The man nodded eagerly and scurried away to comply.
Outside the tavern, in the dusty slum street, Sanction's ever-present tang of sulfur and steam hung in the air. The draconian strode rapidly up the sloping road, his tail tip sending a snake of dust coiling into the sky.
The young messenger was having a difficult time keeping up with the Aurak. He broke into a run. "Master Krowly, don't forget. I was ordered to accompany you," the messenger said, panting.
"Master Krowly does not exist anymore. He was a yokel I killed so that I could take his shape and hunt down Jamison. My name is Captain Bulmammon, elite assassin for Highlord Ariakas. What is your name?"
The last time Bulmammon asked for a person's name, the person ended up in two hunks of meat on the floor. The youth's hand fell to the oversized dagger he wore conspicuously at his belt.
"Karl," he said warily. "I am Private Karl Baeron."
"Private Baeron," the draconian snapped, "your orders are to accompany me. My orders are to report immediately. I'm responsible only for my own compliance."
Private Baeron flushed at the rebuke. An uncomfortable silence fell between the two. Uncomfortable as far as the private was concerned. The messenger tried to make conversation. "Is Bulmammon your family name, or your personal name, Captain?"
"I have no family," the Aurak replied curtly. "No friends. One cannot be an assassin otherwise."
"Perhaps I would make a good assassin," Karl stated. "I am an orphan."
A sidelong thrust of the draconian's long snout brought razor-sharp teeth snapping in front of Karl's face. The draconian was amused. "How many men have you killed, Private Baeron?"
"None yet, but I've put in for transfer to the Solamnian front," Karl returned defensively.
The Aurak's tone was bone-cold. "I killed before I was three hours old. I came from a defective egg. My fellow hatchlings and I were deformed-puny, weak, missing a digit on our hands and feet, born with red coxcombs on our heads. The others were crushed under the heels of the priests who had made us. I hid in the pile of bodies and waited until only one guard remained. He was using a pitchfork to clear off the dead. I killed him, my first kill, before I was three hours old."
Bulmammon grinned. "From that moment, I knew what I was born to do. To kill. To torment and terrorize and kill. I thank the priests for teaching me that. I thank Ariakas for paying me to do it."
Reaching a bridge that spanned one of Sanction's many rivers of lava, the draconian and the discomfited messenger crossed over it. The private winced at the uncomfortable heat that radiated from the stone bridge. The draconian took no note whatsoever. He was looking ahead, beyond the bridge, into the stone-paved plaza of the Temple of Luerkhisis. In the plaza clustered the tents of Ariakas's encamped army. Among the flapping folds of canvas moved other draconians similar to Bulmammon. Compared to him, however, these others seemed dingy and somehow ... common. Instead of gold-glinting scales and sleek wingless bodies, these draconians were brassy and bewinged. They dawdled about their assigned tasks. Interspersed with these reptilian troops were human mercenaries, minotaur warriors, and even a few chained ogres-Ariakas's brute squads.
The golden draconian paused at the apex of the bridge.
"Over there, Captain Bulmammon," said the private. "There is the colonel. There, by those shock troops."
Bulmammon's eyes shifted to where the young man pointed. Near the bridge stood eight draconian warriors, their scaly hides looking gray beneath the ashen sky of evening. Their wings moved in sullen fanning motions and cast deep shadows over their snapping-turtle heads. The draconians each bore a notch-toothed sword and wore metal-plated armor. One carried mountain-climbing gear-stout ropes and grapples; odd equipment for a winged creature.
"Sivaks," Bulmammon said, the single word expressing his contempt for his cousin draconians. "I hope this doesn't involve Sivaks."
With that, the Aurak strode down the arched bridge and onto the cracked stone plaza. All hesitation gone, he stalked up to the human colonel as though he would walk right through the man and on to the temple. As it was, the assassin halted half a pace too close to the colonel, forcing the man to hop backward like a spooked bunny.
"Blue Dragonarmy Assassin, Captain Bulmammon, at your service, Colonel Armon. What are your orders, sir?"
The colonel quickly recovered his composure, though his tight white face went a little tighter and a little whiter beneath his short sandy hair. He moved around the assassin and gestured toward the Sivaks, whose eyes watched the pair with avid interest.
