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

by T. J. Garrett

  Gathering his wits, he saluted the major. “By your leave, sir, our things are upstairs.”

  “As you say, Lieutenant,” Mikelmoor said, smiling. “Quick as you can, please. I want to be back in the palace within the hour.”

  Grady waved Cal and the others towards the stairs. It wouldn’t take five minutes to pack – they had never actually unpacked. Once in their room, and the door closed, he asked, “Did he come alone? Did he mention other soldiers?”

  Cal shook his head. “No, why?”

  “We saw a dozen or more soldiers in the market, none of who knew where the Green Man was. They’ll be here any minute now.”

  Si’eth jumped to his feet. “You must tell the major. They could be Black Hand.”

  Realising Si’eth was right, Grady turned toward the door.

  A shout, and the sound of breaking glass, came from downstairs. Cal and the others armed themselves while Grady peered down the hallway. He heard muffled shouts, and then a shrill cry. A moment later, came the sound of someone running up the stairs. It was Mikelmoor and one of his aides. Opening the door wide, Grady waved them into their room.

  Once inside, Mikelmoor put his hand on Grady’s shoulder. “It appears we have brought some friends with us.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Grady muttered, “I think they were already on their way.”

  Mikelmoor’s eyebrow rose. “You could have said something, Lieutenant; I lost two men down there.”

  Grady spun around, pulling himself free from the major’s grip. “Until now, I didn’t know they were not with you.”

  Si’eth pushed his way to the door. “This is no time for an argument; blame each other later. We have to get out of here. There isn’t enough room to fight.”

  Grady let the short Salrian stand in front of him and take up the watch. “He’s right,” he told the others. “There isn’t enough room to fight, but we can defend. There are two entrances to the hallway, the front stairs and the servants’ stairs. We need to block one off.”

  “That’s easily done,” Cal said. “I can jam one of the beds down the servants’ stairwell. It’s very narrow.”

  The eight-foot tall Cren was already picking up one of the three beds when Grady nodded his agreement. Opening the door, he stepped lightly into the hallway and crept to the corner by the main stairwell. Si’eth followed.

  Seemingly from nowhere, a short man with a long dagger stabbed at Grady’s throat. Without thinking, Grady grabbed the man’s arms and pushed him down the stairs, kicking him in the knee for good measure. The short man moaned, and Grady heard others telling him to move out of their way.

  From the corner of his eye, Grady saw a tall, fat man trying to push Si’eth out of his way, in an effort to reach him – apparently, the big man had not realised Si’eth was part of their group. That was the first, and last, mistake the fat man made. Si’eth pulled a blade and hamstrung the taller man. Once the fat man was on his knees, the Salrian drew his blade across the fat man’s neck, before thrusting his dagger through his temple. Either would have been a killing blow… maybe Si’eth wanted to make sure.

  “Look out!” Grady shouted at Si’eth, but it was too late for a warning. Pulling the short dagger from his hip, Grady let fly at the skinny man bearing down on the Salrian. The blade flew inches in front of Si’eth’s nose before sinking into the other man’s neck.

  Suddenly, there were men dressed in palace uniform everywhere, front and behind. Cal had not had enough time to block the servants’ stairs, and twenty men now lurched towards Grady and the others from both left and right.

  Mikelmoor and his aide skipped across the hall and into the room opposite. Grady knew why, and it was a good plan; there would be no crowding up in one doorway.

  Grady found himself back to back with Cal, only feet from the door to their room. An unusually large man and his spry little friend were blocking their route. The big chap had a yellow-toothed sneer and rough stubble on his chin. He smelled like last week’s fish, and his right eye was missing, but none of that stopped him brandishing an iron-spiked cudgel. The spry fellow was much older, leather-faced, and as quick as a ferret in a chicken coop. The small, grey-haired man darted back and forth, stabbing at the air between them.

  “Jaquine won’t like this, Sparra,” the big man told the other. “Finish him, and let’s be done with it.”

  The scrawny man with the dagger lunged forward, but he didn’t see Grady’s needle dagger flick towards him. The grey-haired man dropped to his knees, the needle dagger sprouting from his left eye. Sparra – if that was his name – fell forward and grabbed Grady about the knees. Kicking hard, Grady struggled to free himself. The big man raised his spiked cudgel. He gave Grady a yellow-toothed grin as he took a step forward.

