To Dream with the Dragons (Hyborean Dragons)

by B. V. Larson

  “He is my King,” she answered with a shrug.

  Gruum nodded. “And mine as well.”

  The priestess eyed Gruum. “Excuse my rudeness, but do you not hail from barbaric lands?”

  Gruum grinned harshly at the other. “Aye, from a place of open, wind-swept steppes where there are no blood-sacrifices, nor are women forced to wed by custom. But I’m only a barbarian, as you say, here to learn the civilized and refined customs of Corium.”

  The priestess made a face and Gruum took his leave. Gruum followed his lord to his suites. As he went, he watched the shadows for possible assassins. The irony of this made him smile: only days before he had been one such assassin, lurking in the shadows and awaiting his chance to sink his blade into the new King. He took it as a sign of the king’s inner strength that he had managed to turn an enemy into an ally so smoothly. If Therian could turn an assassin into a bodyguard upon the very eve of his coronation, he might yet become a very potent ruler indeed.

  -2-

  Posted outside the King’s suites, Gruum oversaw the royal guardsmen, who Therian did not yet trust completely, suspecting that some of them may have been in the pay of the Sloan family. Old Tovus, whom Therian had given the title of Count for his support in a dark hour, came by to check on things.

  “I must admit to finding you a perplexing beast, outlander,” said Tovus in a gruff, but not altogether unfriendly manner.

  “How so, old warlord?” asked Gruum, grinning and polishing his saber.

  Tovus frowned a bit. “Not so old as to be beyond wielding an axe.”

  “Aye, as mine own eyes have witnessed, milord.”

  Somewhat mollified, the Count continued, “How is it that you have become so close to our new King? Which of you has bewitched the other?”

  Gruum laughed at that. “A good question. And I’m not sure as to the correct answer.”

  Tovus glared. “You avoid the question.”

  Gruum stopped polishing his blade and looked at the old man seriously. “The King and I share a common goal. Our alliance is a natural outcome of this situation.”

  Tovus grew thoughtful. “So it isn’t just gold that bought you? You claim a higher purpose?”

  “I do,” said Gruum, and returned to oiling his blade. He told the old wardog nothing of rekindling the sun. Such a lofty goal would only make everyone think they were both mad. Eventually, Tovus gave up on working it out of him, and wandered off to harangue the tower watchmen.

  Gruum smiled at his back as he left. Then he startled, thinking to hear a soft cry from inside the King’s chambers. He turned to the doors and lifted his saber, listening.

  The sound was not repeated. Shaking his head, he returned his attentions to his weapon. The cry had been that of a woman, he felt sure of it.

  -3-

  Many cold nights later, the young Queen stepped out into a hallway and looked about in a furtive fashion. She trotted down the soft-carpeted floors in the Royal Suites, her feet passing soundlessly. She turned down another, darker passageway and disappeared from view.

  Gruum appeared in her wake. He stole soundlessly over the carpet to where she had vanished and followed her.

  Gruum stayed well back, but never lost sight of her. The Queen moved quickly down several flights of stairs to the quieter areas of the palace, and then down farther still toward the servants’ wing. Here, the floors were bare cold stone and she donned slippers which pattered with every step. Opening a creaking doorway, she paused. Gruum watched and froze. Had she heard his footsteps behind her? She closed the creaking door and turned to go back the way she had come.

  Gruum stepped out of the shadows to greet her. “Good evening, milady.”

  She sucked in an audible breath and plucked at her flowing skirts, as might a young girl before taking flight. Recognition was quickly followed by anger, which transformed her.

  “Why do you follow me?”

  “I was merely strolling about the castle, milady,” said Gruum with a courtly gesture.

  “Nonsense. You are Therian’s creature, and you skulk after me like a hungry cur.”

  Gruum felt the sting of her words and her beauty. Looking upon her, he understood some of Therian’s irrational behavior. She had an indefinable strength and youth that went far beyond a pretty face.

  “You injure me, milady. I have sworn fealty to our King, but no more than any subject of Hyborea.”

