A Portion of Dragon and Chips

by Simon Haynes

  "You can't a-afford me, Sergeant."

  "It's Captain, and I'll pay you with your freedom."

  The woman looked thoughtful, then shrugged. "Okay."

  Smiling, Spadell shrugged off his jacket and draped it around the woman's shoulders. Then, carefully and courteously, he helped her up. She almost fell, and he wrapped his arm around her and held her tight as her legs buckled. He could feel the chill in her flesh, but he also felt a warmth of his own as she pressed against him. "I'm going to have to carry you," he said.

  She eyed the drop below them. "Better g-get your m-men out of the way."

  He obeyed, then swept her up in his arms in a single move. Balancing carefully, he took a step onto the plank, and heard it creaking underfoot. The floor was twenty feet below them, and while they'd probably survive the drop, there'd be broken bones for sure. That would mean the end of his career, and he'd spend the rest of his life begging for scraps.

  As he stood there, balancing, he realised she was freezing cold to his touch, still shivering. He felt a certain responsibility towards her, as though her life was in his hands.

  "That's my butt," said the woman.

  Reddening, Spadell shifted his hand to her equally shapely thighs. Then, with a deep breath, he took the half dozen steps to the roof beam. They arrived at speed, and, losing his footing, he sat down with a thump, the girl still in his arms. The beam was worn smooth from centuries of use, and they slid down it at a fair clip, before hitting the floor below and tumbling over and over in a tangle of arms and legs. Spadell ended up on his back, with the girl lying prone on top of him. She gave him a wink, then stood up, still naked from the waist down. Spadell saw his men nudging each other and grinning, and so he whisked a fallen blanket off the floor and wrapped it tightly around her.

  "Dawson. Smith. This lady is under arrest. Take her to the cells, but lock her up alone, is that clear?"

  "Yessir," said Smith smartly.

  Dawson looked troubled.

  "What is it, man?"

  The guard looked up the damaged tower with its missing roof. "Were it witchcraft, sir?"

  "Not a chance," said Spadell firmly. "It was a natural disaster, I'm sure of it. Now follow your orders, man, or you'll be heading up the executions on the morrow."

  "Yessir," said Dawson, knuckling his forehead.

  "Do not lay hands on that woman," said Spadell.

  "Nossir," said the guards, as one, and they left with their charge. Spadell took out the dagger and inspected it thoughtfully. Then he held it under his nose and sniffed, frowning as he caught a whiff of expensive scent. When he'd carried the girl to safety, her head snug against his shoulder, he'd smelled the same scent on her. The stiletto was enough to condemn her, as if another reason were needed.

  He glanced at his men, to make sure he wasn't observed, then slipped the dagger into his coat. Afterwards, Spadell decided to head back to the barracks, but first he took one last look at the shattered brickwork overhead. It looked like a giant had bitten into the tower, tearing out a rounded chunk before spitting the bricks and timbers all over the circular room. The High Priest hadn't stood a chance, and the irony was that even if by some miracle he'd survived the explosion, he'd still have died at the hand of the assassin.

  One way or another, Zephyr the wind god had obviously intended for the High Priest to be blown away.

  Chapter 3

  The city guards stood at their posts, either side of the main gate. They'd been turning away gawkers and rubber-neckers since daybreak, and they'd also had their eye on a gaggle of shady-looking characters selling trinkets from their ramshackle hand carts.

  "High Priest knee joints. Get your knee joints here. Special offer, today only, three for the price of two."

  "Lockets of hair for sale, ladies and gentlemen. Long and straight, one shilling. Short and curly, five pence! Guaranteed holy relics or your money back."

  "Put a zing in your step with High Priest brew, fresh today. You sir, I bet you could use a little pick-me-up!"

  The guard's stern gaze shifted from the merchants, and he took in the three odd characters approaching along the clifftop path. He'd never seen their like, not in these parts, but he'd heard tales of wandering adventurers who sold their skills to the highest bidders across the land. Or perhaps they'd come to gather High Priest relics, like half of the beggars in the city. He glanced over his shoulder, gazing up at the shattered bell tower, and made a wind sign with his left hand. Some were already whispering that the High Priest had been studying magic, and if that were the case the bell tower wouldn't be the last to be broken by the wind god.

