Dragonfire

by Charles Jackson

“And what…? We just call his secretary and book an appointment?” Nev suggested with sarcasm.

  “Not quite what simple, no…” he conceded, not sure what a secretary was but getting the point well enough. “We’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “Never seen the king…” Lester muttered to no one in particular, only half-conscious as he lay back amidships, staring glassily at the stars and clouds above. “Never seen any royalty before tonight, and that ugly git, Baal don’t really count…” He sighed softly, his thoughts floating off to a far more pleasant place. “They reckon the princess is real pretty, though…”

  “You just rest yourself, Toadface!” Godfrey grinned, chuckling softly and thinking his friend must be feeling better. “Pretty or not, she’s too good for the likes o’ you…”

  “No harm in dreamin’, is there…?” The boy pointed out, eyes closed and drifting off to sleep even as he spoke.

  “Aye, lad…” Godfrey conceded, gazing thoughtfully at Nev as, none-the-wiser, she stared out at the dark waters ahead of the sailboat’s bow. “No harm indeed…”

  XIII

  Machinations

  Although far smaller and less busy than Burnii docks, the main pier at Sternley stank just as badly. That’s what Randwick’s nostrils were telling him at least as he waited at the far end and watched the Ocean Breeze approach slowly under oars. The left-overs of the day’s catch lay strewn about the pier and surrounding rocks, unseasonably-warm weather and another surprisingly clear day ensuring the discarded fish guts had rotted nicely beneath the glare of the afternoon sun.

  Sternley was westernmost of the major fishing villages along Huon’s northern coastline. Most of the town was built around the north-western end of the bay and was overshadowed by the towering Nutt Hill, a volcanic plug that rose more than 140 metres above the beach and the clustered houses below. The pier was all but completely in darkness now, the great hill rising imposingly above as the sun continued its journey toward the western horizon.

  ‘Ocean Breeze’… now that name’s an irony, and no mistake…! He thought ruefully as a miasma of odours surrounded him and carried out what felt like a combined assault against his five senses. His sense of smell had already surrendered under the onslaught, his eyes were burning of it, he could taste the foetid reek to the point of almost throwing up… surely it was only a matter of time before numbness set in and his hearing went out in sympathy.

  He’d found somewhere shady during the afternoon, standing in the lee of a large, hand-operated crane surrounded by a pile of the large wooden crates he’d brought with him, and had waited patiently for the cog to make its way into port, drop anchor and tie off at the dock. The ship too was in darkness by the time its captain was able to step off the gangway and onto the wooden planks of the pier.

  “Well met, Farouk,” Randwick declared with a smile, shaking the man’s hand firmly as they met. “Two years now I think, if memory serves…”

  “And a pleasure it still is, good sir,” Ismail Farouk acknowledged with a grin and a flourishing bow. Short, stocky and olive-skinned, the thirty-year-old wore a loose-fitting tunic and pantaloons that gave at least the appearance of a military cut. “My apologies on the delay of our arrival – we were beset by a storm on our way into Strahn that put us two days behind schedule: I only received your rider’s message yesterday morning – we’re not too late, I trust…?”

  “Any delay is unfortunate,” Randwick admitted without any apportion of blame, “but not critically so. Arrival in the ‘nick-of-time’ would be a better term than to say you were actually late. I’ve work needs doing that requires exactly your level of expertise and discretion…”

  “My ship is yours, as always…” Farouk conceded with a faint bow. “What would you ask of us?”

  “Only to wait… for the moment… I have cargo here that needs loading, but none of it as important as what’s to come. Let your men get some rest and find what entertainment they can over the next twenty-four hours, for tomorrow night you’ll have a delivery of the most precious cargo imaginable… something requiring special delivery of a similar nature to that which you’ve assisted in the past…”

  “It’ll be an honour, Master Randwick. Have them bring aboard what you have while we take a drink together, you and I, and we remember old times and lost comrades…”

  “Now that would be my honour…” Randwick countered with a grin, deciding a drink or two might not be a bad idea at all.