"This is your strike team," Colonel Armon said. "Eight of the best Sivaks we've got. I want them returned-all of them." He shook his head. "No pleasure killing this time, Captain Bulmammon. I can't afford it."
The Aurak grunted. "I will return to you as many as are not killed in the completion of our mission, Colonel. Now, as to that mission ..."
"You will lead these warriors toward the North Pass. Just before you reach it, you will see a large oak with a rope dangling from its lowest branch. A deserter was hanged there five days back. I left him as an example, but the body has disappeared. The rope is severed fifteen feet off the ground. The patrol that noticed the corpse's absence found a trail of trampled ground and claw marks-big claw marks-leading back to a cave. A lookout posted to watch the cave mouth reported seeing a maimed dragon-"
"A dragon? You want me to assassinate a dragon?" Bulmammon roared in disbelief.
"It is only a young dragon, and one of its wings is shredded. A young gold. Apparently we killed the mother some time back. We've only just discovered the wyrmling now. It's not a great threat, but why let it live to become one?" The colonel paused and seemed to consider. "And, no, Captain, I don't want you to assassinate the dragon. Highlord Ariakas wants you to. The orders come directly from him. You are to use the mountaineering gear to climb down into the cave, find the dragon, and slay it. The ropes will also help you drag its head back here."
"Let me go it alone, sir," Bulmammon said. "These Sivaks will only get in the way."
The colonel shook his head. "They go with you. Those are also the Highlord's orders. The Sivaks, and Private Baeron."
"Private Baeron?" Bulmammon scowled. "What do I need a puny human tagging along for?"
"Highlord's orders. Set out immediately. Good hunting, Captain."
Bulmammon snorted.
*****
Captain Bulmammon set a breakneck pace, intent on reaching the North Pass above the Temple of Huerzyd before daylight had completely quit the sky. The private kept up, stride for stride, though sweat glistened on his face. The Sivaks marched afterward in heel-pounding double-time. They crossed the bridge and charged through the slums, the sound of their footfalls clearing the streets for blocks ahead of them. As they pushed past the Temple of Huerzyd, the last sliver of sun shone on the western Newsea. It was dark when the team began the winding climb toward the North Pass, but the red glow of the harbor volcano gave them as much light as did the sun.
The path they traveled was an uneven dirt trail studded with footworn rocks. It climbed steeply through switchbacks and past basalt outcrops. Blasted plants clung here and there on the volcanic mountainside.
The group marched onward, silent except for the scrape of scales on stone.
They crossed a saddle of eroded sand and climbed from basalt to granite. The peaks ahead were not volcanic, were older, rounder. Scrub brush gave way to trees-oak and ash and fir-that glowed so red from the calderas below that they seemed to burn. Captain Bulmammon led his troops into the shadow-dark woods.
Private Baeron drew his belt dagger. The blade flashed inexpertly in his hand, as though he'd used it for nothing but shaving-and didn't even need it for that. Bulmammon grinned and shook his red-coxcombed head. This human-an assassin!
Emerging from the tortuous trail through the woods, Bulmammon led the squad through a mountainside meadow and onto a promontory, which afforded a view of the fiery city behind them. In the center of the grassy
knoll stood a huge oak beside the trail, its limbs splayed.
Bulmammon halted so suddenly that Private Baeron nearly ran full into him. Baeron swerved as the draconian's head swung around and fixed a red eye on him. "Put that dagger away, Private! You're liable to hurt yourself!" As the young man resheathed his dagger, Bulmammon turned back toward the tree. Behind him the Sivaks snarled and snapped among themselves.
Bulmammon spent a moment studying the tree, and the rope that dangled loosely some ten feet above his head. Slowly he turned and scowled at his troops.
"There is a traitor among us," he rasped.
Though no Sivak made any apparent motion, a susurrus of protest and disbelief ran among them.
Furious, Bulmammon advanced on the soldiers. He reached the nearest subordinate and seized the grapple ropes wound in bandolier-fashion around the creature. He shook the draconian, and wrenched the ropes free.
The Sivak glowered. "I did nothing, sir!"
