Dragonfire

by Charles Jackson

  “Oh… crap…!” Nev blurted, thinking of any number of words far worse that were immediately blocked by her overactive conscience. With a sigh and a groan of frustration, she gathered up her own bag and took off in pursuit.

  Down below, Silas and a small escort of Brotherhood novitiates had arrived from Burnii with the sole intention of making De Lisle’s ordered rendezvous with the fastest vessel they’d been able to secure: Rapier. Their own ship had docked an hour earlier, the oarsmen pushed beyond all limits in a desire to get them to Long Hop in a record time of just ten hours. Six men had died from exhaustion during the voyage and another four weren’t expected to last the night, none of which mattered in the slightest to the men of The Brotherhood as they stood about on the wooden boards of the jetty, waiting for the arrival of Rapier’s owner.

  Silas was first to notice Baal as the prince finally made an appearance, striding casually across the main deck and down the gangway as if out for an evening stroll. Fit, tall and strong of limb, he looked to be in his mid-thirties and wore a closely-trimmed beard and moustache that matched the colour of his thick, dark hair. The king’s first cousin on his mother’s side, Amun Baal was the current Viceroy of the Taas Hegemony, a small vassal nation that had splintered from Huon during an earlier war some years ago and had at the time foolishly aligned itself with Harald.

  The Black King had been quite happy to sit back and watch while both sides engaged in a particularly bloody civil war from which Huon had emerged the eventual victor, and Taas had immediately been returned to the kingdom as Huon’s vassal, ruled by a crown-appointed viceroy. Baal had seemed the obvious choice, and had reigned over that small nation ever since.

  “Brother Silas!” He called from some distance away, all smiles and welcoming arms. “I take it the cardinal received my message?”

  “He did…” Silas replied with distaste as they drew near, bowing slightly in recognition of the man’s royal standing “…although he wasn’t shown any information he didn’t already know.” He added, bursting the prince’s bubble. “Your highness, do you think The Brotherhood wouldn’t notice that you’ve been spending so much time at Castle Black these last few months, presumably without your cousin’s knowledge? You forget, perhaps, that we have prelates everywhere across The Osterlands, including the Blacklands – particularly the Blacklands considering that Kraal exists within its borders. Be thankful we priests know how to keep secrets, or your head might well be hanging from a pike above the Burnii Longhouse.”

  “I’ll warrant there’ll be other heads up there soon enough,” Baal countered with as little temper as he could manage, “but that’s not what we’re here for tonight, is it? Your Brotherhood found the presence of my ship convenient enough when it turned out we could bring that cursed witch to you faster than anything afloat on the other side of The Blackwater…”

  “‘My’ Brotherhood…?” Silas repeated as a question, almost sounding scandalised as he raised a querulous eyebrow. “Surely you mean our Brotherhood, good sir: it would hardly do for the king’s cousin to be accused of heresy…”

  “Yes, that might happen when I’m of no further use to you and your lecherous lot,” Baal sniffed, utterly unimpressed, “but not anytime soon, I’ll wager. We’re loading these ‘guns’ and are taking on the last of our supplies now… all we’ve been waiting on otherwise was your good self. The captain plans to be away again on the high tide… shall I give the hag to you now, or shall I take her as far as Bridgeport?”

  “Leave her be for the moment,” Silas replied a little too quickly, not entirely hiding his interest and surprising Baal a little. “The cardinal wants her questioned, but better she isn’t seen on a Brotherhood-chartered vessel. I shall come with you instead, aboard Rapier… there’ll be time enough for interrogation on the voyage back…”

  “As you wish, Brother…” Baal acceded with a faint bow. “My ship’s at your disposal. Shall I have quarters made up just for yourself, or for – ?”

  He was cut off mid-sentence as he noticed the Shard Crystal at Silas’ throat begin to glow brightly, and a moment later the priest suddenly and quite unexpectedly threw up an arm and physically elbowed Baal to one side, following him as he pushed the prince to the ground and all the while displaying an expression of surprise over actions even he seemed not to have expected.