  The Queen approached him and peered up into his face. Her eyes were piercing, and he recognized a sharp intelligence there he had not suspected before.

  “No, there is something else,” she said.

  “For what it is worth, milady, I do sympathize with your plight.”

  The Queen blinked at him.

  “I wish…” stumbled Gruum, uncharacteristically swayed by her person, so close at hand and staring up at him determinedly. “I wish things had gone better for you.”

  For a moment, her face softened, but then her resolve returned. “I don’t need your pity. I simply wish to be left alone.”

  Gruum shook his head. “That I can’t do, milady. It is my duty to protect you.”

  “Don’t bother,” she said and brushed by him, heading back toward the royal suite.

  He wistfully watched her go. The moment she was out of sight he opened the door she had gone to and investigated. It was only a scullery closet, full of the usual items. There was nothing unusual, save an old seabag. He tugged open the cinched bag and dumped out the contents, but found no weapon, nothing remarkable at all. The bag was full of old clothes, such as a dockworker might wear. Frowning, Gruum knew not what to make of it.

  -4-

  Therian quickly became known as a reclusive monarch. Locking himself away in a large study adjacent to his beloved library, he spent the nights working upon odd projects and the days slumped over his desk in exhaustion. Sometimes, colored lights shone at the crack beneath the door and strange sounds were heard from within the study. One such night, a high-pitched shrieking that would not abate emanated from the study. Gruum was nominated by the gray-uniformed guardsmen to investigate.

  Reluctantly, Gruum tapped at the door. There was no response. He tried the handle, found it locked, and then hammered at the door, calling for his lord to open it. Still, there was no response.

  “Shall we knock it down?” asked a frightened lieutenant.

  Gruum shook his head. He produced a fine set of lock picks, and set to work on the keyhole. A minute or so passed during which the wailing from inside faded.

  “Almost got it,” grunted Gruum. The guardsmen around him exchanged glances of surprise. Doubtless, thought Gruum with a sly smile, they had spent most of their employ preventing exactly such stealthy entry. He enjoyed the irony of being a thief put in charge of the guardsmen.

  Then the lock popped open and Gruum straightened up with a flourish. He reached for the handle, but before he could touch it, the handle twisted of its own accord. The door swung open as if pulled inward… but there was no one there.

  Gruum peered into the dark chamber and fumbled with his lock picks, stashing them away.

  “Enter,” came Therian’s voice.

  Gruum stepped inside hesitantly. The room was filled with dancing shadows brought to life by the flickering light of a dying fire. He strained his eyes, but didn’t immediately spot Therian.

  Behind him, unseen hands swung the door shut, and he heard the unmistakable sound of the lock snapping home.

  “Milord,” said Gruum, “Please excuse the intrusion, we were concerned.”

  “Have no concern, I am well,” replied Therian, but his voice sounded anything but strong.

  Gruum moved toward the voice, and finally spied the King, sprawled upon a settee.

  “Ah, there you are,” said Gruum, moving to his side.

  “You should not be here,” said Therian, slurring his words somewhat. “I’m in the middle of—an experiment.”

  Gruum looked down and his face shifted to concern, then ho
rror. Therian’s left arm, skinny and faded blue, lay extended and exposed. Numerous tears and bites ran the length of it. Blood was everywhere. Worse, the King’s own mouth ran with blood. Shocked, Gruum silently questioned his master’s sanity.

  “The creatures I deal with,” slurred Therian in explanation, “Require payment.”

  “Milord, you need help.”

  “Never mind that, tell me of my Queen.”

  Gruum frowned deeply. “There is little to tell. She seems withdrawn and irritable. I have found little evidence of her plotting—or of others plotting against her.”

  Therian sighed. “The very qualities that I loved in her, she has lost. I suppose this is the way of the world.”

  “Perhaps time will change things, milord.”

  Therian didn’t reply, but jerked his head back in sudden revulsion. Gruum followed the King’s gaze, which led over his own shoulder.

