The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  Gullien Hanta, the colonel’s assistant, and Daric’s friend, was dressed in silver-red livery – the same colours as the Royal Cavalry. The old man waved at Daric as he quickly made his way across the yard.

  “Welcome, welcome, Captain Re’adh. Have you come to reinstate your commission? Finish your twenty? Please say you have.” The old man laughed as he extended a skeletal hand.

  Gullien should have retired fifteen years ago. Well, he did retire from the cavalry but immediately took up a position as the colonel’s assistant. His hair was thinning; his eyes were next to useless. He was probably the oldest man Daric knew, but he was very pleased to see him.

  “No, Gullien,” Daric laughed. “But I’m glad you’re still here. I’d have bet good money on you taking your pension by now.” Daric climbed from his horse and warmly took Gullien’s hand.

  “Not while the colonel still serves, Daric. You should know that by now.”

  “Yes, of course, Gullien. Gods, it is good to see you.” Daric’s smile widened at the thought of all the times Gullien had mentored him during his early days in the guards. More than once, the old man had saved him from a week in the kitchens, cleaning pans and plates.

  “You have brought some friends. Kirs det, Oustan,” Gullien said, bowing deeply to Cal.

  Cal, who had dismounted, returned the bow. “Kirs det, Oustan. Meit rai noyash eth Cren?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, son,” Gullien said, craning his neck to meet Cal’s eye. “I only know how to say hello.”

  Cal laughed. “You honour me with that much, sir. I am pleased to meet you.”

  Grady emerged from behind his horse.

  “You too!” Gullien gasped. “Have you come for a party? I don’t think we have enough ale.”

  Grady smiled. Taking Gullien’s hand, he pulled the old man into a manly hug. “I’m afraid not, old friend. We have a dire need to speak to Le’ode.”

  Just at that moment, Gullien squinted. Tilting his head, he looked directly into Si’eth’s raised hood. “It is not a good time to bring a Salrian into Taris, Daric. Did you know they are massing on our border?”

  “‘Massing?’ What do you mean?” Daric turned to look at Si’eth. The Salrian seemed as surprised as he was to hear the news.

  “Why, what have you heard?” Si’eth asked.

  “One of their… one of your generals has set up camp north of Eaird’vae. We’ve been getting news of all sorts of strange goings-on. The farmers are nervous. Well, you have seen for yourself; half of them are camped in the streets. And I’d bet the other half are on their way east.”

  “I don’t know about the ‘strange goings-on,’” Si’eth said, “but I know why the general is there; he’s waiting for me.”

  “Is he now?” Gullien said. He tilted his head and stared at Si’eth. “And for what reason would a general be waiting for you, young man? And only a few leagues north of Cul’taris?”

  “It’s a long story, Gullien,” Daric said, interrupting Si’eth. “Perhaps you could listen while I tell it to the colonel. It’s the reason why we are here.”

  “In that case, yes. The colonel will be glad to hear what you have to say. Come, the boy will stable your horses.”

  The old man led the way across the courtyard.

  “Thank you, Gullien. I hope we can give him some answers.” Daric untied Toban’s leash from the saddle, before letting the stablehand takes his horse. The wolf, to his credit, had remained very… wolf-like. Daric wondered how long he could keep it up. Toban did not look happy.

  “Me, too,” Gullien said. “The farmers have been filling the colonel’s ears with a load of old travellers’ tales about witches and dragons. Whoever heard of such nonsense? Yes, he will be glad to hear what you have to say, there’s nought so sure.”

  Daric glanced over at Cal, who turned to Grady, then both looked at Si’eth.

  “What?” Si’eth moaned, raising his palms. “It’s not my fault.”

  “You know what they say about the bearer of ill tidings, Si’eth,” Daric said, as he followed Gullien up the steps to the keep.

  “No,” Si’eth said, “but I can guess. I suggest you talk to the man, Daric.”

  Grady laughed and patted Si’eth on the back. “Now you’re talking like a Surabhan soldier,” he said. “Let the captain take the flack.”

  Daric ignored them both.