  The adventurers didn't seem to be interested in fossicking around in the bushes, so the guard assumed they were visiting the city on other business. He gazed upon the three of them, trying to determine their roles in the party. One was a mountain of a man, with oiled skin, a mane of platinum blond hair, and a loin cloth which was barely up to the task. He carried a huge two-handed sword on his back, the pommel sticking up over his head, while at the other end the broad tip was almost dragging on the ground. From these subtle clues, the guard judged the man to be a fighter.

  Beside him strolled an elderly man wearing a cape and a large, floppy-brimmed hat with a peak that rose to a point fully two feet above his head. The cape and hat were both adorned with a bewildering array of runes embroidered with gold and silver thread. The old man was clearly lame, because he walked with the aid of a long stick, almost as tall as he, with a silver demon's head stuck on the top. He looked like an entertainer, perhaps on his way to thrill the local children, although the old guy would have to go some to top an exploding bell tower and fields laced with body parts. Why, some young scamps were already drying scraps of flesh on the bushes, aiming to sell them in a week or two as holy priest parts.

  Finally, trotting along beside them was a halfling. His tousled head barely reached his companions' loins, and his green and brown clothes were dusty and stained with sweat. The expression on his face was a mixture of anger and lots more anger, and he didn't look like the sort of halfling who invited you to his birthday party and offered you a pipe. In fact, he looked like the type of halfling who stuck a dagger into whichever part of you happened to be within reach, and then made off with your purse while you bled to death. A thief, then.

  As the trio got closer, the guard noticed a bleak expression on the old guy's face, frighteningly intense despite the ridiculous fancy dress, and he'd seen a blank stare like the muscle-man's before as well. Both spelled trouble with a capital T.

  The guard decided it was time for his tea break, and so he nodded to his companion and legged it for the guard house. Someone else could tell those three they weren't welcome.

  — ♦ —

  Runt trotted along beside Hurm and Father Mephistopheles, breathing hard. "Strange people, this. Why are they drying their beef jerky in the bushes?"

  Hurm shrugged his massive shoulders. He paused chewing long enough to say "Hurm like," and then his chunky jaws resumed their grinding.

  Father M ignored them both. The road had been long and hard, and he was looking forward to a nice cool drink at the local Mages' Guild. He was running low on supplies as well, and he was itching to spend the small purse of coin they'd earned from a recent quest. The coin purse should have been much larger, but the quest-giver had lied through their teeth about the bountiful riches, and the tax collector had taken a sizeable bite as well. Never mind, Runt and Hurm had lied about killing the vicious werewolf terrorising the town, so the tax collector was likely to get another sizeable bite in the near future.

  Now they had a new quest, their goal to relieve the Mollister queen of an ugly-looking necklace. The three adventurers had no idea why someone wanted the necklace, but theirs was not to reason why … they just had to lift the jewellery, or run away before they were caught in the act.

  As they approached the gate, a jaunty young man in a straw hat ran up and waved a bloodstained knee joint under Father M's
nose. "Knee of the High Priest sir? Genuine relic, fresh only last night."

  "I'm a vegetarian," said Father M.

  "What about you, sir?" asked the man, approaching Hurm.

  Hurm took the knee joint and sniffed at it, then spat out the stringy jerky and tasted the broken end of the bone. "Hurm not like," he said, and gave the bone back. Then he sought out his chewed jerky, dusted it off and popped it back in his mouth.

  "Don't bother," said Runt, as the man turned to him. "I don't like goat."

  "Goat!" exclaimed the man. "Goat, he says. Why, I guarantee this is finest quality High Priest, and my life on it if I'm …" His voice tailed off as he saw something extremely dangerous in the halfling's steady gaze. "I mean, I'll give your money back if I'm wrong."

  "You won't have to give it back."

  "No?"

  "Of course not, because I'm not stupid enough to buy in the first place." Runt twirled his dagger. "At my size, you get to see a lot of knees up close. With and without flesh, if you get my meaning."