  Suddenly, a screeching thing of fur, leathery wings and flashing fangs was upon him. Gruum cried out. He drew his saber and slashed the thing out of the air in one smooth motion. It exploded with a great gout of blood. Gore splattered both men.

  “It was nothing but a flying bladder of blood,” said Gruum in amazement and disgust.

  Therian sighed again. “Excellent. The work of a dozen days laid waste.”

  Gruum attempted to wipe the blood from his face and eyes, but it clung stubbornly, having an odd, sticky quality to it. The jelly-like texture of the gore was sickening. “It seems to me that your death would benefit us little,” he remarked.

  “Perhaps you are right. The payments were too high for such a small creature. I will keep that in mind during my next experiment.”

  The King then passed into a deep sleep, but his words had done nothing to set Gruum’s mind at ease. He stoked the fire back up to a respectable blaze before he took his leave.

  -5-

  The new King’s first state banquet didn’t go well. He appeared late with his expressionless Queen at his side. Her fleshy beauty only served to make him look more haggard than usual. In a surly mood, he terrorized the servants that sought to bring him food. He demanded nothing but fresh meat, and the first man that offered him a vegetable soup he ordered dragged out and flogged. Terrified, the elderly servant looked to the guardsmen with wide eyes. They dragged him away with grim expressions.

  The dinner continued uncomfortably. Various nobles present attempted some light conversation, but Therian either ignored them or replied with curt, biting sarcasm.

  “Milord,” said the Queen finally.

  “What’s this? My Queen speaks?”

  “Milord, I ask mercy for the old servant.”

  Therian looked surprised. “You’ve been thinking of nothing else for the entire meal, have you my dear?”

  The Queen stared down at her untouched plate.

  “Very well, it shall be as you ask.”

  Therian called for the guardsmen to bring forth the servant. They waited for a time, during which Therian became wrathful. “Where is the man?”

  The Captain of the guard appeared and bowed deeply before the King. “I’m sorry, sire. It appears that his heart gave out during the flogging. We have tried to revive him to no avail.”

  Therian stared at the Captain for several moments, then nodded and waved him away.

  “May I be excused, sire?” asked the Queen, with a slight tremor in her voice.

  Therian nodded. He did not apologize. Such an act would not have been thinkable. The dinner ended soon thereafter.

  -6-

  Gruum was awakened by a tapping at his door. Instantly, he was up and he found his saber in his hand. The blade glimmered in the dim light of a sole taper. He opened the door and peered into the dark passageway. A hunched figure rubbed its hands together.

  “Yes?”

  “Milord, she has visited the closet. I’ve come as you asked me to.”

  Gruum grabbed up his clothing and pressed a coin into the washerwoman’s withered hand. “Not a word now,” he urged her.

  Nodding, she hobbled off into the gloom.

  Gruum quietly left his quarters and set off toward the servants’ docks below the palace. He swiftly flew down the dark passages and cold stone steps. With each level he descended, the rock surrounding him grew more moist, slippery and noisome.

  Finally, he reached the pathways that led down to the docks. Fast, cold water flowed alongside a narrow ledge of mossy stone. Serving as the Castle sewer system and doubling for deliveries from the sea, the docks had been little used in recent years as the ice floes had prevented large craft from approaching. As he neared his destination, Gruum doused his lantern and moved as quietly as he could upon the echoing flagstones.

  A young man stood at the docks. Gruum recognized him: a young lieutenant who often had the job of standing guard in the King’s apartments.

  As Gruum’s dark figure materialized out of the passages, the lieutenant challenged him.

  “Halt, who goes?”

  “‘Tis Gruum, on the King’s business.”

  “Approach,” said the other.

  When Gruum was in striking distance, the lieutenant lunged for him, his shortsword appearing in his hand and stabbing upward for a killing thrust.

  Gruum was prepared for just such a move. He used the tavern brawler’s tactic of tangling his attacker’s blade with his cloak. His broad, leaf-shaped dagger was secreted in the hand beneath the cloak. Gruum’s thrust found its mark, and the lieutenant gasped, his breath whistling from punctured lungs.

