by J. C. Staudt
“They came to call you Dragonmaster.”
“The most misleading of any title ever given me,” Darion said. “The crew of our ship were a band of fetid swamp-men from Desparr. It was they who gave me the name, not the holy men of Kriia. I bent a dragon to my will for a time, but only to save the monastery it threatened. I was young and headstrong then, and the consequences to my own mind were dire. I’ve always had a keen memory, but I’ve been prone to waking nightmares ever since. That’s not a thing I tell many people.”
“Why tell me now?”
“So you’re prepared for what lies ahead. A dragon can never be mastered, and anyone who knows dragons can vouch for that. The best you can hope for when dealing with a dragon is not to be tricked into its servitude. A dragon will make you believe you’ve found a friend, yet no swindler in all the world will grant you a friendship so false. When you’ve outlived your usefulness, you’ll make as good a meal as the heifer from the nearest farm—only you’ll be easier to catch.”
“I will consider that the next time a dragon offers me its friendship,” Jeebo said with a grin. “So tell me, Master Ulther. What does the faraway island of Kriia have to do with our trip to Keep Ulther?”
“Among my personal effects are several powerful devices I picked up during my adventures as a young man. I wish to retrieve them. Olyvard King stole the relics I brought with me to Maergath, so the ones remaining at the keep are all I have left. One of these devices in particular is the reason those swamp-rat sailors called me Dragonmaster. The wielder of the Dragon Horn possesses the power to call the closest of the great wyrms to himself as though the beast were docile as a trained dog.”
“A pet dragon,” Jeebo mused. “There are some who would use such a device for ill, I have no doubt.”
“The horn does not tame the creatures, nor give its wielder the power to control them. It only brings them near. Legends say the Dragon Horn has had a thousand owners. Each one who dared to blow it was eaten by the dragon they summoned.”
“Have you ever used it?”
“Only the once, in Kriia.”
“What will you do if you summon a dragon who happens to be hungry?”
“I hadn’t thought that far. First, we must find out whether the horn still resides at the keep.”
“This sounds an ill-fated wager to make with Lady Alynor’s life at stake. If you don’t mind me saying so, my lord.”
“Alynor is no more a lady than I am a lord, to hear her father tell it. Everything taken from me has been taken from her as well. The horn is a wager, yes. Going further south will put more distance between me and my wife. The only way I know to close that distance before it’s too late is to travel faster than these horses can carry us.”
Jeebo’s head snapped around to look at Darion. He blinked. “You mean to ride it? The dragon?”
“I mean to be carried by it—whether on its back or in its claws. The difference is moot so long as the beast bears me closer to my family.”
“Are such extreme measures necessary? The idea strikes me as…”
“Utter foolishness?”
“I meant to say desperate. But also… noble.”
Darion shook his head. “It’s folly, pure and simple. Had I returned but a little sooner…” He broke off.
“Regret will not get you back to her now. I am with you, small though our odds may be. Whether we ride the skies or perish in the mud; whatever our fate, we shall meet it together.”
Darion felt a wave of fondness for his friend, whom he was now thankful to have found again. I am not the noble one here, he thought.
The afternoon heat softened, and the sky blazed toward sunset. The going was slow with neither road nor river to break the tall grass, though they had the forest border to guide them westward toward the mountains. At nightfall they tamped down a circle of grass with a pair of heavy stumps and built a small fire near the edge of the trees. As they were beginning their meager supper of smoked venison and boiled red beans, there came a flapping of wings from overhead.
Jeebo was lifting the first bite of stringy meat toward his mouth when a bundle of brown feathers lit upon his shoulder and snatched the morsel from his hand. The mixed-blood gave a start and fell backward off his stump. The bird fluttered off a few paces and devoured its prize.
“Hyrana?” Jeebo said, sitting up on his elbows. “How did you get here?”
“Is this your bird?” Darion asked, watching the creature peck at pebbles on the ground.
“The one I was training for Lord Mirrowell, yes,” Jeebo said, dumbfounded.
“It seems he’s as fond of you as you are of him.”