  The Gieth’eire keep was a drafty old place, and cold, despite the warmth outside. Daric followed Gullien along the dimly lit corridors. They crossed the centre of the keep three times, as they ascended one stone stairway after another. The slotted arrow slits they passed gave scant views of Cul’taris and the surrounding countryside. It was almost dizzying, as every small slit would give a slightly different view. They crossed four floors on their way to the colonel’s quarters. The first two held the kitchens and the officers’ barracks, neither any better decorated than the sparse stairways. Only the Kings Standard – hung on every landing – provided any real colour: a rich red with blue trim, with the king’s crest, two cranes over a silver portcullis, displayed for all to see. The third floor was the women’s quarters: housemaids, cooks, and a few guards – most of the women guards were in the top barracks. The fourth held the War Room and was the only level with horizontal, rather than vertical, slits in the stonework. Designed to give a panoramic view of the surrounding area, but not large enough to make a good target for enemy arrows.

  While they walked, Gullien spoke of the times, and the “ridiculous” claims made by some of the farmers, especially those to the north of Taris.

  “Have any of them actually seen anything,” Daric asked, “or is it all just talk?”

  “Some swear they have. In the beginning, no two stories were the same. Most of the tales were about wolves leaving their territory and running south. The dragon stories didn’t start until yesterday, told by folk from the northeast. Now, every other man swears he has seen a bloody dragon. You know what farmers are like; they do love their stories.”

  “The northeast you say.” Daric curled his lip. That would fit with what Kirin’thar had said about the Kel’madden’s advance through An’aird Barath.

  Gullien gave Daric a queer look. “You’re not holding with these fantasies, are you?”

  Daric didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t want to imply anything, either. “Let’s just get to the colonel,” he said.

  Gullien hesitated before carrying on in silence. They reached the fifth landing. The old man showed them into the colonel’s quarters.

  Daric and the others passed through the ironclad, wooden door into the audience room. The colonel’s quarters were as bland as the rest of the keep, save for the two Cavalry Standards hanging along the back wall, between yet more arrow slits.

  A long table, its top full of maps and scrolls, took up a fair portion of the floor. A desk with a few chairs and a large set of dark-wood shelves placed between the flags were the only furnishings. A weapon rack hung on the left wall, and on the right, a roughly-shaped mannequin held the colonel’s armour. Helmet, breastplate, studded leggings and chain gauntlets: all shrouded in the colonel’s red and silver tabard.

  Le’ode was on his own, sitting behind the wide desk, studying a map. He rose when Daric entered and walked around his desk to greet them. The man looked tired. Old. He had lost a lot of weight since Daric had last seen him, and was now a thin man. His once blond hair was all but gone and his gaunt eyes reflected the times. Something was troubling him; maybe he knew more than Gullien. Maybe he already knew about the Kel’madden and the dragons. Either that, or he was ill.

  “You’re a sight for these old eyes, Daric. And you Grady.” Le’ode said. He shook their hands, then turned his attention to Cal. “Woodsman, it is an honour to welcome you to my home.” Finally, he turned his gaze on Si’eth. His expression changed to one of anger. “And you, Salrian? Why are you here?”

  Daric put a hand on Si’eth’s shoulder. “This is Si’eth. He is with us; he has been very help
ful. We need to talk, Colonel; a lot has happened over the past few weeks. May we sit?”

  The Colonel paused a moment, staring at Si’eth. He broke out of his musings and shook his head. “Of course, yes. Come, come sit down,” he waved them all in. “I have a larger chair in the other room. Gullien, would you… for our Cren guest?”

  Cal nodded his thanks. And Gullien darted into the adjacent room. He came back a moment later, half-dragging, half-carrying a huge, heavily carved chair with leather-padded seat – it looked like a poor man’s throne. Cal grabbed the chair from Gullien’s struggling hands, placed it next to Daric, and sat.

  Daric continued, “Thank you, Colonel. It has been a long day. Nice to sit on something that isn’t strapped to a horse.”

  “Enough with the ‘Colonel,’ Daric, unless you plan on taking up your commission. Amerkin will do, in fact, I insist.”