  The grin fell from his face when two other men Grady hadn’t seen before jumped on his back.

  Staring, Grady kicked Sparra’s corpse away, as the hall began to fill with brown and black coated men. He could hear Mrs. Cookson shouting instruction from the servants’ stairs, and a half dozen more men, with golden scarves tied around their necks – fisherfolk – leaped on yet more of the disguised soldiers.

  Mikelmoor grabbed Grady’s arm. There was a bruise blossoming under the man’s eye, but he was smiling. “Come. Let’s leave them to it.”

  Si’eth was scowling, and Mikelmoor’s aide was walking backwards, arrows nocked and pointed towards the fighting. Cal and Toban were already on the stairs, making their way to the common room. Grady followed them into the room and saw Mrs. Cookson, standing in front of the fireplace, brandishing a frying pan.

  He looked down at the dead man lying on the floor and then turned to Mikelmoor. Grady asked, “Where did they get the uniforms from?” He knew Lord Breen and the Black Hand had their fingers in many pies, even back when he was a guard, but disguising themselves with real palace uniforms?

  The major shrugged. “A few coins in the right hand… a man could buy the crown.” The major eyed Mrs. Cookson. “How did you know which men to attack?”

  Mrs. Cookson shrugged. “If they had short hair and a clean shave…”

  “Of course,” Mikelmoor whispered, and Grady winced. Why didn’t I think about that? Those men in the market, they had to be Black Hand. Then louder, for all to hear, Mikelmoor said, “We are in your debt, madam. If there’s ever anything—”

  “No debt, Major,” she interrupted, slapping the frying pan against her open palm. “The Black Hand should know better than cause trouble in the Docklands. The Fisherfolk Guild and the Sailors Circle won’t stand for their foolishness.”

  “Nevertheless,” Mikelmoor said, bowing, “I am in your debt.”

  Of all things, Mrs. Cookson blushed. Putting a hand to her cheek, she smiled at the major. “You’ll come to one of our dances, Major. Your company will be payment in full.”

  Grady coughed, but couldn’t help a smile. “Perhaps we should move on before they decide to send more.”

  “If they send more, they’ll get the same treatment,” Mrs. Cookson said, and Grady didn’t doubt her for a moment.

  Looking at his dead men, Mikelmoor sighed. “Yes, it won’t be long before the news reaches whoever sent them after you. I don’t doubt for a moment that there’ll be spies in the docks. I don’t think we have time to wait for reinforcements, and the gods alone know where my other three men have gone. They’re either dead, or working with them.” Mikelmoor raised his head as a loud cheer came from the stairs. “Still, we appear to be safe enough for the moment. We could send word: have half a squad here within the hour.”

  Grady shook his head. Trust more of the guards? Not likely. “We’ll go now.”

  After collecting their things, Grady and the others followed Major Mikelmoor out. Surrounded by an escort of twenty fisherfolk, they made their way towards the palace. They made a strange procession, one that would doubtless raise a few eyebrows, but Grady did not care. Stay in the light, that’s what the note had said, and for once, he would take
a stranger’s advice.

  CHAPTER 8

  And How the Mighty

  Vila knew she was up against the clock from the moment she felt the Power of the Barrow Shard slipping away. Having the ability to create a new one would mean nothing if her control over the dragons – her control over Sek the Black – slipped as well.

  It was too early in the campaign to risk allowing her influence over the Black Dragon to wane. Another week or two and she might have changed her mind. She was sure she had a little time – a few weeks, at least – before the effects of the Barrow Shard wore off and the dragons started to think for themselves. A few weeks should be more than enough time to return to Eiras and create another Shard. It had to be. If not, she might not live to regret the last few days.

  After Doran and the other captains had left the tent, and after she had spoken to the Ealdihain girl, Vila had begun to spread the word about her new plan. Unfortunately, none of the other officers had shown any urgency. She had wanted to prepare them, make them see that time was not on their side, but without admitting why time was against her. None had moved with any urgency. Oh, they had run off like good little soldiers, telling her they would “see to it right away,” but as soon as her back was turned, they had gone about their business as if not hearing her orders. The Troopers – her Troopers – were pulling their weight, though. They always did. She would have to start making examples of the others.