  Even as they fell, there came the faint, ripping sound of a passing crossbow bolt followed immediately by the unmistakably wet thud of it striking flesh. One of the novitiates standing behind both of them screamed shrilly, clutching at the bolt that now protruded from his lower abdomen as he collapsed backward to the cold ground, blood already pouring out between his clenched fingers. An alarm was raised instantly, Blackwatch troopers running in from every direction with swords and crossbows ready while a quartet of the prince’s own bodyguards also sprinted down the gangway from Rapier to form a protective cordon around their charge.

  “Three-Squad: search that cargo!” A nearby sergeant barked sharply, four men instantly peeling off toward the darkened stacks of crates and sacks near the abandoned storehouse. It hadn’t taken long for an experienced eye to work out the rough direction of the shooter, and a crossbow couldn’t range long enough for the would-be assassin to be far away.

  “It may be that I owe you my life, Brother Silas…” Baal conceded in a shaky voice as he dusted himself off, a dozen Blackwatch now clustered about the group as a human shield.

  “Not you…” Silas replied, sounding as if he were in a daze as he stared blankly down at the screaming man. “The shot was aimed at me, but we couldn’t risk your safety either…” The pendant at his neck was still glowing, although not so brightly as before as he turned and knelt beside the novitiate, the prince already forgotten. Working quickly, he took the pendant in his fingers and lifted the chain carefully over his head.

  “Brother Silas… please… the pain…” the young man moaned through clenched teeth, most of his shirt soaked in blood now below the waist. The iron tail of the bolt was visible between his fingers and it was clearly a large projectile capable of inflicting great damage. There were desperate calls for a medic already spreading about the area, but those soldiers nearby with combat experience knew well enough how bad a wound like that could be.

  “Peace, Brother Chan… peace…” Silas soothed softly, reaching out with the glowing pendant wrapped about his open palm and resting it upon the man’s heaving chest. There was power enough in the crystal to save him, and Silas knew what to do well enough, but that kind of effort would’ve left the old man drained with exhaustion and he had neither the time nor the inclination to waste that amount of time and energy.

  “Fear not, for you shall soon be One with The Shard and soar with the Night Dragons… peace, now…” he continued, trying to sound sincere. The glow beneath his open palm grew brightly for a moment and at the same time, Brother Chan’s moans and struggles began to settle and his eyes closed. “Peace…” he repeated, moving his hand now to hover over the man’s forehead. There was a faint flutter from Chan’s eyes then, only white showing beneath the lids, and his chest and legs gave a few final spasms before he slipped away into a final, painless oblivion.

  “Remind me never to come to you with a headache, brother…” Baal observed with cold humour, resisting an urge to make the sign of The Crystal following that eerie display of power.

  “A brother’s life was just forfeit at the hands of an assassin…” Silas hissed sharply, sounding more himself now as the pendant’s glow faded to nothing and he returned it to its place about his neck. “Prince or not, I’ll warn you once to show some respect for a death in The Shard’s service! Who is in command here?” He snarled then, as loudly as his old lungs would allow as he cast his eyes about the area beyond their cordon of guards. He’d already ceased to have any interest in Baal, and the prince could only stand there and glare at him in complete impotence.

  “Duty Officer Hanssen at your service, brother,” Hanssen advised nervously,
appearing almost out of thin air and right at that moment rueing the fact that he’d pulled ‘short straw’ on the afternoon roster.

  “I want whoever it was captured and brought to me aboard Rapier…” he snapped angrily, seething now over both the loss of a fellow brother and the attempt on his life. “The ship will be leaving on the hour: have him in custody by then, or your life will be forfeit in his place!”

  “At once, Brother Silas…”

  “…And do not damage him too much…” the old man added with an evil smile, stopping Hanssen as he turned to leave. “I want him conscious enough to suffer through what I’m doing to him!”

  “By your leave…” Hanssen bowed faintly, making as speedy an exit as he could manage.