  As the two spent time in Farouk’s cabin, reminiscing old friends and past battles, dockworkers and ship’s crew alike went about the task of loading a half-dozen crates of varying sizes into the cog’s hold, carting each box up the long, wide gangplank on loading trolleys with two or three men on each, pushing and pulling all the way. There was a great, communal cacophony of songs, grunts, catcalls and swearing as the crews unceremoniously dumped each crate into the main hold, leaving it for their replacement shift to lock the cargo down in a few hours’ time.

  One of those crates, rather precariously perched atop another, tipped over as the loading crew passed by on their way out, toppling it to the deck with a crash and a splintering of wood. The last man in line, dockworker Darius Moore, by chance also filled in part-time as an administrative cleric with the Sternley harbourmaster’s office. He’d been tasked with the completions of the cargo manifests due out that day, and remembered no such shipment listed for departure with Ocean Breeze. As he paused for a moment, feeling guilty by association as he inspected the damaged corner, he was very surprised to find what appeared to be dresses of extremely fine material stored inside.

  Moore knew who Randwick was well enough by reputation – there were few men throughout Huon who didn’t – and the fact that an undeclared cargo was being loaded aboard at the behest of the princess’ personal mentor was an intriguing one indeed. There were others within the administrative corps who paid good money for ‘intriguing’ information, and Darius was always interested in any opportunity to better his own finances. The moment he was back up on deck, he made his excuses and made a quick exit: the local message-rider’s office would be closing soon and there was not a moment to lose if he was to get a letter away to Burnii that evening.

  Bridgeport was little more than a small village attached to a large port and naval base on the north-eastern coast of Taas. With a population of less than two thousand civilians – most of whom worked at the base itself – it existed only because of its strategic value as the first port of call available for rest and resupply on the long journey south from Long Hop. Ramshackle huts and simple stone houses lay clustered around the obligatory small church of The Shard, all of that tucked up against one of the long, wooden walls that surrounded the military base. Smoke from cooking fires and from a number of blacksmith’s forges filled the air, its acrid, choking blackness a small mercy for many in that it went some way toward nullifying the stench of the nearby sailors’ camp.

  Pulled by a team of six horses, De Lisle’s personal carriage was far better appointed than most and it generally carried him about the landscape in quite reasonable comfort. One thing it’s fine fittings and upholstered leather seats could not do however was filter out the smell that he would’ve sworn had infiltrated his nostrils while still at least a mile from the town. He generally eschewed personal travel wherever possible, and it was environments such as the one he now found himself in that had pretty much put him off the concept. Attending to important matters personally was sometimes unavoidable however, and this was definitely one of those times.

  The carriage had taken him straight through the village that afternoon and on into the base, where it had trundled its way along wide, hard-packed dirt roads between barracks, foundries and other associated ship-building industries to the docks themselves. It was the nearest of those piers that interested him – the one at which Rapier was currently tied up, her banks of long oars at rest and lifted high into the sky. The driver brought them to a halt as close to the d
ock as was humanly possible, in deference to limiting the cardinal’s need to walk across open, dirty ground, and De Lisle appreciated the effort.

  An escort of Huon cavalry had accompanied him on the day-long journey from Burnii, their polished armour glistening in the failing sunlight as the long, grey-green plumage in their helmets swayed this way and that. He dismissed them with a single wave to their captain, making it very clear it was unnecessary for them to accompany him aboard Rapier: having an audience for the discussion he was about to have would’ve been ‘awkward’ at best.

  A pair of ship’s marines led him below decks and through the length of the ship to Baal’s private rooms at the very stern, and as he approached the hallway outside, De Lisle was visibly shocked by the damage caused as Rapier’s own crew had broken down both the outer door and the heavier one leading directly to the prince’s quarters. The troopers left him at the entrance and he stepped inside gingerly, lifting the hem of his priestly robes as he was forced to step over some left over debris.