Bulmammon did not seem to hear. He walked away from the line of draconians and toward the huge oak. With a flip of his clawed hand, he flung one of the grapples up over the stout hanging-limb, and kept walking. The line paid out from his hands and the grapple whistled over the branch. The hooked end arced down, caught short on the rope, and whipped rapidly toward Bulmammon's head.
He caught the hook. Iron rang against iron-hard scales.
Bulmammon turned back, faced his task force. In one hand, he held the grapple by its stem. In the other, he held the loose end of rope, allowing the line to uncoil behind him with each step. "One of you is plotting my death." The Sivaks looked at each other, then back at the Aurak. Oddly, they made no protest. It was Private Baeron who intervened. "Sir, that's nonsense!"
"Shut up, Private!" Captain Bulmammon studied the faces of the Sivaks. They were studiously blank, soldiers following orders.
Suddenly, the grapple clutched in Bulmammon's claws swung out toward the fifth Sivak in line. Its barbed tips slid easily beneath the Sivak's belly scales, sliced into a meaty gut. The snapping-turtle face of the Sivak showed nothing, not even surprise, until blood streamed from beneath his beaklike upper lip. The others snarled and growled, fell out of ranks, moving away from their slain fellow.
Captain Bulmammon hauled on the free end of the rope. The line went taut up to the bough, and then beneath the bough, yanking the impaled lizard forward across the grassy ground. In moments the twitching corpse of the soldier was being hoisted, lurchingly, into the air.
Private Baeron stared, openmouthed. As he drew the line in, Bulmammon explained. "After all, Private, to catch a fish, I have to bait my hook."
Once the shivering form hung a good fifteen feet into the air, Bulmammon crossed to a nearby tree stump and knelt to tie off the loose end of the rope.
Dusting off his hands in satisfaction, Bulmammon turned and issued orders. "You two, take up posts fifty paces to the north. You two, the same to the south. You three, take the west. The private and I will remain here. Watch for signs of the dragon. When it comes to take the bait, close in. I'll blind the creature with a magical flare-look away when it goes for the bait, or you'll be stumbling blind-and then I'll rope the beast to the tree trunk. It'll be spraying fire, certainly, but it won't be able to see, or to burn the rope without torching itself. Move in, then, and attack with swords. Any questions?"
The Sivaks were already melting into the darkness. Bulmammon watched them go, then hefted the second grapple and its length of line. He headed for the oak's trunk.
Private Baeron accompanied Bulmammon. As they neared the grisly corpse hanging from the tree, the private slowed, then stopped altogether. He stared in astonishment at the bloody corpse. Lambent light illuminated the face.
Karl gasped and looked at Bulmammon. The private squinted, and blinked, and rubbed his eyes. He stared back at the corpse. "Captain?" he cried. "Captain, why has the traitor turned into you? It has your face!"
Bulmammon was hooking the second grapple into the tree, about five feet off the ground. With patient preoccupation, the Aurak assassin uncoiled the rope, laying it in a large loop on the ground beneath the body. He circled the tree again and threaded the rope across a low branch.
Karl's gaze shifted between the face of the dead Sivak above and the live Aurak below. They were the same, right down to the distinctive red coxcomb.
Bulmammon laughed, a clicking, scissoring sound. He finished his preparations by covering the loop of rope with kicked dust, and then he paid out the free end as he backed toward their sentry position. "It's an old Sivak trick. They take the form of their slayer for three days after they die, so the murderer can be found, or so they can demoralize the killer's friends and kin."
Private Baeron followed the Aurak into the red gloaming. "What good does that do, sir?" the private asked.
"Despair and grief make you weak. You do stupid things," Bulmammon said. He settled into position behind a brush-shrouded boulder.
"Like I said, it's better to be connected to no one."
Karl looked at the slowly swaying corpse, and the black pool of blood forming by drops beneath it. A shudder ran through him. "It's a good thing you discovered the traitor, before he ruined the mission."
"He was no more a traitor than I am," said Bulmammon. "Now shut up. The dragon will have smelled the meat by now."