  “Are you trying to get us all killed…?” Godfrey hissed as loudly as he dared as they met in a narrow alley, halfway between the storehouse and the cargo holding area Lester had fired from. The boy was running at full speed and was almost past as Godfrey snatched at his collar with one hand and hauled him back.

  “Let go o’ me!” Lester snarled angrily, slapping his hands away and backing against the opposite wall. “That bastard murdered Emily: he deserves to die!”

  “Oh, aye… and that’s worth all of our lives in exchange is it?”

  “My bloody oath it is!” the boy screamed in return, crying now as all of his repressed rage and sorrow burst to the surface.

  “Well, thank The Crystal you ran instead of hanging about, you bloody fool…!” Godfrey barked in frustration.

  “Could we possibly discuss this somewhere else…?” Nev asked pointedly, no happier than Godfrey over what Lester had done but perhaps feeling his pain a little more keenly. “Somewhere safer…?” Already, the shouts of men in pursuit were growing nearer and she wasn’t at all pleased about the concept of being involved in what amounted to her third brush with death in the space of just forty-eight hours.

  “Here… over here…!” The accusing cry came from the far end of the alley, where a trio of soldiers with swords and burning torches had paused to take a breath and noticed the altercation.

  “Time to leave…!” Godfrey decided, not sure where they could run to but deciding in a split second that anywhere was a better option than staying put. “Ridgeline to the west,” he added, drawing his sword and breaking into a run with Nev at his side. “If we get separated, we can meet up there…”

  Lester paused just long enough to raise and fire another bolt downrange at the soldiers now running toward them, then turned and ran also, struggling to catch up on the other two’s head start. There was a cry of pain behind him, providing him at least a little solace. The shot had been made too quickly to be accurate but it had struck one of their pursuers in the leg all the same and sent him tumbling to the ground in agony, followed by the other two who immediately tripped over his falling body and left them all writhing in a pile in the middle of the alleyway.

  With the other end of the alley drawing near, Godfrey was starting to think they had at least a chance of making good their escape. There were just a few more buildings to pass by on that western side of the port and beyond them was nothing but empty scrub that offered far better cover. His hopes lasted just long enough for the three of them to burst clear of the far end of the alleyway, only for Godfrey to be taken low in a flying tackle as an unseen Blackwatcher crashed into him at full tilt.

  They were suddenly surrounded by bellowing soldiers, and Nev screamed as an already winded Godfrey was knocked out cold, his head intentionally smashed against the hard ground by his far-heavier assailant. Lester was a howling dervish, struggling and fighting for all he was worth, but his lack of strength and body size left it all to no avail. It took but a few seconds for two equally-large troopers to manhandle him forcibly to the ground and produce some rope with which to bind him.

  Even in the middle of her frightened cry, Nev was already trying to reach into her bag for the katana. She was never given the chance. A barrel-chested thug in chainmail and boiled leather crashed into her from behind, slamming her brutally against a wall at the mouth of the alley they’d just exited. Dazed and disoriented by the impact, she was completely unprepared for the blow that came next, delivered with savage precision to the back of her head and sending her instantly into unconsciousness as she crumpled to the hard earth.

  X

  The Keepsake

  Charleroi was up again and breakfasted not long after sunrise, and by mid-morn she was already clothed in one of her finest dresses: a long, flowing gown of silk inlaid with gold highlights and tiny, precious jewels in layers about its neck and long, puffed sleeves. An accomplished hairdresser had been brought in from town to wash and style her long, dark locks into a tight, decorative bun affixed low to the back of her head, leaving just the hint of a pony tail hanging down beneath her tiara. It was a special time – a momentous time – and everyone was expected to look their best for the celebrations to come.

  Charleroi watched thoughtfully from her balcony as peasants and commoners scurried this way and that below, oblivious to the greater world of which they were such a tiny part. She suspected few of them could’ve understood what this new treaty really meant for them and for everyone else – some probably didn’t even know the king was in town – and it was more than likely that fewer still cared about either. Down on the docks, workmen carried sacks of cargo in every direction, loading and unloading a wide variety of commercial cogs and galleasses from near and far while across in Burnii itself, townsfolk too went about their daily business, never once looking up from the narrow scope of their own tiny lives. From her position on that balcony however, the princess imagined she could look down upon it all with a far keener eye and definitely take in the bigger picture.