  The man backed away. "I'm sorry to trouble you. Welcome to our fair city, sirs, and please, enjoy the executions."

  There was a grunt from the halfling, and the three adventurers approached the gates, where a solitary guard was standing with one hand on his sword hilt. "Who goes there!" he shouted, the effect spoiled a little by the quaver in his voice.

  "Three for lodgings," said Father M, his voice silky and persuasive. "We mean no harm. We're merely passing through."

  "These are not the wanderers you're looking for," added Runt, then winced as Father M elbowed him in the ear.

  "You mean no harm," said the guard. "You are just passing through."

  "And you want to give us all your money," said Runt.

  "Get lost, shorty," remarked the guard, without taking his eyes off Father M. He stood mesmerised, entranced, but not that mesmerised.

  Runt considered stabbing him, but that sort of thing was best left until their departure.

  Meanwhile, the guard stepped aside and waved them through. "The tournament is at eleven, warm-up acts from nine."

  "Tournament?" said Father M. "What tournament?"

  "Why it's the biggest event of the year! All comers may challenge the Queen's Champion in single combat." The guard gave Hurm a once-over. "Your companion here, surely he's participating?"

  "He is now," said Father M.

  "Excellent. I'm sure they'll give him a decent burial." The guard called out as they entered the city. "Mind the rubble, we're still tidying up after last night."

  "What happened?" asked Father M, gazing up at the ruined tower. "Dragon?"

  The guard looked at him hungrily, and very slowly, he licked his lips. "Have you seen one around these parts?"

  "No, I just wondered whether —"

  "Oh, that." The guard looked around, then lowered his voice. "They say it was magic, but of course it can't have been."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it's banned, of course! Banned across the entire kingdom!" The guard looked at them like they were dumb, which in Hurm's case wasn't far off.

  "No it isn't," said Runt, gesturing at Father M. "I've seen him knock an— ouch."

  Father M stopped grinding his elbow in the halfling's ear. "Of course it's banned. That's what my somewhat rationed companion meant to say."

  Fortunately the guard was still under a powerful, and apparently illegal, form of mind control, and he didn't join the dots. "Well, you go off and enjoy yourselves. I'd show you round, but my duty is to gather a few more support acts for this morning's executions. I'm to stand here and arrest mages, witches and the like."

  "I'll tell you if we see any," said Father M, and with a twirl of his magic cape and a clatter from his magic staff, he led the others into the city, hoping to find lodgings for the night.

  Chapter 4

  While the rest of the city was looking forward to participating in the big festival, if not the tournament and the executions, two guards were on duty at the foot of the huge cliffs, far below the city walls. There was a broad swathe of sand between the rocks at the base of the cliff, and the limp, oily sea which lapped half-heartedly at the beach.

  Some said the oil was the result of sea battles, where ships were doused with barrels of the stuff before being set alight. Others said it was runoff from the old dragon processing stations in the next bay. Wiser heads pointed out that barrels of oil tended to burn up after being set on fire, and that the processing stations hadn't seen the inside of a dragon for years. These well-educated men and women also pointed out that ships hadn't existed for hundreds of years, not since humongous sea serpents had infested the coast. Nobody likes a know-it-all, so these wiser heads were usually told to shut up, or quietly stabbed.

  The two guards meandered across the gritty sands from the rock-hewn steps, pausing now and then to poke at potential treasures with their swords. Usually they found dead jellyfish or pieces of burnt oil barrels, but occasionally the seas gifted them a trinket which they could polish up and present to their wives, girlfriends, mistresses or some lady of the night who wasn't satisfied with the usual half a crown.

  Every now and then they glanced at the horizon, but as usual it was completely empty. Their orders were clear: patrol the beach, and keep a special eye out for any bastard who may be rowing around on the ocean.

  As the months went by, both guards became convinced they'd been given a joke of a task. At any moment, they felt, their watch commander would leap up from behind a rock, blow on a party favour, and yell 'Fooled you!'

  After the first few weeks they'd stopped looking behind the rocks. Now, in the depths of winter, Pentonville and Islington were blue with cold, and they were bored with their commander's little game.

  "Pentonville, do you feel your life is being wasted?"

