The Dragon's Shadow

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Ah, duty calls,” said Mattias. “I must say, it was a pleasure speaking with you. It is good to know that someone survived the carnage at Deep Creek.”

  “You as well,” said Gerald. Mazael nodded.

  Mattias Comorian hopped back onto the stage and strummed the strings of his harp. “Let us make merry, my friends, for the past is gone and the future is dark, and all we have is today!” He pointed into the crowd. “You sir, you have a drum, and you, yes, you with the lute. Come up here, my friends, and let us make music for dancing!” The two men climbed onto the stage. Men shoved aside tables and chairs to make room. Mazael saw a good number of peasant girls from the local farms. The girls eyed the mercenaries, the mercenaries eyed the girls, and Mazael supposed that many of the girls would lose their virtue tonight in the grass behind the inn or in the hay of the stables. He hoped they stayed away from his horses.

  Mattias and his conscripted musicians struck up a lively tune. The drunken mercenaries and the farm girls began to dance. Gerald looked intrigued, to Mazael's surprise. The pious knight rarely enjoyed himself. Perhaps tonight would become a first.

  “I say, Mazael, I believe I will indulge,” said Gerald. He stood and frowned. “Aren’t you coming?”

  Mazael waved a hand at him. “Go. I think I will retire early.”

  Gerald laughed. “You’re joking. You were so eager to find a whore earlier. You might not need to. That girl, the one with the brown eyes? She has been staring at you since she came in.”

  “Maybe later,” said Mazael. Gerald shrugged and joined the dance, Wesson following his master.

  Mazael finished his ale and felt the drink warm his insides. For a moment he considered joining the dance, perhaps finding a willing girl for later, but brushed the notion aside. He felt tired and sick. Maybe the food had been bad. If so, the innkeeper would regret it.

  Mazael climbed the stairs, leaving the dance behind, and pushed open the door to their room. Wesson had piled their armor and supplies in the corner, and a single narrow bed rested under the window.

  He shut the door behind him, undid his sword belt, and claimed the bed. Gerald and Wesson could have the floor.

  “See, Gerald?” he muttered. “You’re right. There are rewards for virtue. I get the bed and you don’t.”

  2

  Mazael Meets Sir Tanam Crowley

  Mazael open his eyes, saw the sun's first rays painting the wall. Wesson lay on the floor, snoring. There was no sign of Gerald. Perhaps Lord Malden’s youngest son had overcome his inhibitions.

  Mazael found the chamber pot, relieved himself, and pulled on his boots. Then he picked up his sword belt and buckled it about his waist. A small mirror hung on the wall over the bed, and Mazael drew his sword and stared into the mirror.

  Sunlight glimmered off the razor edge of his blade and danced off the golden hilt. The sword’s pommel was a golden lion’s head with ruby eyes and a roaring mouth. For four years now, Mazael had carried this blade, after Sir Commander Aeternis of the Knights Dominiar had offered it up in surrender. Mazael had named it Lion and carried it at his side ever since.

  Mazael sheathed the blade and tapped the squire with his boot. “Get our armor and supplies ready. I want to leave within the hour. I’ll find Sir Gerald.” Wesson sighed and got to work.

  Mazael stepped out into the hall, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots, but otherwise the inn was quiet. No doubt the mercenaries were sleeping off hangovers. A man lay facedown in the hallway, snoring, his trousers gone.

  “Watch for splinters, friend,” muttered Mazael.

  He found Gerald sprawled in a bed three rooms over, tangled with the blankets. No one was with him, so far as Mazael could see. Mazael shook Gerald’s shoulder. Mazael shook his shoulder, and when Gerald did not respond, he reached down and pinched the younger knight's nose shut.

  Gerald came awake with a snort. “Gods, what ...blast it all, Mazael, how many times have I asked you not to do that?”

  “You sleep like a stone,” said Mazael. He grinned. “What did I tell you, when you were a squire? Sleep too deeply, and someone might make sure you never wake.”

  Gerald didn’t answer. He rubbed his eyes, groaning. “Ah, the light! And my head!” His eyes bulged and he sat bolt upright. “Where ...my clothes ...oh, gods in heaven, what did I do?”

  “Had a good time, from the looks of things,” said Mazael.

  “I don’t remember!” said Gerald.

  “A ripping good time, then,” said Mazael.

