The Royal Dragoneers (Dragoneers Saga)

by Mathias, M. R.

  “Come on, man,” Jenka pleaded. “This is urgent business. Herald’ll have your hide. I swear it. I know you don’t understand it, but I had a dream about the prince. I know where he is, they have to know. He’s in grave danger.”

  “Fall off, man,” the guard grumbled. “That King’s Ranger will be here soon enough. It’s near dawn. The morning tide rolls out soon after, and since they ordered all the able-bodied men to the mainland, he'll be leavin’ with ‘em. He’s supposed to come around before they shove off!” The guard scooted his wooden stool back loudly, then came over and clanged an empty piss pot against Jenka’s door for a few long moments. The sound was unbearably loud.

  “Now you shove off, ‘cause if you don’t let me sleep I’ll just keep a-banging.” With that, the obstinate man slammed the little food slot and pinned it fast, leaving Jenka in total darkness.

  Jenka dropped to the floor, lay on his back before his door, and started mule kicking it with everything he had. The sound was ear shattering, both inside his cell and out in the larger stone room where the guard was stationed. The guard grew angry and went into a rage of his own, hammering the outside of Jenka’s door with the piss pot while Jenka kicked with all his might from the inside. They went on like that for quite a while, but Jenka started to tire. Then the piss pot pounding suddenly stopped and Jenka heard the guard speaking sharply to someone that had arrived.

  “Who in all the fargin hells are you?” the now furious man asked, through clenched teeth. “What businesses do you have dow … ” His voice stopped mid-word.

  There was a bit of scuffling and the sound of rattling keys. The outer door to the cell block came open. Jenka had heard the sounds of the dungeon so many times now that he knew what every squeaking hinge or groaning bit of metal was connected to. A feminine snort, the sound of a disgusted old woman, came to his ears. There was a long, suspenseful moment of silence before Jenka started calling out that he needed to see the king or the queen immediately.

  The piss pot clanged on the door again, but only three sharp raps. In the silence that followed, the slot was unpinned and thrown open. An old woman peeked a bloodshot eye into the cell, but her head blocked what little light managed to find the interior. She cursed herself then pulled herself back a bit so that she could see.

  “Is that you, De Swasso?” she asked. “I suppose it is, with all that pounding.”

  “Who are you? I need to speak to the king or the queen immediately.”

  “No you don’t,” she snapped. “You need to shut your grub-hole like that fool guard said and listen to me.” When Jenka held his tongue, she continued. “You’re wormy, boy. I knew you would be when you was get.”

  “What?” Jenka asked incredulously. He didn’t have time for this nonsense, and he started to say so. But when he got to the door to look out, he saw a look in her eyes that suggested that her words might have some merit. As hard as it was for Jenka to hold his mouth still, he did so.

  “You was a wiggler when you was born. It’s one of the few things I remember well,” she said conversationally. “But that’s neither here nor there. You know where it is, Jenka. I know you know. I have to have it. We’ll need it when the Time of Confliction rolls round.”

  “What are you talking about, crone?” He had heard that phrase, “Time of Confliction” before, but at the moment, he couldn’t remember where, nor did he care. “I need to see the king.”

  “Lisssten,” she hissed. The way her “S” hung long made him think of Jade, and he bit his tongue yet again.

  “I am an old woman. My name is Mysterian, and you should hold yourself still while I unfurl my mind, or this could take all day.”

  Jenka recognized the name immediately. Had he not just witnessed a battle between dragons and their powerful High Magic in his mind’s eye, he might have shied away from the old Hazeltine Witch who had trained his mother. Supposedly this woman was part elvish, like Lem and Zahrellion. Jenka’s mother had told him that she was the oldest of the old, whatever that meant. Either way, he knew her reputation warranted his respect. He would give it to her, but only after she answered the most important question that came to his mind.

  “Is she alive?” His face pressed so tightly against his door that it was painful. “Do you know anything about my mother?”

  “Nay,” she shook her head, sadly. “But as important as that seems, it, too, is neither here nor there. What matters is whether you will do my bidding.”

  “What?”

  “Listen, boy! I am old, and my mind wanders. Just sit still, and it will all work its way out of me.”

  Jenka let out a long, frustrated sigh and started pacing his cell. He felt as if he might burst into a thousand crawling pieces of worry. Prince Richard had been taken by Gravelbone, and Zah had been taken by her fellow druids, and this conversation was maddening. After a few moments, he went back to the slot and would have bumped the old witch in the head had the door not been there.

  “I’ll help you out of here and on your way if you’ll go fetch that tear,” she whispered.

  “What tear?” Jenka was fed up. This made no sense at all.

  “Husssh,” she hissed. A spark of warning flashed in her eyes. It was a glinting hint at her own frustration, and it kept Jenka from voicing his annoyance. “If you’ll swear to go get that mighty emerald dragon’s tear, then I will let you out of here. We will use its vast power to kill the Goblin King, and his hellwyrm too, but when that deed is done, the tear is mine.”

  How she could have known that he had watched Jade’s mamra cry that tear in a vision was beyond him, but her offer was one that he didn’t think he could refuse. He didn’t have any idea of the powerful magic contained in that little amber droplet. If he had, he might have thought better of giving his oath to turn it over to her. But at the moment, he didn’t care what use she had for such a thing. If it could help him kill Gravelbone and the nightshade, then he would use it. If he succeeded in ridding the land of the demon and his wyrm, then giving the thing to the witch seemed only fair. Old witches often collected all sorts of odd substances. His mother had kept a jar of fresh bear scat by the teapot.

  “I’ll do it,” Jenka nodded. “But I need a place to hide until my dragon gets here.”

  “Swear an oath,” she demanded.

  Jenka glared at her. His mother had taught him that an oath-breaker was the worst of things to be, and to be wary of giving his solemn word to anyone. After a long moment, he sighed. “I swear that I’ll retrieve the mighty emerald's tear for you, Mysterian. I swear it by the name De Swasso.”

  It was a formal oath that he had heard his mother force several people to swear over the years, and it seemed to please Mysterian that he had worded it correctly.

  She cackled out delightfully, as if the world that Jenka knew weren't hanging in the balance. “I knew you was wormy, De Swasso. I knew it since the day you was get!”

  The rattling of keys resounded, and the heavy steel door creaked open, revealing the hunched old crone and the unconscious dungeon guard lying still on the filthy floor. The only thing more relieving than being free was the blast of relatively fresh air that wafted over him and filled his lungs with hope.

  He didn’t even notice the way the old witch cringed and fought to hold down her gorge at the smell of him.

  Part III

  High Magic

  Chapter Twenty

  Though she could have passed for a maiden of twelve and was as smart as an old crone, Zahrellion was only nineteen years old. She had lived at the Druidom since birth. One of her direct ancestors had helped found the Order of Dou, which was the little-used official name of the sect. He had been instrumental in getting King Ferdok to grant them amnesty from the kingdom and its laws, so that they could research the powers of the arcane. Ideally, the sect wouldn’t have had to build their temple up in the lower peaks, but the good folk of the kingdom would have been appalled at some of the things they had been attempting with their unique forms of High Magic,
so it was for the better all the way around.

  Zahrellion’s ancestor, one Grock Visium, had been a powerful practitioner of all things arcane. His specialty was item enchantment. He had spent the waking hours of his life studying, practicing, and creating ways to instill ordinary objects with power and purpose. One of the items he had created was known as the dampening hood. It was a velvety, drawstring bag, made to put over the heads of the rogue Outland pirates that were the terror of the seas back in the earlier days of the settling. Those bold and brazen outlaws, and a few of their women, often knew enough sea sorcery to cause trouble even after they were captured. The material that Grock Visium’s dampening hood was made of had been enchanted so that it interfered with the brain activity and the voice of the person put under it. Without the ability to speak the proper words or think clearly, there could be no spell casting or walking the ethereal. It was a very effective way to transport a prisoner with the ability to muster the power of the arcane. It was a bitter irony when Zahrellion found herself staring at the inside of her great grandfather's device. Comparatively gentle hands led her down a long wooden dock to board a sea ship as if she were some old pirate’s filthy ship witch.