“Her.”
“Right. Is it possible she followed you all the way here?”
“It would be far from the most amazing thing I’ve seen one of these birds do. Truly remarkable creatures. I only wonder how she escaped the aviary. Lord Mirrowell is very particular about the netting.”
“He’s lost birds before, I’ll wager. Standing perched on that codger’s glove for an afternoon’s hunt sounds like the most trying ordeal one might ever face.”
“I would not speak ill of Lord Mirrowell,” said Jeebo. “He accepted me into his household, though I did not deserve it.”
“He is my good-father, yet I cannot bring myself to love the man.”
“Nor must you. Though he is worthy of your respect, at the very least.”
“We’ve been together half a day, and already your good nature has painted me a villain.”
“You ought not be so quick to judge Lord Mirrowell in the same way,” said Jeebo. “It is possible Hyrana did not escape. Perhaps her master had a change of heart.”
Darion grunted a laugh. “He’d have to grow one first.”
Jeebo frowned. “Now you are being wholly unfair.”
“I don’t doubt the man loves his daughter,” Darion said, “but to leave her to the wilderness rather than risk taking her in? It’s absurd.”
“Lord Mirrowell put watchers everywhere he dared,” Jeebo said. He gestured toward the falcon. “A single bird seems a fair price to pay if it helps us find Alynor.”
Darion gave no reply. How the bird had found them didn’t matter. If Lord Mirrowell had set the bird free to find Jeebo, it was of little consequence now. Though if this falcon could somehow give Jeebo the eyes to find Alynor more quickly, Darion would consider it a small advantage. With time so critical, they needed every advantage they could muster.
By noon on the second day, trees were crowding the sinuous mountain pass while a haze of cloud cover blotted out the sky above, leaving Darion and Jeebo without indication of their progress. When Jeebo flew Hyrana, the bird returned with the cold west winds of a slow-moving stormfront in its feathers. Or so claimed Jeebo. The afternoon passed without incident, and that night they camped a distance off the road, bracing themselves for the storm they knew was coming.
They woke to a cold, rainy morning blanketed in fog, and pressed on despite their wet clothes and wet packs and wet horses. Rainclouds held the sun hostage that day, and for a time they traveled the canyon roads in darkness, amid mists so thick they seemed to swallow the path ahead in sightless gray.
Dusk had begun to settle in when Darion was startled by the scuff of boots in hard dirt behind him. He turned to see a pair of figures, hooded and cloaked, following them on foot. Jeebo yanked his reigns to halt his old cob. When Darion turned frontward, two more figures had emerged from the gloom to block their way. He halted his own horse and rested his elbow on the hilt of his sword, not daring take it in hand for fear of archers perched on the canyonsides.
“Get ye to the ground,” said one of the figures in front. “Off those horses.”
Darion and Jeebo traded glances. “What is it you want?”
“You ‘eard him. We wants you off your horses.”
“If you mean to rob us, I can assure you there’s no need. We have food and coin, and will gladly share both. We can build a fire to ward off the
cold, or take you to an apothecary for any sickness. Though our blankets are wet, you are welcome beneath them.”
The figure straightened. “Is that a proposition, old man?”
The others laughed.
Darion shook his head. “Only a kindness.”
“We didn’t ask for charity.”
“Yet why else would you steal from unsuspecting travelers unless you are in need?”
“It’s a trick,” said one of the figures behind them. “They’re armed and armored. This one’s got a sword on his back. They think us fools.”
“I know what it is to be cold and hungry,” Darion said. “To be desperate. There is too little goodness in this world. If you disagree with me, by all means we shall have it out. But I assure you, my companion and I have no desire to play you false.”
The two figures in front exchanged a look.
“We’re hungry,” someone behind blurted out. It was a woman’s voice, fairer than the others.
Darion turned as she lowered her hood. Wavy black hair, wet with rain, clung to high graceful cheekbones on a smooth pale-green face. Her skin darkened to a muddy brown around her pointed ears and slender, stunted nose. She stepped forward and clasped her hands. “Please. Help us.”
