Complete In the Service of Dragons

by William Robert Stanek

  “No, you both need your strength. Eat or I will spoon-feed you.”

  “Your voice—it sounds so familiar to me.”

  “Most probably, my friend.”

  “No, really.”

  “That’s probably because it is. Now you just eat and then close your eyes and return to sleep. The strength will return to you in a few days.”

  Lord Serant waited for the guard to approach and then began, “All dressed up and no place to go, no feed in hand, nor tree nor bush, nor blade of grass in sight. I long for the sun to shine upon my face, and a cool northerly breeze to blow upon my brow.”

  “Give it a rest! Do you want me to deny you food and water? How long do you think you can last without food and water? A week at most, I’ll wager.”

  “Once I see your captain and he sees how you have treated me, then you’ll be the one whistling a tale.”

  “If you were a king of some great land, I might be afraid, but for all I know you are a tired, worn mercenary that lost his way while guiding a couple of ladies. At least they are worth their weight measure.”

  “What if I am a king? What will you do then? Will you run and hide like the mongrel that you are?”

  “That is it. I will waste no more breath on you this day. Go sulk in the darkness.”

  Lord Serant heard a grate slide into place, and all light left his cell. He did not care if they denied him food and water for a time, for he knew that they would be forced to feed him again in due time. Damaged merchandise would not fetch a fair price.

  He had gleaned much more from the guard than the other knew. His conversations, though seemingly muddled, were pointed and led to the solutions to the riddles that roamed his mind through the many hours of silence that followed each such conversation. He knew where he was being held, and by whom. He knew where the others were being held, and he now knew that Calyin and Midori were amongst the prisoners their captors had taken. More importantly, he knew the sisters were alive.

  One question that had weighed heavily upon him, though, still lay unanswered. He still did not know how or by what route he had come here. A fog lay over patches of his mind. He recalled everything up to the encounter with the bandits, yet he was not among their kind. It was also obvious that his captors did not know who he was, which was most definitely to his advantage.

  In the dark, Serant surveyed his domain. The cell in which he was kept was small. He measured it at three paces by four. The walls were worn smooth. The ceiling was beyond his reach. Though he never caught a fair glimpse of it, he knew no shafts led into it. The sole source of air was from the door, where a faint breeze always blew.

  In one corner, many marks were scratched, single lines drawn carefully. Though he had never seen these in the light, he knew their count: three hundred and ninety-seven. Counting them was a ritual that occupied part of his daily routine. They served as a reminder to him to remember, or approximate, his own days of captivity. Thus far he had made seven marks in his own corner. He guessed that he had been held longer, but these were the seven that he could note for sure.

  This day he etched his eighth mark into the wall with a small piece of steel. The origin of the bit of metal he could not guess though he did think that it had been lying on the floor precisely where the former occupant had left it. Time had rusted its edges and dulled its point, but he had sharpened it and worked it in his hands until the last vestiges of the rust were gone.

  

  Nijal’s path led him, Shchander, and the others on an indirect roundabout course through the city but not immediately back to its entrance. Xith had, after all, told him to find the first inn at the edge of the city and take rooms there. Xith had not said which edge of the city, so he needed to explore all avenues.

  In all, Nijal summed up the city as less than he had imagined it to be. It did not have the grandeur of Solntse or the complexity of Zashchita. The streets were arranged in a simple series of avenues and byways that spread out from a central point, which was the market. The market was the one redeeming quality he found here. The city was otherwise unremarkable.

  Disappointment settled immediately in his thoughts. The song the minstrel had spun for him had led him to believe that the city was enormous and spread out across the horizon; in reality, it was compacted onto a simple highland plateau. His search ended at the foremost gates, his former energy depleted.

  Trailer sat upon the carriage in the coachman’s seat with two others at his side. Shalimar stood near the rear of the coach, head tucked down inside his hood and eyes closed. The first order of business was to rouse Adrina and Amir who were apparently still sleeping inside the coach and ready them for quick travel.

  Nijal made the mistake of choosing the door where Shalimar stood, and he quickly found a sharp blade at his throat as he attempted to open the door. Even with the edge of a knife pressed to his neck, Nijal managed a laugh. He clasped Shalimar on the shoulder, praising him for his speed.

  “I still wouldn’t do that, friend,” whispered the man.

  It was then that Nijal realized that there was an extra person in his count. He drew back warily, eyeing the hooded man. “Who are you?” demanded Nijal, reaching for his sword.

  “Whoa, whoa, slow down there. I mean you no harm. If I meant to harm you, I could have done that long ago. These fools would never have noticed.”

  “Just who are you calling fools!” shouted Trailer, jumping down from the seat.

  “Why you, of course, but I did not mean to spark anger. I meant it only as a statement of truth. It was obvious to me that this coach was missing a master, and I just waited until he returned. You are he, are you not?” said the man pointing to Nijal.