  The dying man grabbed his biceps as he sank down. “Please. Please don’t harm the Lady.”

  Gruum nodded. “I swear it.”

  The guardsman nodded in return and slumped in death. Gruum looked down upon the young man’s corpse and wondered if he served the right master.

  Soft footsteps upon stones.

  He quickly pulled the lieutenant’s gray cloak over his shoulders and rolled the corpse into the brine-filled waters. He took up an impersonating stance and turned his back to the approaching footsteps.

  After some moments, a soft hand touched his back.

  “Jaycen?”

  Slowly, he turned to face her.

  The Queen, dressed in the clothes of a dock-worker, stared up at him in shock.

  “No, milady, ‘tis I,” Gruum said, almost regretfully. The expression of hopelessness and horror on her face brought him great pain.

  “What have you done with Jaycen, you animal?” she demanded.

  “We came to an agreement, milady.”

  “No, no, that isn’t possible,” she said, and she dropped down to her knees, weeping.

  Gruum stood there, gazing down upon a beauty in despair. A heart he had long ago thought immune to such things was moved.

  “You should be on your way, milady,” he said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  Still weeping, she would not raise her eyes to meet his. “No, no, I can’t go back. He’s become a monster.”

  “I didn’t say you should go back.”

  She looked up at him.

  “But—you are Therian’s creature.”

  “Yes, and no,” he responded, and then—impulsively—he grasped her shoulders and kissed the top of her head, smelling her hair. The fragrance of it surged in his nostrils.

  She stiffened with a new fear.

  He released her, and gestured for her to continue to the docks.

  She brushed past him, moving as if in a dream. She turned back and looked at him, confused.

  “Is it so hard to understand?” he asked her.

  She stared at him a moment longer, but made no reply. Then she turned and rushed away.

  Gruum removed Jaysen’s cloak and used the gray cloth to polish away the blood of a good man from his dagger. He continued to polish for some time, until he saw that the sloop in the harbor had set sail. Only then did he begin the long journey up to the barracks to sound the alarm.

  -7-

  Months after th
e Queen’s escape, Gruum stood uncertainly in the corridor outside the King’s chambers. He wiped his bearded mouth with the back of his hand. He sucked in his breath and pursed his lips, seemingly about to act, but then he hesitated and let out a long sigh. Today was not a day to be proud of. He considered himself no coward, but today he faced not men, but quite possibly—things.

  Perhaps it would be best to just leave. When the harbor finally thawed completely this summer, allowing the deep draft merchant vessels into port, it would be a simple thing to sign aboard one of them. He had spent many days lately dreaming of such a disappearance. He longed to feel the high tide swelling the deck beneath his feet with sixteen colorful, lateen sails luffing and snapping in the clean breeze overhead.

  A guard in gray livery approached. Gruum retreated into a shadowed alcove, and the guard marched past unaware. From his bolt-hole, Gruum conjectured that if he simply vanished one night, his Lord might use sorcery to locate him. He turned a wary eye to the deep umber pools of shadow that filled the alcove around him. There was little comfort to be found hiding in the dark. He had seen strange things. Who knew what beings might be summoned to stalk him to the ends of the Earth?

  Gruum shook himself and put his hand on the hilt of his heavy saber. The weight of the blade provided him with courage, as always. He chided himself for cowardice. He hated indecision. Was he nothing more than a bandit who skulked away at midnight? That was not his way. He had sworn his sword, and he must be released of that oath before he could go—if he should yet live after facing his master’s wrath.

  Boldly, he stepped back into the oil lamp lit passage and marched into the King’s study chambers.

  Therian sat on the stone floor. He wore nothing but a simple smock of black silk. Crouching upon the flagstones, he worked intently at a large splattered design he had created with the waxen dribblings of indigo tapers. Like an artist touching up a portrait, he carefully added a dribble here, a droplet there.