  More ships had arrived during the morning: freighters, nobles’ pleasure craft and warships alike filling the bay in preparation for the coming ceremonies. She recognised some of the insignia and flags that flew from their masts, while others were a complete mystery; most likely vessels belonging to guests from the other side of the Deepwater. The journey across that wide, forbidding strait was a long and arduous one: that much, she knew.

  Sailing ships could risk a direct run south from the mainland of the winds were in their favour and the Deepwater not too rough, but for oared vessels the journey was by necessity a coastal run from Welshport or The Long Pier, then down along the south-east coast of the Blacklands, past King’s Beach on the Great Promontory, where Black Castle, Harald’s summer fortress stood atop the central mountain there and looked down on everything for miles around.

  From there, galleys would strike out across the strait itself: a day of solid rowing at best before landfall at Long Hop for rest and re-supply, then on to the Taas, the small vassal nation on Huon’s eastern border. From George’s Town or Bridgeport, it was then just another short coastal cruise west to Demon’s Port or, more likely on to the great port of Burnii itself.

  It was the main leg of the trip that usually caused problems for oared vessels: even with the aid of favourable winds filling their small, triangular sails, anything more than a half-day’s journey was likely to leave rowers drained and exhausted. The stretch between Welshport and Long Hop had been known to claim lives if oarsmen were pushed too hard, and the only viable alternative was to carry replacement crews; something that seriously cut into the space left over for water, supplies or, in the case of a war galley, for marines or land armies.

  It was that problem that had always plagued Harald’s forces when attempting to mount invasions across the Deepwater, and it’d played its part in a number of successive defeats during the last three decades. Although the triremes used by the Huon navies were often smaller, they were also faster as a result and none of them were forced to travel far to engage in battle, leaving their crews fresher and more prepared. Extensive and regular crew training in ramming manoeuvres and in the operation of their deck-mounted ballistae also helped.

  One vessel in particular caught Charl
eroi’s eye, if only because it seemed to have separated completely from the rest and run itself aground on an empty section of Burnii beach, perhaps a kilometre or two around the bay to the east. It was difficult to make out any detail at that distance – part of the vessel was hidden from view by intervening trees – but what she could see clearly belonged to a ship of some sort. Now that she thought about it, she wasn’t sure when it had actually arrived. She’d not been out onto the balcony since the afternoon of the day before: in theory at least, it might’ve been there all night and she’d not have known… although surely someone else must have noticed…?

  She had no idea why the sight of it had so suddenly and completely captured her interest, but something about it looked strangely out of place even from such a distance, and once again her curiosity began to get the better of her.

  “Annabel...” she called softly, turning toward one of her younger handmaidens currently tidying inside the room.

  “Yes, Your Highness…?” She asked meekly, stepping out onto the balcony and presenting a curtsey.

  “You’re a friend of Guard Captain Hakim, are you not…?” She asked innocently, carefully choosing to ignore the faint reddening of her handmaiden’s cheeks over that question.

  “We… we have spoken on occasion, Your Highness…”

  “I’m wondering about that ship over there on the beach…” Charleroi went on regardless, lifting a finger to point in the indicated direction. “I’m mostly wondering why it’s beached itself over there rather than finding a mooring like all the others… do you think the captain might know anything about it?”

  “I – I don’t know, Your Highness…” Annabel replied with a blank expression. At eighteen summers, she was roughly the same height as the princess, a little more solid of build and not the slightest bit more mature in any real sense, particularly considering she’d been given only the most rudimentary education necessary for the performance of her daily duties, as was often the case for commoners in the employ of the state. “I could ask him later if you like, Miss…” she added, trying to be helpful and staring out past Charleroi’s extended finger as a frown formed on her face. “Which ship was that, Your Highness…?”