  “I was not aware that war had already broken out…” he growled at the three people already inside that room, no humour at all in the words as he regarded each in turn with a savage glare. “It seems I was mistaken in my belief that two grown men in command of trained soldiers would be able to deal with one girl…”

  “Had I known the creature we captured actually was a witch, I might’ve taken greater precaution…!” Baal shot back with venom, lying atop the covers of his huge, queen-sized bed with his fractured arm in a bandage and sling. “A ‘waif of not even eighteen summers’, I was told by this lackey of yours,” he added, glaring in return at Silas, the old man seated very uncomfortably behind the prince’s desk, “and this fool practically hands her his Shard Crystal...”

  “You did what…?” De Lisle roared, the force of his words shaking Silas to his core. “You let that heathen take your pendant?”

  At any other time, the insults and disrespect Baal had just levelled at one of his brothers might’ve earned the prince a one-way trip to the inquisition, however the cardinal was so stunned by the man’s revelations that such thoughts never crossed his mind. Instead, he rounded on Silas and reached the desk in two great strides, towering over him across its expanse with such rage in his eyes that the old man recoiled in terror, cowering almost into a ball on the chair despite the constant pain in his back.

  “I suspected something was amiss when there was no reply to my attempts at communion, but I could never have imagined you could be so incompetent…!” De Lisle howled, displaying an intensity he’d never before shown. “Are you senile… insane…? I know The Shard’s orders… I know you were specifically instructed not to use the pendant on this girl!”

  “I – I was tricked…!” Silas stammered desperately in return, his voice little more than a whine as covered his head and face with his arms as if afraid he might be physically assaulted – something that had definitely crossed the cardinal’s mind. “She is a witch… with powers beyond any we’ve seen! She twisted my mind and forced me to strike her – to give her a chance to take it from me!”

  “She goaded you with your own pride!” Baal interjected then with scorn, completely ruining the tale Silas had spent the last twenty-four hours honing and perfecting as best he could. “I’ve seen the wenches at the George’s Town Tavern do no different with drunk troopers on Endweek leave. There was no witchcraft in that… only a clever girl with smarts enough to use a fool’s pride against him…”

  “A girl also capable enough to best you in combat, damn your eyes…” Silas snarled in return, finding a little backbone now that his honour and intelligence had been questioned. “She used the power of the Crystal to break their bonds, found strength to use a heavy, pine chair as a missile and threw it with enough force to break your sword arm: have you seen a tavern wench do that on one of your Endweek prowls?”

  “I’ve arm enough left for you, old man, if you’ve a thought to try me,” Baal growled darkly, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed and leaning forward as threateningly as one was able with a bandage and sling. “I doubt I’d need both to deal with the likes of you!”

  “Enough…!” De Lisle screamed, so incensed with rage now that he was forced to steady himself against the desk. “Do any of you have any idea how crucial the next three days will be? The planning for this goes back years! The Shard itself has foreseen this… has worked toward this for a decade… and you sit here, squabbling like spoilt children…? This will succeed… must succeed… there is no acceptable alternative! All of us, myself included, live or die in the success or failure of this: no one walks away from the outcome!”

  The cardinal was shaking, his eyes scorching the others with their glare as he cast it upon both men with equal disdain. A stab of pain flared within him as his chest heaved with adrenalin, but De Lisle ignored it, unwilling to show any sign of weakness in his moment of righteous fury. Silence reigned for seconds that seemed like hours, only to be broken – finally – by a soft, slow clap of hands from the far corner beyond Baal’s bed.

  “Now that was impressive!” Percy declared with a thin smile that barely held itself back from the brink of condescension. “Kinda reminds me of that Hitler guy on the documentaries my dad likes to watch… ‘course, you’re not speaking German – which is such a hot language when talking angry, by the way…” she conceded, rising from the chair she’d taken in the shadow of that corner and stepping out into the light. “That still sounded pretty good, though…”

  The statement was so light, so out of context and had come so randomly out of left field that De Lisle almost blinked, left speechless for a moment as his mind attempted to process what the girl had just said and came up wanting. That she’d dared to interrupt him was inconceivable… that she’d dared to speak to him in such a tone even moreso… yet for all that, it had broken the intensity of the mood and he was shrewd enough to suspect that had been her intention all along.