The sound of something large moving through the forest was followed by an interval of silence, as though the dragon had stopped, was checking to see if anyone was around. They heard two brief snorts. A small cave mouth on a nearby slope briefly glowed with fire. That was a warning. Most creatures would be wise enough to flee a dragon, even a wounded baby dragon. Few would try to trap and kill one.
"When it goes for the body," Bulmammon whispered to the private, "I will set off a brilliant flash of magical light in its eyes. Keep yours turned away. Then, I'll tie it up with the rope, cinching the beast to the trunk of the tree. Are you a fast runner?"
"I've kept pace with you, Captain," replied the private.
"Once the creature is held tight, you take the rope from me and run it around the dragon as many times as the rope will go. Got that?"
Private Baeron nodded.
Then it came, the shuffling rumble of something large and injured picking its way through the scrub plants and down the slope. By the sound of it, the dragon moved slowly, both wounded and watchful. This baby dragon might have been starving and maimed, but its desperation would make it all the more dangerous-a cornered beast.
The sound of the approach grew nearer; the throb shook the mountain. Then, from around a black brake of briars, the wounded wyrm appeared. First came a taloned foreleg, its sinews tight with pain and its claw curled in a ball. That leg was not made to bear weight, but it had done so for some time now, perhaps compensating for a wounded haunch. Into the puff of dust sent up by the foot came the murky outline of a hunger-ravaged breastbone, and another foreleg, this one drawn up beneath the shadow of a gaunt shoulder blade. Above the breastbone, a serpentine neck curled, holding the head up among the shadows of the stars. The moment-glow of fire within the beast's belly, licking up past gullet, tongue, and teeth, pierced the darkness above the shoulders.
As it moved forward, it cast a spell, seemed to drag the shadows along with it.
"A simple obscuring glamour," noted Bulmammon. "It will not stand up to my blinding light."
The dragon limped toward the tree. Using his night vision, Bulmammon watched his ring of Sivak pickets slowly tighten around the beast. The Aurak's breathing slowed, a true predator lying in wait for its prey, and he laid a scaly claw on the tense arm of the private. "Wait. Not yet."
They watched as the magic-shrouded monster sidled toward the dangling corpse. Its fog of darkness could not conceal its starved and miserable state.
"The ropes will hold it," Bulmammon muttered in assurance to himself. "The ropes will bind it to the tree until dragonfire has ignited the whole hilltop. It will light its own pyre."
At
last, the slack-skinned creature was beneath the dripping corpse. It sat down in the dust, lifting its foreclaws from the ground as it craned its neck. The obscuring darkness around it extended upward to envelop the corpse. The rope and the bough shuddered once under terrific weight.
"Not yet," said Bulmammon, his claws digging into the young man's flesh.
The bough shook twice more, and then sprang loose, whipping two severed cords into the air. The sound of crunching bone filled the air.
"Now!" the assassin cried.
Bulmammon kept his tight grip on Karl's arm, nearly yanking the private off his feet as the draconian bolted forward. In his other claw, the draconian held the end of the grapple rope. In moments, the draconian and the messenger had crossed halfway to the dragon.
Within the shadow, the chewing stopped, and wide intelligent eyes turned toward the two attackers.
Bulmammon gasped out a single arcane word, and with a blue-white pop, a lightning-bright ball of energy flashed into and out of existence around the dragon's head.
Captain Bulmammon shut his eyes. When the pop was over and darkness swooped back in upon the hilltop, the draconian swung around. He glimpsed, for one moment, the starved head of the baby dragon. It hovered in white-eyed shock, the half-masticated corpse of the Sivak hanging in its open mouth. The dragon's prickly ears stood upright, and its foreclaws were balled in terror. Fire licked between the dragon's teeth.
Bulmammon halted, yanking the private backward. A hot sizzling roar belched out into the night. Dragonfire. If Bulmammon hadn't stopped him, Private Baeron would have been in the burning heart of the blaze. Then the fire was gone and the captain darted forward, dragged the private with him.
They rushed through air that a moment before had been flame and was still crackling sparks. In five strides, Bulmammon reached the tree and yanked the rope up around the dragon. In two more, the rope whipped tight against the tree. Karl hauled on the line like a longshoreman.
2 - The Dragons at War Page 16