  The colonel gathered some mugs from the shelf and began to pour wine. The others positioned themselves around the colonel’s desk.

  Daric removed the leash from around Toban’s neck. The wolf thanked him for “Taking the damn thing off,” which made the colonel stop what he was doing and stare.

  “A Cren, a Salrian, and one of the Rukin,” the colonel mumbled. “I’m guessing this is important news, Daric.”

  “He’s not just one of the Rukin; he is Toban, their Alpha. My Woodsman friend” – Daric pointed at Cal – “is here at the behest of Kirin’thar, himself; and Si’eth, here, is a Salrian commander. Sorry… Captain Si’eth Uldmae. Their commanders are sailors, apparently.”

  “I see,” the colonel said. He looked bemused. “Quite a heady group you have gathered. Perhaps you should start at the beginning. I’ll send for food.”

  It took well over an hour, but Daric explained everything. As per the colonel’s request, he began right at the beginning. The colonel was pleased to learn Gialyn might join the guards; scornful at the folly of taking youngsters through the Am’bieth marsh; intrigued at the prospect of visiting the wolves of Illeas’den for himself – Toban offered – and astonished at the Salrians’ stupidity in pursuing Daric all the way to Crenach Coi. The old man appeared sceptical when Daric told him about Arfael, but he did accept it – after a brief history lesson from Toban about the Kel’mai’s involvement in Vila’slae’s previous invasion attempt. The map, of course, was the most troubling element of Daric’s tale.

  The colonel opened his mouth to speak when a knock came at the door.

  The door swung open. Three men walked in. Two were lower-house guardsmen, the kind used by merchants. The third man looked as if he might be a middle-ranking noble; fine clothes, ornate hilt on his sword. Daric thought he recognised him.

  “My pardon, Colonel,” the nobleman said. “I didn’t know you had company. I can come b—”

  Si’eth jumped to his feet. “Faelen, it’s Faelen,” he shouted. The Salrian picked up his chair and threw it at the guards.

  Daric stood. He stared blankly at Si’eth.

  “Faelen!” Si’eth shouted again, this time wildly jabbing his pointing finger at the nobleman, who had ducked down behind one of the guards to avoid being hit by the flying chair. “The man who gave me the bloody map! God’s Daric, your knife, quickly.”

  Before Daric could fully understand, Faelen had pulled the two guards back out of the room, slamming the massive ironclad door behind them.

  Si’eth ran to the door and tried to open it.

  Above the rattling of the latch, Daric heard a sharp, sliding noise, like furniture dragged across the floor. He ran to help Si’eth.

  “It’s jammed!”

  “He’s forced the bar shut and wedged it with something,” Daric said. “What the bloody hell is the bar doing on the outside?”

  “It’s not on the outside,” the colonel said. “He’s jammed the latch. Pull harder! Hurry, he’s getting away.” The colonel paced back and forth, seemingly eager to catch up with Faelen. “I never did like that man. If you had mentioned his name at the beginning…”

  “Well, we hadn’t got that far yet,” Daric said. “And besides, I thought Faelen was leagues away. I saw him riding toward Beugeddy.”

  “He came up from Arandor three days ago,” the colonel said. “Been moping around ever since. Poking his nose into official business, stirring up rumours; a real pain in the—”

  “He circled around the marsh?” Daric asked. “Why would he do that?”

  The colonel shrugged. “How would I know?”

  “This bloody thing isn’t budging,” Grady growled, trying to force the bolt back. “At this rate, he’ll be half way back to Arandor.”

  “May I?” Cal asked, gesturing open-handed towards the door.

  Daric backed off. “By all means.”

  The big Cren grabbed the latch with both hands, took a deep breath, and shoulder barged the door. Daric heard a… pinging noise come from beyond the door.

  “You’ve broken one of the pins,” The colonel told Cal. “Try again.”

  Once more, the Cren set himself up for a shoulder barge. He hit the door harder this time. The latch fell away in his hands.

  Cal stood back, and the door swung open.

  * * *

  Daric raced onto the landing and down the first flight of steps. Grady caught up with him at the bottom and, by the second set of steps, Toban overtook them both. The wolf paused a moment to sniff around the third-floor landing, the ladies quarters.