Jeebo lifted his brow in surprise. When he handed his reins to Darion and dismounted, Hyrana flapped her wings to keep her balance on his shoulder. “Who are you?” he asked, approaching the woman. “How have you come to find yourselves in such a state?”
The others lowered their hoods. They were mixed-bloods, like Jeebo, though they appeared to have more orc in them than he did.
“You’re Galyrian,” Darion said, suddenly aware. The southern lands were known for their mixed breeding. It was said that in all the thousand islands of Galyria there had not been born a single person of pure blood in over a hundred years. Darion doubted the truth of that, though the orc-kind standing before him served as fair evidence.
“Yes,” said the woman. “We’re from the islands. My name is Nara. This is Kalax, that’s Engrod, and that’s my husband Tanigar.”
“Are you adventurers?” Darion said with curious amusement.
“Refugees. Or fortune-seekers, depending on how you look at it.”
“We’re naught but simple laborers,” said the one called Kalax. “We come here looking for work. No one’ll take us. Ogre-scum, they call us. I haven’t a drop of ogre blood in my veins.”
“The people of the five realms still bear a hatred for Galyrians, thanks to the Ogrelord’s legacy,” Darion said.
“These folk round here think every Galyrian bows to that buggering halfwit. The islands ain’t all part of his kingdom. Most of us is free peoples, though the king don’t much like it that way.”
“Do I take that to mean there is a new Ogrelord in Galyria?”
“Aye, and worse than the old one, he is. But not to worry, good sirs. He’s had no plans to follow in the footsteps of his forbears, as I understand it.”
Darion found that a relief. The Korengadi invasion had softened the realms enough that any other invading force who made a play for the Dathiri throne might find greater success. “And your lot are not loyal to this new Ogrelord?”
“Not by half,” said Nara. “We couldn’t get away from him fast enough. Then we come here, and everyone treats us as if we’re his next of kin.”
“You must understand,” Darion said, “here in the realms, all who live within a king’s domain are subject to his lordship. A good king rules by his laws, and by the love and loyalty of his people. If this Ogrelord is anything like the last, he rules by fear alone.”
“That about sums it up,” said Tanigar.
Darion considered mentioning his role in the Ogre Wars; that Orynn King had once named him Trollslayer of the Sparleaf for his valor in battle. Though he sought common ground with these Galyrians, he doubted that was the way to find it. Their hatred of the Ogrelord didn’t preclude them from having close friends or relatives who’d fought for the opposing side. Yet if Darion had fought with the Galyrian forces like his old companion Triolyn had, he might’ve been just as reluctant. “What skills do you possess?”
“Tanigar is a blacksmith,” said Nara. “I do this and that; washing, sewing, seeding. Engrod is a carpenter; Kalax, a cobbler.”
“You do have very nice shoes,” said Jeebo.
Nara laughed. “Kalax is the best shoemaker there is. He made us all new boots before we sailed.”
“Is it just the four of you, then?”
“Seven. Urutar and his family are up there, watching over us.” Nara pointed toward the clifftop on their left. “He’s as fine a bowyer as you’ll ever meet.”
“And not half-bad an archer, neither,” said Tanigar.
“We shall have to thank him for sparing our backs his arrows,” Darion said.
“Mine’s sore enough as it is,” said Jeebo. “I haven’t ridden this long without a rest in years.”
“Where are you headed?” asked Nara.
Darion cast Jeebo a warning glance, then cleared his throat. “Jeebo here is a falconer for Lord Hallard Mirrowell of the Greenkeep. I am Enon Gerrard, his guide and protector, and this is his prized lady hawk, Hyrana. I’m accompanying them to Fenria Town on Lord Mirrowell’s behalf.”
“That’s haughty work,” said Tanigar.
“In times such as these, a man does what he must,” Darion said. “I am only sorry you did not come to the realms when times were better. The Korengadi invasion has been hard on all of us. We’re coming back from it, though.”