  The second guard considered the question carefully. "I'm not sure, Islington. To be honest, I'd rather patrol an empty beach than escort prisoners to their deaths, or participate in a pitched battle. This is a far better alternative to being wounded or killed."

  "You make a fair point, Pentonville my friend. Only …" Here Islington paused, considering the matter. "… Do you not get the impression our skills are being under-utilised?"

  "That is a good question."

  "To which your answer is?"

  "Mayhap." Pentonville skewered a jellyfish with his sword, and flung it into the ocean. Not that he was particularly obsessed with clearing every jellyfish from the sands, but occasionally one found a coin underneath. He'd once posited a theory, whereby jellyfish mucus appeared tacky enough to hold coins fast to their flesh, thus making it worthwhile inspecting each such find. His friend had then tested said theory by attaching several coins to a jellyfish and placing it in the ocean. The coins promptly fell off, and Pentonville was forced to admit his money snot was wide of the mark.

  They continued with their patrol, until Islington let out a cry of delight and bent to pluck something from the sand. It was a human finger, which wasn't a particularly unusual find at the foot the cliffs. What made this one special was the expensive-looking ring still attached to the pasty flesh. Islington pulled the ring off with some effort, threw the finger into the ocean, and began polishing his prize on his tunic.

  "That is a fine ring," said Pentonville slowly, unable to keep the tinge of jealousy out of his voice. "Some might say precious."

  Islington slipped the ring onto his middle finger, and completely failed to disappear. Even so, the ring was rather impressive despite its lack of wearer-hiding properties. "This is a fair valuable ring," he said, and his eyes gleamed as he took in the thick gold and the large, expensive ruby.

  "We could both get laid many times with such a ring," said Pentonville.

  "How would that work? We can't share it out amongst all the hookers in the city."

  "Nay, we'd have to elect a treasurer, who would pawn the item and remit funds on a monthly basis, proportional to the amount of time each member spent on her back with u
s."

  "What do you mean, us?" said Islington. "If you recall, I found the ring."

  "Yes, but—"

  "But nothing, my friend. If you spent less time molesting jellyfish with your weapon, trying to prove your crazed theory on the adhesion of pocket change to their air-dried yet still tacky flesh, you might have found the ring first."

  Pentonville said nothing.

  "Look, I'm a fair man. You can keep whatever we find next." Islington cast a sidelong glance. "Even if you're playing with a jellyfish, and I'm the one doing the finding."

  After a pause, Pentonville nodded. It was fair, and they might find an even better ring. And, if that failed, he knew where Islington lived. He ought to, as he'd bedded the man's wife often enough, and it barely cost him a jellyfish-scented coin each time.

  — ♦ —

  The guards strolled further along the beach, swatting away hungry seagulls and picking at the flotsam with their swords. Occasionally they swatted at the flotsam and waved their swords at the seagulls, but that got messy fast.

  Sadly, the sands failed to reward them with further jewellery, although they did find another finger.

  "Shipwreck, do you think?" asked Islington. He knew the Old Kingdom had no ships, but he'd grown up entranced by tales of naval warfare and he had an active imagination. Plus, the Kingdom had fire-breathing dragons, elves and massive sea serpents, so big wooden ships battling just over the horizon were hardly a stretch.

  Pentonville studied the finger, then turned to look up at the cliffs. He could see the city wall along the clifftop, and beyond, in the distance, the very tip of the High Priest's shattered bell tower. The sound of the tower's destruction had woken the entire population, and rumours as to its cause had spread all over the city … much like the unfortunate High Priest.

  Slowly, Pentonville raised one hand, extending thumb and forefinger until they bracketed the wall. By calculating the angle of impact, the freshness of the finger, and adding a huge amount of wishful thinking, he decided the finger might actually belong to the late High Priest, and surreptitiously slipped it into his waistband. If he was right he'd be able to sell it as a holy relic, but he had no intention of telling Islington about it. The man had promised him the next find, and he didn't want it to be a severed finger. Then he remembered the first finger, the one which had borne the ring, and he wondered whether it was still bobbing around in the ocean. The only thing better than finding one holy relic on a boring guard detail was finding two holy relics.