek.
“They hate me. They hate my guts,” Marika answered, shooting her eyes towards the company of girls located at the fountain. “But I can’t tell why.”
“Ahem…,” Timur coughed, following Marika’s gaze. He was met with the come-hither smiles of the school beauties. “Let’s beat it. I don’t like that kind of attention.”
When they reached the catering establishment, the friends occupied a table in the corner of the hall and called for the waitress. The rosy-cheeked girl who answered the call in a starched apron and cap rounded her eyes, gasped, and with lightning speed disappeared into the back room.
“Perhaps we should leave?” Marika whispered.
They didn’t have time to leave. The boss of the School cafeteria darted out from the back room and, waxing eloquent, started rushing around their table.
At his third lap, the odd fellow was caught by his wide belt by Timur, who had stood up from his chair.
“Sir, I’m getting dizzy from your running already,” he hissed angrily. Being the object of attention can be very psychologically distressing, especially when you don’t know why everyone is making a fuss over you. Timur wanted to say something else, but he suddenly held his tongue, letting go of the heavy cafe owner’s belt and going to a nearby stand on which a newspaper was lying. Picking it up, in complete silence, he skimmed the text, went back to the corner of the room, and threw the newspaper down on the table. Half the page of the “Kion Post” was filled with giant portraits of himself and Rigaud.
“Young heroes of Ronmir,” Marika read the headline. She grabbed the paper and dove into reading the article. “Boys,” she said after finishing, “you’ve been awarded the order of the ‘purple flame on a golden ribbon.’” The newspaper slid off the table and hit the floor. The fat cafe owner retreated into the kitchen, not turning his back on the honored guests. The “heroes of Ronmir,” shocked by the news, sat there slack-jawed, straight-backed as if they’d each just swallowed a short crowbar.
The Purple Flame Order was the second-highest and most democratic distinction of the kingdom, and it was awarded only for military exploits and merits. A member of any class could receive the Order—the army doesn’t divide people up by their origin—only they awarded them very rarely. The Golden Ribbon gave the recipient the right to inherit the title of count, along with all the ensuing consequences….
“Dear,” Rigaud said
, smiling, the stupid expression still on his face, “you married a poor baron, are you also going love a poor count?”
“Clown.” Her thin fingers lovingly touched the scars on the ribbon-bearer’s face.
“It can’t be, Rigaud, it can’t be!” Deep furrows appeared on Timur’s forehead.
“What are you talking about?”
“About this!” he tapped the newspaper with the toe of his boot.
“Timur, you shouldn’t be so distrustful!”
“Really? Just think. Really think. Rack your brains and put the facts together, what I told you. Has our news guy really stopped being able to analyze?”
“Targ!” Rigaud spit on the floor. “You really know how to rain on a guy’s parade. What’ll happen to us now?”
“I don’t know. Welcome to politics, my friend. We’re now bargaining chips, and I can’t say what kind of a little—or big—prize they’re going to trade us for.”
“You jerk,” Rigaud said without anger. In just those few minutes he had rather grown to like the Order and the title of count.
“Yep. But I can put you in a better mood: our food will be free today,” Timur answered, turning to the owner coming out of the kitchen. The girls who were going after the owner were dragging a mountain of snacks on trays. For breakfast, the company of heroes didn’t pay a jang….
Their portraits in the paper, a free breakfast, increased attention from women, the quiet envy of men… the goodies just kept coming. At the beginning of the third lesson, where a lecture was being given for the entire first year and the mages sent to the School to finish their studies, a man entered the artifactory magic hall in the uniform of a royal messenger, accompanied by the rector. Rigaud got an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach. Timur frowned and nudged his friend with his elbow: