The Dragon's Egg (Dragonfall Book 1)

by David A. Wells

  “Good enough,” Cyril said, following John into the trees.

  They didn’t build a fire and tried to remain quiet, which wasn’t difficult given their fatigue from the ordeal at the church and from walking all day. During the day’s travels Ben found his thoughts turning back to Chen. By the time they made camp, he didn’t feel much like talking. He laid his bedroll out and stared at the stars as they winked into view overhead.

  He woke to John gently shaking his shoulder.

  “Your watch.”

  Ben took a deep breath and sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The forest was dark, lit only by what starlight could penetrate the canopy. He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and sat with his back against a tree. For quite a while, the only noise he could hear was the distant ripple of the river and the breeze moving through the trees. It was almost like a lullaby, threatening to put him back to sleep.

  Then a shot rang out in the distance, followed by shouting and the scream of a cougar. Ben sat up straight and still, straining to listen. A cry of pain. Then another. More gunshots were followed by another inhuman scream. Still more shots and a chorus of shouting. All very distant. Too far to pose an immediate threat, but close enough that everyone else was awake and holding stock-still.

  “What the hell was that?” Frank whispered.

  “Sounds like a stalker-cat versus a posse,” Hound said.

  “Who do you think won?” Frank whispered again.

  “No one,” Cyril said. “Try to go back to sleep. I’ll take the next watch.”

  Ben struggled to return to sleep, but managed eventually, waking with the light of dawn and a sense of relief. He gave silent thanks for whoever had tangled with the stalker in the night and offered a prayer for their wounded. He found himself torn when he considered the plight of any survivors. If his experiences had taught him anything, it was that there were indeed some things worse than death.

  He noticed that Imogen was taking a few minutes to meditate, legs crossed and back straight just the way Cyril had taught them. He couldn’t help but think that the amulet had something to do with her renewed interest in their childhood lessons.

  After a cold breakfast, they started out again under grey and heavy clouds, returning to the old highway. Frank was quiet and brooding. Ben couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. He knew his brother well enough to know that he was still angry. Ben just hoped that his unhappiness wouldn’t translate into anything stupid. When Frank got like this, Ben was always on his guard for some form of retaliation or other. When they were kids, Frank’s antics were usually petty and mostly harmless, but now, with all that they faced, his petulance could easily become a problem.

  Ben brought up the rear to keep an eye on him. While they walked, he considered the future, both immediate and long-term. He had faith and unshakable trust in his grandfather. His newly confirmed suspicions about Cyril’s past led him to believe that they would be successful in rescuing his nephew. After that, Ben would need a plan if he was to carry out his purpose.

  That was the point where his mind got hung up on reality. The dragon was a beast of magic and legend, powerful beyond measure, surrounded by loyal servants and guardians. In the light of a new day, his goal seemed entirely out of reach, even with his grandfather’s guidance and wisdom.

  Then he thought of his ordeal with the stalker. He remembered the cold dark with a shiver. If he could come back from that with his sanity still intact, he could find a way to defeat the dragon—unless, of course, his sanity wasn’t intact and his plan was pure delusion.

  Ben shook himself out of such thoughts. He needed to believe that he was still master of his own free will. The alternative led to madness.

  “Keep us parallel to the road about a hundred feet inside the forest,” Cyril said.

  John looked back, nodding.

  Frank huffed, shaking his head and muttering, “We’d make better time on the road.”

  Nobody bothered to reply.

  Close to noon, John stopped not far from the point where a long bridge spanned a broad canyon that looked like it had once been filled with water. Now a narrow river flowed quickly along a deep channel cut in the middle of the canyon. The bridge was in disrepair, several sections having broken and fallen away, but it looked passable on foot.

  John scanned the far side with his monocular, patiently watching for any sign of danger.

  “What do you think?” Cyril asked.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Why not?” Frank asked, frowning. “Seems sturdy enough.”

  “I don’t doubt the bridge,” John said. “But the far side is lined with boulder falls on both sides … lots of cover for an ambush.”

  “Who’s going to ambush us?” Frank said.

  “Don’t know.”

  “I don’t see an alternative,” Cyril said. “The terrain is too treacherous to navigate along the other side of the canyon.”

  John nodded, his eyes never leaving the far side of the bridge.

  Ben looked at Homer and said, “Do you smell anything?”

  “No, but the wind is blowing the wrong way,” Homer said.

  They waited for half an hour, all eyes on the far abutment, before finally deciding that it was safe to cross. The road was broken and cracked, weeds growing out of the spider web of fractures in the surface. There was little evidence of recent passage, but that only meant that anyone who’d come this way was traveling on foot.

  When he stepped onto the bridge, Ben found himself wondering at the rusting metal rods woven into the stone, forming an eerie skeleton where the flesh of the bridge had fallen away into dust. The raging river a hundred feet below seemed to warn him not to come too near the large holes lest more of the surface give way and cast him in.

  They reached the far side, cautiously approaching the boulders, steep embankments rising away as if the road had been cut through a hill that once stood where they now walked.

  A man stepped out from behind the nearest boulder.

  Hound brought his shotgun up, Durt his bow.

  The man held out empty hands, though he had a pistol on his belt.

  “Go easy,” he said. “You might want to look around before you do something you’ll regret.” He was tall and lean, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a long leather riding coat.

  “Lower your weapons,” Cyril said, scanning the tops of the embankments on either side. A dozen men or more had weapons trained on them, all waiting for an excuse to fire.

  John lessened the tension on his bow but kept the arrow nocked. Hound kept his aim steady on the man.

  “We’re not looking for any trouble, friend,” Hound said. “We just want to be on our way.”

  “Trouble is, you’re headed towards my town. Worse still, you’re coming from Prospect and I know for a fact that it’s haunted.”

  Cyril gently laid a hand on Hound’s shotgun, beseeching him with a look to lower the weapon. Hound complied but kept Bertha at the ready. Cyril stepped forward, hands out at his sides.

  “We’ve just come through Prospect, and we had a run-in with a few very dark characters. They’re all dead now, so they shouldn’t cause you any more trouble.”

  The man cocked his head, frowning with curiosity. “Tell me, how exactly, did you go about killing a ghost? ’Cuz like I said, I’ve seen ’em with my own eyes.”

  “Those weren’t ghosts,” Cyril said. “They were summonings. A man with a pile of dragon dung called them into this world to do his bidding. He’s the one we killed.”

  The man seemed to consider Cyril’s words, but didn’t look entirely convinced. “We’ll just set that aside for a moment while you tell me what your business in my town is.”

  “Like my friend said, we’re just passing through. We aren’t looking for trouble.”

  “If your account’s true, seems trouble found you anyway. Who’s to say it won’t follow you?”

  Cyril shrugged helplessly. “Trouble finds us all from time to time
.”

  “Can’t argue with that. We’ve been plagued by stalkers for weeks. They roam the wilds to the north, only venturing into town at night. How is it that you’ve managed to travel through their territory unscathed?”

  “Oh, we haven’t been unscathed,” Cyril said. “We’ve encountered three and killed two.”

  “And the third?”

  “We lost sight of it two days ago.”

  “Probably the one we killed last night,” the man said, rubbing his chin.

  “I doubt it,” Cyril said. “We heard your fight—sounded like a cat. The one we saw was a hawk.”

  “Never heard of a bird turning dark.”

  “First one I’ve seen.”

  The man looked from face to face, scrutinizing each of them. He seemed to consider their request but finally shook his head slowly.

  “I just can’t let you in,” he said. “We’re getting pressure from Rogue City from the south and these damned stalkers from the north. I just don’t see the upside to letting a bunch of armed strangers into my town.”

  “I understand your concern,” Cyril said. “And I sympathize with your plight. Would you be willing to escort us through town and send us on our way?”

  “Not armed like that,” he said, gesturing toward Bertha. “Besides, if we left right now, we’d get to town just before dark.”

  Another man came out from behind the nearest boulder and went to the first man, whispering something to him urgently.

  He looked up, scanning them for a moment before his eyes fell on John. “My man tells me that you’re a Highwayman.”

  “I am—name’s John Durt.”

  “I’ve heard of you,” the man said. “Tell you what, you let me hold your weapons and I’ll put you up for the night at the jailhouse.”

  “Don’t much like the sound of that,” Hound said.

  “Best I can do,” he said. “People depend on me to keep them safe and I don’t know you.”

  “Did you hear what that other man said?” Ben asked Homer.

  “No, the wind’s still wrong.”

  “Stay alert. If things look like they’re going south, I want you to run and hide.”

  “What else would I do?” Homer said.

  Cyril looked back at them. Ben could tell in a glance that his grandfather knew something was wrong. He scanned the area again and decided that they were hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned. They’d walked into a trap and the only way out was through it.

  “We accept,” Cyril said with his best salesman’s smile. “Provided that I have your word that our weapons will be returned to us.”

  “Of course,” the man said. “It’s a dangerous world. I wouldn’t put a man out into the wilds without the means to defend himself. Truth is, you seem like good folks, but a man can’t be too careful these days.”

  “He’s lying,” Frank whispered, just barely loud enough for Ben to hear.

  The man motioned to someone behind the boulders and a man came out carrying a large bag.

  “Put your weapons in here and we’ll be on our way.”

  Cyril nodded agreeably, unbuckling his belt and handing it to the man with the bag. He turned to the rest of them, his eyes deadly serious. Frank was about to say something when he saw his grandfather’s look and stopped. Ben was relieved when Frank unbuckled his belt without protest.

  Hound bit his lip, shaking his head, but he unloaded Bertha and slipped her into the bag along with his pistol.

  “You take real good care of her,” he said with a hint of menace.

  Ben unbuckled his sword belt, taking care to leave the revolver tucked into his pants where it was.

  “I don’t think my bow will fit,” John said.

  “The arrows will do.”

  John nodded, removing his quiver.

  Once all of their weapons were removed, save the few they’d managed to hide, the man smiled.

  “Well, all right then,” he said, motioning to his people. Three men came out from behind cover and took up positions behind them. One had a bow, another a crossbow, and the third carried a rifle.

  “My name’s Carlyle,” he said.

  “Sheriff Carlyle?” John asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Word is, you’re a fair man,” John said.

  “I try to be,” Carlyle said. “Some days that’s harder than others.”

  He set a brisk pace, fast enough that nobody was interested in talking until they stopped for lunch.

  “How many stalkers have you killed?” Cyril asked.

  “Pretty close to a dozen,” Carlyle said. “The first one showed up about a year ago, then every few months until recently. Now they attack every few days. The dragon’s people offered to protect us, for a price of course.”

  “The price is higher than you might imagine,” Cyril said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “The dragon’s the one creating the stalkers, or his people are anyway. When a community comes under attack, his Dragon Guard ride in and offer protection.”

  Carlyle shared a worried look with one of his men. “You sure about that?”

  “That’s how it happened in K Falls,” Cyril said. “Night after night, the stalkers terrorized people until the Dragon Guard came and offered to defend us. Once we invited them in, they took over. They run the whole town now.”

  “That’s where you live?” the man who’d whispered to Carlyle on the bridge asked.

  “It was,” Cyril said. “We’re hoping to find someplace a bit more friendly to settle down.”

  Carlyle nodded thoughtfully, taking his last bite of lunch and gathering his things. “We should be on our way.”

  Chapter 22

  While they walked, Carlyle drew Cyril away from the rest of them.

  “You’re sure the dragon’s people and the stalkers are working together?”

  “As sure as a man can be,” Cyril said. “It’s how the wyrm expands his territory, and it sounds like your town is next.”

  They walked in silence for a while before Carlyle sighed, shaking his head in dismay. “How do you fight something like that? Those stalkers are wicked and deadly. People are afraid, and I don’t blame them. Sooner or later, they’re going to demand the protection of the Dragon Guard.”

  Cyril nodded. “Tyrants always come under the guise of a protector.”

  “Now that you say it out loud, I’m surprised I didn’t realize it sooner,” Carlyle said. “When you think about it, it’s almost a perfect plan.”

  “I don’t know about perfect, but it seems to be working for them.”

  Cyril walked silently with the man, who seemed to be struggling to accept what he’d just learned.

  Ben glanced back at the three men bringing up the rear. All three carried their weapons at the ready like they were guarding prisoners.

  Frank came up alongside Ben and gave him a worried look. Ben responded in kind. Even with so much contention between them, they were brothers and could read each other’s expressions at a glance. In this case at least, Ben knew that he could count on Frank to work with him for their mutual survival.

  For the moment, there was nothing to do except play along with the charade. He only hoped that things wouldn’t get too far out of control before they could make their move.

  By late afternoon, they’d arrived in Shady Cove, a small community along one of the many forks of the Rogue River. A makeshift wall of timbers surrounded the town with a guard tower built up next to the gate. The man in the tower waved to Carlyle and barked orders to open the gate.

  Carlyle’s second, the man with the bag of weapons, trotted ahead, slipping inside before the gate was fully open. Ben could see him talking urgently with the men standing watch, but could only wonder what they might be saying. A furtive glance in their direction by one of the guards told him that it wasn’t anything good.

  Another two armed men took up position behind them as they were escorted into town. The few people on the streets looked at t
hem with a mixture of wariness and sympathy. Carlyle sent most of them on their way with a stern look. The jailhouse wasn’t much, but it was solidly built of stone and steel. When Carlyle led them inside, Ben started to worry that they were walking to their doom.

  “Bolt!” he said to Homer.

  He didn’t hesitate, racing off between the buildings.

  “Hey!” one of the men shouted. “The dog just ran off.”

  “He doesn’t like being inside,” Ben said with a shrug. “He won’t hurt anyone.”

  “Probably ought to send someone to round him up just the same,” Carlyle said, nodding to one of his men before turning back to Cyril. “Might be a bit cramped, but you’ll be safe,” he said, gesturing to the large holding cell that occupied a third of the single-room building.

  The second man rested his hand on the pistol at his hip. Ben looked to Cyril. He just smiled graciously at Carlyle.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, strolling into the cell like it was a room at an inn. After they’d filed in, the second man closed the door quickly and started laughing.

  “That was easier than I thought,” he said, pulling out a flyer with their pictures on it … a reward of a thousand silver drakes was being offered for each of them.

  Cyril turned to the sheriff, his demeanor deadly serious. “Have you betrayed us?” he asked calmly with an undercurrent of menace.

  Carlyle looked down, seemingly torn. “I’m not sure yet,” he said. “The Dragon Guard have posted quite a reward for you, but after thinking on your words today, I don’t know if I want to collect.”

  “What are you saying, Sheriff?” the second man asked, clearly shocked. “They’re worth six thousand drakes. How can we pass that up?”

  “Money’s worth less than a clear conscience,” Carlyle said. “Stow their weapons in the locker. I need to think.”

  The second man hesitated, but complied after a moment, securing the bag of weapons in a steel locker—one of several lining the wall opposite the cell.

  “You do that, Sheriff,” the second man said. “While you’re at it, think about what the Dragon Guard will do to our town if they find out we let these prisoners go.”