  “I have sinned!” said Gerald. “I have dishonored myself...I could have deflowered some virtuous young maid...oh, I must do penance...”

  “I doubt it,” said Mazael. “You get weepy when you’re drunk, not lecherous. Now get up, get dressed, and get your gear. I want to get over the Northwater bridge and past the village of White Rock today.”

  Gerald nodded and climbed out of bed. “I shall never drink so much again.”

  “It’s usually a good idea to stop after a while,” said Mazael.

  “I shall take a vow to abstain from spirits for the rest of my days!”

  “Don’t overdo it.”

  Mazael returned to his room and looked out the window. It faced to the east, and he saw the steep gully of the Northwater. A wide wooden bridge crossed the river here, the only crossing for a day in either direction.

  The perfect spot for an ambush, come to think of it.

  “Help me with my armor, Wesson,” said Mazael.

  Mazael wore light armor for a knight. He could move much faster than most men, and heavy armor only slowed him down. He wore a mail hauberk with a breastplate that had seen much use, steel plates for his shoulders, bracers for his forearms, and leather gauntlets backed wth steel disks. His helmet was the style used by the foot soldiers of ancient Tristafel, with an open face and metal flaps to protect the ears and jaw.

  Gerald came in as Mazael redid his sword belt. Despite his hangover, Gerald had managed to shave, trim his mustache, and style his hair. “You’re armoring yourself? Why?”

  Mazael hefted a heavy war hammer with a black steel head and an oaken haft. He had taken the hammer from a dead Knight Dominiar after Sir Commander Aeternis’s defeat. Sharp as it was, Lion could not cut through solid steel plate. The Mastarian hammer did an admirable job of crushing armor and smashing bone in one solid swing.

  “Caution,” Mazael said. He slung the hammer over his shoulder. “With all these mercenaries streaming towards Castle Cravenlock, more than a few might decide to go bandit.”

  “True,” said Sir Gerald. “Wesson! My armor!”

  Unlike Mazael’s battle-scarred armor, Gerald’s armor gleamed with a mirror shine. Gerald wore a steel breastplate and chain hauberk, a mail coif, and a conical helm. Gauntlets of steel plate protected his hands, and he attached steel greaves to his legs. Over his armor he wore a blue surcoat with the gray greathelm sigil of the Rolands. His sword, a dagger, and a mace crowned with the greathelm of Roland hung from his belt. Wesson received the unenviable task of carrying Sir Gerald’s heavy oak shield.

  “I say, you should fight with a shield,” said Gerald.

  “Slows you down,” said Mazael. He glanced out the window.

  “Yes, but better to be slow than dead. Sooner or later, some screaming fool will come at you with an axe. What will you do then?” Gerald frowned. “Mazael, what are you looking at?”

  A great plume of dust rose to the east. After a moment, he saw a column of riders cross the bridge - thirty of them, at least. The lead rider carried a banner, and a woman shared his saddle.

  “Riders,” Mazael said. “They’re coming this way.”

  “Those are armored lancers,” said Gerald, and his eyes widened. “That’s the Dragonslayer’s banner.”

  The banner of the Mandragons, a black dragon on a red background, flapped from the lead rider’s lance. Beneath it flew a smaller banner, depicting a crow perched on a gray rock against a field of green.

  “And
that's Sir Tanam Crowley's banner,” said Mazael. The lead riders thundered into the inn’s courtyard and reined up, sweat lathering their horses.

  “What do you suppose they’re doing here?” said Gerald. “And at this hour in the morning? From the look of those horses, they must have been riding all night!”

  Mazael spotted Sir Tanam as the knight slid off his horse. His narrow features and long nose had earned him the nickname “the Old Crow”. Two of Crowley's men lifted the woman from the saddle. She wore an elegant riding gown, yet her wrists had been bound and a hood pulled over her face.

  “I suspect a great many of our questions will be answered in the next few minutes,” said Gerald.

  “Take off your surcoat,” said Mazael.

  “What?”

  “Do it!” said Mazael. “That prisoner has the look of a noblewoman. If Lord Richard sent the Old Crow to kidnap her, what do you think he'll do with one of Malden Roland's sons?”

  Gerald nodded, pulled off his surcoat, and kicked it under the bed. Mazael heard the door to the inn bang open, followed by heavy footsteps thudding up the stairs. His hand curled around Lion’s hilt. “We may need to make a run for it.”