  Nijal nodded his head in agreement. “Good, good, then all is in order,” began the man, throwing back his hood as he spoke and stepped forward. “And if I guess the situation correctly, you seek passage somewhere. Am I right? Why of course I am. Why else would you have journeyed here? Let me get an eyeful of you. I would say you’re not from anywhere near. I would guess, the Kingdom. Am I right? Why of course I am. I am never wrong. I see your situation this way. You need passage on a ship, and I can get it for you. If the price is right, of course. You have money, don’t you, my friend? Nice coach, I might add.”

  “You are rather quick to speak about things you know nothing about. If I had a mind to be angry, I would be enraged at your pompousness.”

  “Whoa, whoa, I am not pompous, please. I did not mean to offend. Here, take this. I am Awn of the Guild. That coin will lead you to me if you ever have a mind. I know where you can get a fine ship—for the right sum of gold, of course. Bring it with you, and we will talk. I will leave now. Good day!”

  Confused, Nijal turned wide eyes to Shchander, who returned the gaze. Nijal considered the words, but then, giving up hope at understanding, he shrugged his shoulders and returned to more immediate matters. The horses were left at a stable that was close at hand. The stable master was quick to barter for their keep and their shoeing. He was also quick to chastise them for the condition of the mounts. “A good shoe and a good horse will take you a good distance, but a bad one with poor shoeing will only get you a lame horse.”

  Nijal understood the practice but endured the lesson. As the man continued on with his story, a journeyman began work on the first horse’s shoes, shaking his head with the same flicker of anger in his eyes towards Nijal as the stable master had. He muttered something low under his breath about those who should be saddled and ridden for a time to see how they liked to proceed in ill-fitting shoes. Nijal persevered, hoping still to get a fair price for the carriage as Xith had instructed him to do.

  He left the stable pleased with the sum he had obtained even after the charges had been deducted for shoe and keep. An inn lay just down the adjacent street and as Nijal was sure it was the one Xith had spoken of, he appropriated several rooms in it. He played with the small coin, obviously not made of gold or anything else of worth, which the stranger called
Awn had given him, contented to wait until Xith and Noman returned.

  Chapter Four

  A solitary hand clawed its way up onto the beach and soon a figure followed, struggling to stand upright, moving awkwardly through the swirling water about its knees and bearing a heavy load upon its shoulders. Pulling, holding on, the figure struggled against the forces of nature, dragging behind it a small craft and though wind, rain, and surf claimed the last of its strength, it stood gallant.

  Behind, yet a good distance off, a second craft made its way toward shore. The oarsmen grunted and groaned defiantly. It was not by chance or fate that they came upon the shore but by sheer determination and perseverance. In time, twelve stood where a full thirty should have, but thankfully not all were lost. Some had elected to remain at sea, and a few others would come after the return trip.

  Of the twelve, one stood out almost regally in her defiance of the storm. A curse sprang from her lips, and she meant it to be heard aloud. The group did not delay long upon the shore, quickly turning away from the sea, heading immediately into the midst of the camp, scarcely separated from the raging water.

  Jacob’s face went deadly pale as the faces appeared out of the shadows of the night. He could not find words to speak, and his eyes expressed the fear he was feeling. The twelve went first to the fire, removing water-soaked garments, warming frigid, swollen toes and hands. The fire was stoked and the chill swept from the air before any one of them turned to speak.

  “Cursed be this day! This storm is wholly unnatural. The water is rising upon the shore, almost reaching the first line of our camp. The ground is saturated, water flows across it as if we were sitting upon a great river. A curse on its creator.”

  “The Great-Father would not appreciate your curses upon the Mother, though I still welcome your return, my prince, and I think your curses are pardonable. Why have you returned? Where is Cagan?”

  “I am here, good father,” quietly murmured the elf, “but there are many others, many who are not—”

  “What happened? The ship?”

  “Yes, lost. You would not believe the strength of the storm. If it had not been for Captain Mikhal and Tsandra, we would have gone down with the ship.”

  “How many were lost?”

  “The count is not sure, but I believe we must turn to other matters before we grieve properly. However, a moment of silence is in order,” Valam reverently whispered the words into the thoughts of those present. It was with a heavy heart that he spoke the words of passing. He did not rejoice this day for those who had journeyed to the Father, only sorrow.

  Liyan was the first to break the quiet and return to the present. “Prince Valam is correct in his summation of this day’s occurrences. Brother Seth and I have debated long over this subject. We have felt this power before. The first time it came to us, we counted it as a work in the natural order of things, but facts have changed. This storm was created, not born of the Mother. A strong will is in opposition here. We are sure of it. You can be sure this storm was long in the creation. It did not happen by chance or suddenly. We are witnessing perhaps the toil of one’s life or many lives.