  The smell of brine was in the air, but it had a hard time reaching her nose. The gulls were calling out crazily around her and her escorts. Underneath the frantic, cawing tirade was the slow, but steady, repeating whoosh of the ocean’s waves rolling past the wooden support columns, and the clomping of their boots on the plank-wood pier. Under the steamy hood, Zah was going mad with worry, and she was more than a little bit angry. After several days in the dungeons, she still hadn’t been given an opportunity to bathe herself properly. Inside the hood, her breath was so vile that it was suffocating her. Frunien, the druid who had come for her, and the four Dourga attendants he had brought along to help escort her away from King’s Island were all deaf to her pleadings. Frunien actually sympathized with her, but he wasn’t about to remove the hood, at least not until they were well at sea.

  They sat at harbor for far longer than anyone had expected. All the while, Zahrellion sobbed pitifully about her uncleanly state and her hunger. Truthfully, she was no bawling little girl. She was just trying to gain Frunien’s sympathy by acting as one. Finally, the anchor chain was cranked up. Zah couldn’t see them, but she could tell by the noise that there were quite a few ships setting sail together. A cacophony of rattling metal links, shouting sailors, and the pounding of oar drums filled the air, as they eased out of Kingston’s harbor and made for the open sea. After that, Frunien’s will broke quickly enough.

  He ordered one of the Dourga to fetch a platter of fruit from the galley. The ship they had chartered was a fleet little sloop, and they were its only cargo. It was as plush as any in the Royal Line, and since its holds contained only ballast stones, Frunien had it stocked with fruit and a few other delicate staples. They weren’t going to Port with the other ships, so it was going to be a fairly long journey. They were going east to skirt the entire mainland peninsula so that they could then head north and put in somewhere up in the Cut near the eastern foothills.

  “Zahrellion, I’m going to remove the hood now. Do not do anything foolish.” Her older peer explained that there was a copper tub filled with warm water and fresh robes waiting in a private chamber below. “Here comes a platter of fresh fruit as we speak.” He started to fumble the drawstring loose, but hesitated. “Will you promise not to lash out?”

  “I’ll not do anything,” she started.

  He made the mistake of assuming that she had finished speaking, for as he pulled the hood from her tangled, white rat-nest of hair he heard the rest of her words.

  “ … of the sort!”

  She went straight to the Dourga who was bringing the fruit and greedily savaged not one, but two juicy, purple plums. The succulent liquid dripped off her chin and ran down her arms as she relished the slightly tart flavor of them. After she swallowed the fruit, she breathed deeply of the fresh salty air and took a moment to marvel at the small cloud of gulls that had followed them out to sea. Off behind them, like a cluster of floating geese, she saw the flotilla that was sailing to Port. She immediately understood why they were moving away from the other vessels. This ship was headed away from the confrontation, not toward it. Her anger washed over the relief she was feeling like some rogue tidal wave. She turned her attention on Frunien then, snatching the dampening hood from him to wipe her hands on it.

  “I’ll ask this only once,” her eyes had suddenly grown fierce, and her tattooed brow dove into a sharp, angry V-shape. “Who ordered you to use my grandfather’s hood on me?”

  Frunien had backed up tightly against the ship’s rail, and a few of the sailors who were up in the rigging laughed at him. They choked off their mirth when Zah gave them a quick glare. She wiped the plum juice from her face with the hood and then turned to face down her fellow druid again. As quick as a lightning strike, he was under the hood himself.

  “No, Zah, please! No,” he pleaded through the soft, suede material. His hands went up to his neck, but stopped several inches before they could grasp the drawstring. It was one of the qualities of the hood. It wouldn’t be effective if the wearer could unfasten and remove it themselves. “Take it off, Zahrellion. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  “I don’t hear you telling me who ordered you to do it, Frune. We are supposed to be an order of peers. We are sworn to preserve each other's dignity and act as brethren, to care for our fellow man with a loyalty only equaled by a mother’s love for her own. Explain to me where this act is dignified or caring. I haven’t bathed in more than a week, you fargin bastard!”