  A moment later an armored man, wearing a surcoat quartered with the black dragon of Mandragon and the crow of Crowley, peered into their room. “If you’re fighting men, make your way to the common room at once. Sir Tanam Crowley is hiring, and you’ll have the chance to make some gold.”

  Mazael and Gerald nodded. The armsman moved down the hall, banging on doors and awakening slumbering mercenaries.

  “Maybe that’s why Sir Tanam is here,” said Mazael, striding into the hall. “Perhaps Lord Richard sent him to hire away all of Lord Mitor’s mercenaries.”

  “He could do it,” said Gerald. “Not a day passes without Father complaining about the Mandragons' gold.”

  A half-dozen sleepy mercenaries stomped past, a pair of Crowley armsmen herding them down the stairs. Mazael waited until they had passed, then gestured for Gerald and Wesson to follow him. They stopped on the landing of the stairs, overlooking the common room.

  A dozen armsmen waited in the common room with as many mercenaries. Sir Tanam stood on a table, rubbing his thin nose. He had taken off his helmet, and Mazael could have killed him with a thrown dagger to the throat. Crowley’s prisoner stood behind him, two men holding her arms.

  “Roger, is this all?” said Sir Tanam, his voice clipped and precise.

  “Aye, sir, it is,” said a soldier.

  “Very well, then,” said Tanam. He cleared his throat. “I am Sir Tanam Crowley of Crows’ Rock, vassal to Lord Richard Mandragon of Swordgrim.”

  Bleary-eyed silence answered this pronouncement. Mazael leaned forward, trying to see under the prisoner’s hood.

  Tanam grimaced. “Lord Richard has commanded that I make for Swordgrim with all haste, and I ask for your assistance.”

  The mercenaries stared at him.

  Tanam cleared his throat. “Paid assistance.”

  The mercenaries smiled.

  “The Mandragons are generous to those that serve them well,” said Sir Tanam. “Every man who joins me will receive three silver pieces. Every man who completes the journey to Swordgrim will receive three gold pieces.”

  The mercenaries’ smiles widened, and the armsmen moved closer to Sir Tanam. The guards holding the woman shifted, turning her face towards the stairs. Mazael moved to the left, trying to see into the hood.

  “We will journey with haste,” said Tanam. “I must deliver this prisoner to Swordgrim with all speed so she may face my lord’s justice. We may come under attack.”

  Mazael leaned over the railing to get a better look at this prisoner destined for Lord Richard’s judgment.

  The green eyes of Rachel Cravenlock, his younger sister, stared back at him from beneath the hood.

  Her eyes widened as she recognized him.

  Mazael jolted back from the railing. Through sheer will he kept his hand from flying to his sword.

  “What is it?” whispered Gerald.

  “My sister,” hissed Mazael, his voice grating. “The damn bastard has my sister.”

  “Your sister?” said Gerald. “Gods, Mazael...Crowley must have kidnapped her from Castle Cravenlock. Mazael, for the love of the gods, don’t do anything foolish...”

  “Just follow me,” said Mazael. He put one foot on the railing. “Sir Tanam!”

  Sir Tanam looked up. “Three silvers are all I’m offering for hire. The gold will have to wait until we reach Swordgrim.”

  “A question, sir knight!” said Mazael. “What crimes has your prisoner committed?”

  Sir Tanam’s face darkened. “She has committed crimes against the laws of both gods and men. She has done witchcraft and practiced sorcery. Her family has ...well, regardless to say, she has well-earned her fate. Might I ask, who are you? You have the look of a knight about you. A knight-errant, perhaps?”

  Mazael grinned. “Not quite. I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock. This is Sir Gerald Roland.” Gerald groaned.

  Tanam’s eyes widened. “Mazael...Cravenlock? I thought you were still in Knightcastle.” He shook his head. “Well, here you are, and for the welfare of the Grim Marches, I think you had best come with us. Sir Gerald, as well. My lord Richard would much like to speak with you.”

  “I think not,” said Mazael. His blood drummed in his head, his battle instincts rising. “For your welfare you had best release my sister to my custody and go on your way.”

  Tanam seemed amused. “Really, now?”

  “Last chance,” said Mazael. “Let her go.”

  “No,” said Tanam. “Come with us.”

  “I did warn you,” said Mazael.