  “The forces could have been guided for many weeks or even months until they came to this point, gradually working up to the raging torrent we now endure. One thing you can be sure of is that the enemy is aware of your presence, has known, or has most probably seen us. Perhaps this is his way of acknowledging it. Our enemy knows many things, including the paths in the future. He has survived the dark path, and nothing holds secrets against him though we strive to.”

  “Brother Liyan, can we not fight the storm and send it back upon its master? Send those that created it scampering for cover, running back into the holes they emerged from!”

  “That is my wish, but first we must consider this. Prince Valam, you spoke well about the rising waters in the camp. We may find our own deaths here in this sinkhole. Water circles all around us, the earth shifts beneath it, perhaps the trap is already set. I can only hope that it is not.”

  Captain S’tryil stepped forward. “We have already tightened the circle of tents, moving them away from the water’s edge and the walls of the cliffs. The scouts to the north and south last reported that they can no longer make the journey along the paths leading from these shallows, even with rope and toil.”

  “This is not good. We must think clearly and act quickly.”

  

  Princess Calyin Alder glared at the barred door before her. She paced slowly in close circles around the tiny cell. She waited for a sound that she knew would begin far off and then grow closer. Time for her had stood still these last days. She knew not whether it was night or day, only that after a long wait a tray of food and water would be brought to her.

  Today, however, was different. She woke to find more than the necessities of food and water, and she had found a beautiful silk dress. A basin of water, clear and uncontaminated, had also been placed in the room. The food held a wonderful aroma and taste.

  She bathed in the basin, which, although small, had met her needs. The water was cool and caused her to shiver, but as she placed the dress across her shoulders, she warmed up. She wondered at the sudden change in her captors—or tormentors rather, as she thought of them.

  The hours passed slowly after she had bathed and eaten, and now she waited, growing increasingly agitated. “Were they playing another game with her for some pleasure unbeknownst to her?” she wondered. If so, it was a cruel game with evil intentions. Nevertheless, she waited, still pacing back and forth, waiting to hear a sound, the click of a key in a door that she knew was just at the end of a long hall though she could not see it, or the shuffle of feet against the hard stone floor.

  The sounds were all she had left, tiny shuffles and tiny clicks, for she never heard voices, not even when she was served. Not a word broke the guard’s lips, and after some time she had given up hope of it ever happening and had stopped speaking as well. Momentarily her eyes fell to the sole source of light, a lamp that burned ceaselessly just out of her reach. She had never seen anyone filling it though it was always full.

  Her thoughts wandered for a time to Midori, who had been with her when she was taken. She recalled her capture through shadows and unclear images, but she could not recall why. A tender spot high on her forehead still attested to her struggle though soon it would be gone, healed with time, much time.

  A faint echo far down the hall caused her to freeze. She strained her ears against the silence, but only silence returned. She passed the sound off as yet another phantom of her imagination. She hesitantly returned to her methodical pacing, content for the moment with only the thoughts flowing through her mind for a companion.

  Heavy on her mind was the whereabouts of her lord husband, Edwar Serant. She didn’t know how but she sensed that he was not dead, that he was near. She longed to feel his touch, to touch him in return—the warmth of his hand in hers, the feel of his lips on hers. She longed to see that rare smile, to know again a few private moments when the steel in his veins slipped away. It was in those moments that she knew the truth of life, love, and laughter.

  “Oh Edwar,” she whispered just to hear a voice spoken aloud and to know something other than silence. “What game do they play with us? Will we be together when it is done?”

  

  It was nighttime before Xith and Noman found their way beyond the Two Hands. Nijal offered his story of Awn and the ship he promised to acquire for their use, but at the time neither Xith nor Noman was in a mood to listen to it. Xith was clearly the more irritable of the two. As he not only told Nijal to shut up, but he snatched the coin from Nijal and retired without a word, muttering something to the effect of, “No-good thieves and heartless beggars.”

  Nijal considered Xith’s rash act long before he took the coin back from the shaman’s hands as he slept. He had plans of his own for this evening; it was too early to retire. With Shchander as his accomplice, he ventured out
into the city, finding little comfort in the gray shadows the night brought.

  Torches around the perimeter of the cliffs cast an eerie glow and cast odd shadows about, but they did not let it dampen their determination. Nijal stopped beneath a lamp in a doorway and took a close inspection of the coin on both sides. The front bore the outline of some figure; the face was worn, its outlines indecipherable. The back was a weapon perhaps, maybe a sickle, or so Nijal thought.

  The streets were not lively at night, which was not odd. They had been mostly deserted in the day although there were lit lanterns in many of the doors. The sound of laughter ahead drove them on, around a corner, across a street, and into an alleyway. They stopped, however, for no lamp or sign graced the door the sound carried them to. They waited in the dark of the alley, listening to singing and cheerful shouts.

  A pleasant memory held Nijal there lingering for a time, but Shchander was agitated and tapped his foot nervously. Dim areas brought him little joy and much discomfort. “Let us be off,” he whispered to Nijal, who did not listen to him, “let us be off quickly.”