  “Could someone so young be so tired of life that you would insult me in such a fashion…?” He asked simply, raising an eyebrow and almost sounding amused by the concept as Baal and Silas stared on in horrified silence. “Who is this ‘Hitler’ you liken me to?” He continued, with real interest and intent behind the casual tone of his questions. “A buffoon, perhaps… some court jester, kept for a king’s amusement?”

  “Well, silly me, you wouldn’t know who he was, would you?” She shrugged, chiding herself for forgetting her audience. “He was no fool…” she explained, assuming an expectant stance in the centre of the room with hands firmly on hips as she unflinchingly met his cold gaze with one of her own than was equally intense. “He was crazy, yes… but smart enough take over a country, personally order the extermination of six million people and start a war with the rest of my world that killed fifty million more…”

  “A formidable enemy…” De Lisle conceded with a faint nod, willing to allow her some latitude now that he could sense there was a point to what she was about to say.

  “And Nev thought I wasn’t listening in history class…” Percy muttered proudly to herself. “Now, you boys have also managed to get yourselves a formidable enemy…” she continued, bringing herself back on track.

  “The torture has twisted this one’s mind,” Baal scoffed in disbelief, regarding Percy with a scornful eye. “I’ll call a guard and have it taken away.”

  “You’ve already underestimated one teenage girl and had your arse kicked for it,” she fired back sharply, piercing his heart with her dagger-like stare as she took a threatening step in his direction, fists clenched at her sides. “You wanna have it handed to you a second time…?” In spite of himself, Baal actually flinched in reaction to her unexpected advance, something that wasn’t missed by anyone else in the room.

  “The girl’s clearly insane,” Silas broke in with a sneer of his own, saving the prince from his own humiliation as he drew the cardinal’s attention. “She’s of no further use for anything, save perhaps
as a plaything for the soldiery…”

  “Surprised you can remember how, you old perv…” Percy snarled, her cheek still stinging from the rawness of the wounds Silas had inflicted there. “I told you: I got a free look inside your head when you used that crystal on me the other day, and there was some sick shit down there, mate… it reads like a demon’s diary! I know exactly how he likes to hurt people…” she added, turning toward De Lisle. “I could tell you all about the dirty little secrets he keeps hidden in that black, shrivelled little heart of his, Roger…”

  “You can’t seriously consider anything this harpy has to say,” Silas screeched desperately, not at all happy about the idea of his deepest thoughts being revealed to the eagerly-waiting world. “She helped them escape – she admits it!”

  “Too right, I admit it!” Percy replied defiantly, not backing down for a moment. “Unlike you lot, I’m not afraid to take responsibility for my actions…”

  She has something… knows something… the deep, resonating words echoed through De Lisle’s mind in that moment, shaking his soul to the core although he outwardly showed no reaction.

  “Get out…” he ordered instantly, directing his words at Baal and Silas.

  “I’ll remind you these are my chambers, sir…” Baal began sharply, not at all pleased with being ordered about on his own ship. “I’ll leave by my choice and no other’s.”

  “I do give you a ‘choice’, you simpering fool…” De Lisle snarled, thrusting out his hand toward the prince as the ring on his pointing finger glowed and crackled with tiny arcs of purple lightning. For a second – just a fraction of a second – Prince Baal felt a sudden, tight constriction around his heart and the expression of shock, pain and terror that flashed across his face was telling. “You can leave here upright or feet first – that is your ‘choice’; now get out, both of you…!”

  Baal wasted no time getting out of the room as the sensation receded, ignoring the pain in his arm as he pushed between both of them as quickly as possible and not pausing for a moment to look back or catch anyone’s eye. For Percy, the sight of the prince being ‘force-choked’ to all intents and purposes was absolutely delicious.