  Lion flew from its scabbard. Mazael vaulted over the railing and landed in the midst of the Crowley soldiers, his sword blurring. Two men fell dead before they had even thought to draw their weapons. He heard Gerald’s groaned curse and the hiss of his drawn sword. Crowley’s men shouted and scrabbled for their weapons, while Sir Tanam himself bellowed commands and drew an axe from over his shoulder. The innkeeper shrieked and dove under a table, and Gerald leapt over the railing, sword and shield in hand.

  Mazael drove Lion through the eye slit of a helm. The man-at-arms staggered and fell, blood gushing out of his mouth. Mazael spun and parried two quick blows, riposted, and another Crowley armsman fell dead. Blood ran red down Lion’s steel blade. Mazael danced through Crowley’s men, laughing. They all seemed to have lead weights tied about their arms and legs. Lion felt like a part of his arm, and the blood roared through his body as he sidestepped a thrust and took off an armsman's head.

  It was so easy to kill them.

  Someone hit him from behind with a sword. The blade didn’t penetrate Mazael’s armor, and he used the blow for momentum. He bashed aside one man, gutted another, jumped, and landed face to face with Sir Tanam Crowley. Sir Tanam raised his axe, and Mazael jerked his sword up, bashing the lion's head pommel across Tanam's face. The knight fell like a dead horse, his armor clanging against the floor. The armsmen holding Rachel leapt to defend their master. Mazael killed one, wounded the other, and severed the ties holding Rachel’s hands with a single slash. She looked at him, green eyes wide, a thousand questions on her face.

  “Can you run?” said Mazael.

  Rachel nodded. “What...”

  “Gerald!” bellowed Mazael. “Let’s go!”

  Gerald ran for the door, Wesson at his heels. “By all the gods of all the heavens,” yelled Gerald. “I swear, man, you are a lunatic!” His shield had been hacked to kindling and his shiny armor bore a half-dozen scars.

  Mazael laughed and kicked down the door. A half-dozen of Sir Tanam’s irate men charged after them.

  The morning sun shone bright in the courtyard. A dozen more of Sir Tanam’s men sat on their horses, their expressions tense and anxious. They scowled at the sight of Mazael, hands flying to their weapons.

  “We’re under attack!” said Mazael as
he ran for the stables. “The Cravenlocks! The Cravenlocks came through the back of the inn!”

  The horsemen galloped towards the door just as Crowley’s other men burst out. They tangled together in a confused mass as Mazael, Gerald, Wesson, and Rachel ran into the stables, hastening to saddle the horses.

  “Rachel, take my palfrey,” said Mazael, vaulting into the saddle of his war horse, an ill-tempered brute named Chariot. Gerald helped Rachel into the saddle, and then mounted his own war horse, while Wesson claimed Sir Gerald’s palfrey.

  “What if they try to stop us?” said Gerald.

  “Ride them down,” said Mazael. Sword in one hand and hammer in the other, Mazael spurred Chariot forward. The big stallion whinnied and burst out of the stable.

  Mazael heard Sir Tanam shouting, and armsmen raced towards them. Mazael hit one on the head with his hammer, while Chariot bit a second in the face. He heard the clang of Gerald’s sword and a man’s scream. Then they were through the inn's palisade, riding hard for the Northwater bridge.

  Dust churned beneath their horses’ hooves, and soon the long wooden Northwater bridge came into sight. A trio of riders waited on the bridge next to a pot of burning coals and a bundle of unlit torches. Each of the rides wore armor and bore a heavy war lance. Beneath the bridge the Northwater raged in a swirl of white foam.

  “They’re going to burn the bridge!” shouted Mazael. “Ride!” He kicked Chariot to a gallop, the horse thundering forward. The riders on the bridge wheeled and dropped their lances for a charge. Mazael slung the hammer over his shoulder and snapped Chariot’s reins. A pair of the lancers made for Gerald, while one rode for Mazael.

  Mazael stood up in the saddle, the lancer raising his weapon in response. At the last second, Mazael jumped off Chariot's side. He tucked his shoulder and rolled as he hit the ground, his armor rattling. The lancer reined up, attempting to swing around to attack, but Mazael surged to his feet, Lion's hilt in both hands, and swung. The longsword hewed the horse’s leg like wood, and the big animal went down with a scream. The lancer flew from his saddle and struck the ground, his armor clattering with the impact. Mazael was on him in an instant, his sword stabbing down for a gap in the armor.