  “I, uh ... ” the trembling man started, but stopped himself, because he almost toppled over the side of the swiftly moving ship. The sailors were laughing again, and riotously. One of the Dourga guards chuckled too.

  “Speak up, or you are going into the sea!” Zah threatened. Not even she knew if she was bluffing, and no one on board dared make a move to stop her.

  “Linux told me to do it,” he sobbed then, as if he had just betrayed a dear friend. Zahrellion sensed the emotion, and it caused her temper to explode.

  “You’re upset about breaking Linux' trust, but not about putting me under that hood? You could have just told me to hold myself still.” She gave the three Dourga standing on the deck a glare that warned them to stay well clear of this business. “I could have blasted that cell apart at any time. I was already restraining myself.” She paused and put her hands on her hips. “You’ll not be getting out of that for a while, then,” she turned and challenged the entire crew of the ship with her grime-stained chin held high. Then she threatened to deliver her full wrath if any of them took it off. With that, she snatched the tray of fruit from the grinning Dourga and started down into the compartments where her bath was waiting.

  As she lay there in the gray-tinged, lukewarm water, Zahrellion tried to reach out to Jenka with her mind. She spent several long hours floating on a deep cloud of concentration searching for him or Crystal. She found neither, and only stopped her efforts when the first waves of nausea started to flare through her belly. Whether it was because of her fatigue, or a lingering effect of the dampening hood, or the unsettling seasickness that was getting a hold of her again, she couldn’t seem to find a way to reach either of them.

  Before she toweled herself dry, she took the canteen of drinking water that had been left for her, stood in the copper tub and poured it slowly over her head and arms to cleanse her own wash water from her skin. If she was about to spend the next few days vomiting and miserable, she was determined to be clean while she suffered. After she put on the silver-trimmed black robe that had been provided, she found the bunk in the corner of the tiny room, crawled into it and fell into the deepest of dreamless sleeps.

  *** * ***

  Prince Richard regained consciousness, and was nearly frightened back into oblivion by the large, cherubic monster sitting across from him, snarling hun
grily. The last thing he remembered was watching Royal fighting fiercely to win free of the two mudged dragons harrying his pursuit. After that that he had been squeezed into unconsciousness.

  It was an ogre sitting across from him, a hulking, deep-mountain beast, with olive-green skin and lower fangs that jutted up from its mandible on either side of its wide, flat nose. Its platter-sized feet were right there in front of Prince Richard, its bulbous toes the size of apples. It wasn’t snarling anymore, and Richard soon realized that it had been badly beaten. Mauled was the word that came to mind. It didn’t look as fierce now as it first had. Now Richard couldn’t decide if it was even alive. After glancing around the large, dank cavern he found himself in, he concluded that it was the wild, dancing shadows thrown from the green-tinted flames of the pit fire nearby that had made the thing appear to be snarling. An attempt to get himself up to his feet told him that he, too, was bound at wrist and ankle. This wasn’t good.

  He had no problem using the semi-sharp edge of his steel thigh plate to work the rope around his wrists apart. After that, the leg bindings came off as well. He stood, and with his back to the eerie, sea-green fire, peered into the depths. He could discern nothing, other than it was a deep, dark cavern that he was in. When he turned and started back toward the flames, he realized that he was in a cage of sorts. The cavern was a large scallop in the side of an otherwise consistent, tunnel-like shaft. The back of the scallop had been barred off to contain the ogre. The bars were formed out of bones, so long and thick that they could have only come from the skeletons of dragons. He hoped it wasn’t Royal’s bones. Some of them still had bits of gristle and meat at the ends, and the stuff that they had been lashed together with was black with gore and covered in flies. The bones were far enough apart that, even with his chest plate still on, Richard could turn sideways and fit through them. As he was starting to do just that, a long, curious groan emitted from behind him.