“I hope that is true,” said Tanigar. “I should like to live in a real village again someday. There are ogres in these mountains—and worse—and they’re not as friendly toward us as the people of Fenria Town seem to think.” He lifted his sleeve to show a trio of deep scars running down the side of his arm. “This is from our last encounter with ogres. Nara won’t speak of it, but there were ten of us when we set sail from Galyria. The fever got Yuzin. Ogres got Maige and Gamlun.”
Nara put a hand to her mouth. Her eyes glistened with tears.
“Let us speak of your fallen brethren no longer, then,” Darion said. “Tonight we will enjoy the warmth of a strong fire and the revelry of a good meal together as friends. I only wish I had more to offer you; there was a time when I might’ve found you work.”
“We looked in Fenria Town for work. You can guess how that went.”
“Though I can promise nothing, I do have an idea as to how I might help you.”
Chapter 12
The trees broke away beneath him, and the forest yielded to green fields soaked with rain and ripe with prey. Hunger gripped him, and with a beating of wings against the dark sky he climbed until the vastness of those storm-shadowed lands consumed the whole of his sight. Every movement, every breeze across the tips of the tall grass was his to witness.
A glint of brown fur flitted through the gap between two stones. Ristocule tucked his wings and dove, an arrow speeding toward its mark. His target was a fat round vole; a small meal for a bird of his size, but just now any morsel would do. Ristocule could sense the blood pumping through the rodent’s veins, taste the warm tender flesh, feel the bones snapping like twigs in his gullet.
Sir Jalleth surged into the falcon’s mind, and for a moment the bird’s vision went black. When his sight returned, Ristocule spread his wings and flung his talons forward. Before he could reach the scurrying vole, his feet met with something hard and cold half a fathom above the ground.
A cage, Sir Jalleth realized.
His body struck the frame, and he flapped sideways for balance. Lariats tightened around his toes and anchored him there. I must climb and strike again, thought the bird, though the man knew better. When he pumped his wings to rise, the lariats cinched tighter. His legs stretched beneath him, joints pulling against the lift. He was seized; try as he may, he could not take flight.
This was the way it was in Ristocule’s mind; day and night, man and bird fough
t one another in an endless cycle. For years since the man had entered his body, the bird’s strikes had fallen errant. Had Ristocule the capability to offer a curse, he would’ve blasphemed the man for his intrusion. There were times when he awoke with no memory of recent days, and just as many when Sir Jalleth grew too weary to fight and let the bird resume control. Now their constant quibbling had ensnared them both for the second time. Their first trap had been Jeebo’s. He’d proved a kind enough servant, but the bird’s heart longed for the freedom of the wild skies.
Ristocule struggled, but the cage would not budge. Finally he settled down to watch the voles scurry beneath him until it grew dark. All night he waited there while the rain beat down, eyes fixed on the tiny rodents whose taste he craved so badly. It was early morning when he heard the whisper of approaching footsteps through the grass.
A boy loomed behind him, short and gap-toothed, with a round pink face and cheeks as bald as a baby’s. He shouted over his shoulder. “We catch’d us a live one, Bosco.”
Another boy came running, short as the first and twice as large around the belt. His eyes grew wide at the sight. “We done it, Marsh. It worked. I never see’d a raptor ‘alf so big as this one. Nor as white. He looks like a great snowbird from the north, with brown pepper sprinkled on his breast feathers. Do you reckon he fly’d all this way from the Whitebranch?”
“I reckon I know about as much as you do where it come’d from, Bosco. All I know is the Drelvings is eating well from now on. After we learn us how to train it, that is.”
“I want to help you train him,” Bosco said. “Can I? Can I?”
“Pipe down, you lout. You’re startling it with all your yammering. Give me a hand pulling it off the snare. Then we’ll talk about training it.”
“Yeah. You got it, Marsh. I’ll be quiet.”
“Right. Where’s the hood I give’d you this morning?”
“Uh…” The fat boy called Bosco fumbled around in his pockets.
“The one I tell’d you not to lose,” Marsh said irritably.
“Here. Here it is. I have it. I have it.” Bosco handed Marsh a small leather pouch with hanging straps and a triangular opening at the font.