  “Faelen has spent quite some time here,” Toban said, “but the scent is old; last night, I’d guess.”

  The three continued down through the kitchens, followed closely by Cal. The colonel had stayed in the War Room. Even from the kitchens, Daric could hear the old man bellowing orders to have the gates sealed.

  Toban paused at the lower landing and looked left and right. “What’s down there?” He nodded towards a wooden door at the far end of the kitchen.

  Daric growled. “Bloody hell, he’s in the tunnel. Come on, you two … and pray the guards are alert, or he’ll be out and gone.”

  The guards were not alert. Daric found two of them slumped against the wall of the stone tunnel, not ten paces from the exit. No way to die, he thought, looking at the knife wound between the shoulder blades of one of the guards. The other had put up a fight; he had blood on his sword. “Good for you, son,” Daric whispered to the dead man, hoping the guard had found Faelen with his blade. No, we need the fool alive! Curse him, damned traitor.

  Grady cracked open the trap door, just as Cal caught up with them. The Cren, bent double, must have crawled through the tunnel.

  “I won’t fit through there,” the tall Cren said.

  “Go back and get the horses ready,” Daric said. “I don’t think we will be far behind you. Faelen has most likely stabled his horses close to the gate. He’s no fool; he would have prepared an exit.”

  Cal nodded and, after struggling to turn around, disappeared back the way he came.

  Grady peered through the crack in the trapdoor. It opened into a grain store near the eastern wall, not fifty paces from the East Gate and next to a large stable.

  “How did he know about the tunnels?” Grady asked while helping Daric to lift Toban through the trapdoor.

  “Clearly, he is not working alone. We need to take him alive.”

  Grady nodded before pulling himself up into the grain store. Once through, he lowered a hand to help Daric. Toban was sniffing around the walls by the time Daric got to his feet. The store had three exits. Daric guessed Faelen and his bodyguards would use the one nearest the stables, so was surprised when the wolf growled at the west entrance.

  “What the hell? Why would they go back to the city?” Daric asked. Although he didn’t expect an answer, the man had no good reason to run west.

  “Just more proof he’s not working alone,” Grady said.

  Daric nodded. He hurried through the west exit and immediately understood why Faelen had chosen this way out. The road was packed; the traitor could e
asily hide in a city full of refugees.

  “So much for the horses,” Grady said. “He’s lost, Daric; we will never find him in this. We’ll just have to hope whoever is aiding him isn’t too powerful. With all these farmers coming and going, they could easily smuggle him out of town.”

  “I smell blood,” Toban whispered, aware of the other people on the street.

  Daric looked around and then took down a small length of rope from a hook inside the grain store.

  “Not again!”

  “Sorry, Toban, but we want to track him, not cause a panic.”

  Toban let Daric tie the rope around his neck, then led them off into the busy streets. Folk cleared a path for the wolf as Toban sniffed right and left along the walkway. The streets were mostly dirt in this part of town. Daric hoped the blood would soak in and leave a good trail. And judging by the pace Toban set…

  The wolf led them along the main street and then down an alleyway between an inn and a bakery. He turned into the yard at the back of the inn and made straight for the cellar door.

  “Another tunnel?” Toban asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Daric replied, “but who knows?” He took Toban’s leash off and opened the slanted cellar door.

  Grady peered in. “It’s dark down there.”

  Daric gave his friend a wry grin. “I’ll go first.”

  Slowly, Daric walked down the side of the narrow wooden stairway. Once at the bottom, he waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, then waved the other two to stay put while he made sure there wasn’t a trap waiting for them. The smell of old ale and sawdust filled his nose; if there were a tunnel, Toban wouldn’t be following any scent down here. The air was warm and damp, the ground soft underfoot. After a moment, Daric saw a wide brick column, and then another, and another. Arched recesses lined the blackened walls; there were plenty of places to hide. He quietly called to the others. Toban came down first and immediately made his way to the nearest column. The wolf stood, staring at the first alcove, as if on guard. Grady followed. He held a long piece of wood in his hand; it looked like a fence post.