  Maybe Turasan had been right; maybe she should not have recruited so many officers from the noble families. That, it seemed, might turn out to be an uncommon mistake, on her part. She had thought recruiting officers from the noble houses would make her popular, improve morale. Including the whole of Toi’ildrieg in her victory over Aleras’moya would show her critics she was not just a tyrant with a leash on the dragons, and that all would benefit from their service to the Island. As it was, she doubted any of her new officers had thought twice about patriotism. More likely, they were wondering what they might get out of it, what spoils of war they might share between themselves. Yes, Turasan was right, but it was too late to go back, especially now the Shard had been destroyed.

  “The Amlin Valley, ma’am?” Sergeant Haselan, the dragon rider, had asked her when she told him which route they would be taking. “Wouldn’t it be better to…?” He had trailed off. Doubtless, the look on her face had told him that said she didn’t want to hear his arguments.

  Vila had considered making the sergeant her first example – how dare he question her? And in front of the other sergeants, too. Discipline had been getting far too lax of late; they would all want cotton sheets next, and tavern maids to serve their supper. What damage might they do if they questioned orders during an attack? These were the Kel’madden, or were supposed to be – the strongest, the most skilful and well-disciplined army in the known world. So why all the questions? It couldn’t just be because of a few arrogant officers. She would have to have words with the captains again; stop this rot before it popped up at a time that really mattered.

  Things didn’t get any better the next morning when they set off back to the Amlin Valley. She had spoken to the girl, Elspeth, again, and Vila found that she was beginning to like her. Well, she is attractive, with a splendid bosom and eyes, she could— Vila had had to shake herself out of that thought. What had she been doing – letting the sergeant off without as much as a harsh word, and now this swooning over the southern girl? Elspeth had caused her all this trouble. She had destroyed the Shard.

  And that was when Vila had realised…

  …The Shard; of course, that must be it!

  For over a century, most of her Power had been concentrated on the Shard. Now it was gone, Vila could feel the Power surging through her again. She could hear the Voice clearer than ever, see the land the way an Oracle should see it. It was confusing; that was why she had been off her game. It was then that she realised that she had to get a grip on her mood before it caused her real problems.

  What with one thing and another, it had been a relief when they finally landed at the halfway point to Amlin. Looking down at the ground as it rushed below her had made her dizzy. Resting west of Uldmae, at the source of the Broan River, had given her a chance to settle her stomach. She would need to fix this before they started the last leg. There would be no rest once they were over the ocean.

  Things had gotten a little better when she went searching for food, and found that the cook had brought some of those little cakes she liked: light pastry, with strawberry preserve spread on top. He called it a “tart.” Terrible name, but the cake was delicious. All the better because Elspeth seemed to have liked them, too.

  Looking at the girl, Vila had realised she would have to get her some better clothes, and then she had had to chastise herself again for considering what Elspeth would look like without any. It had only made her smile, though; no harm done, not really.

  Laughing nervously, Vila had sat at Elspeth’s side. If she were going to persuade the girl she was right about the palace… and Diobael, she would have to start somewhere. A few kind words would help.

  “You’ll not be harmed, Elspeth,” she had told her, taking a small bite of her tart. “And we will bring you back, I will promise you that much.”

  For a wonder, the younger woman had smiled at her. It was likely relief, Vila knew that much, but still, it was pleasant. Looking at the girl, she had considered telling her everything then and there. Elspeth would have to know sooner or later, but that would likely just frighten her. Small steps would be better.

  Elspeth had whispered a quiet, “Thank you,” though, when Vila had stood up to leave. Vila had smiled at her, reached down and patted her arm. Maybe she would listen; she seemed bright enough.

  At that point, things were going well; they were ahead of schedule, the captains would follow her orders, the general would take command by tomorrow, and the cook had brought her favourite cakes. If only she could have stopped feeling sick every time she looked down.

  Her stomach had felt a little better over the second leg of their journey to Amlin, but only a little. Staying an extra half-day in the valley had become inevitable. Inconvenient, but if it would mean a safe journey across the water, then a morning’s rest would be a small price to pay.

  Her mood had lifted again when they finally flew into the valley. Two Cuis and a Drin lounged near the corral: three more dragons to add to her arsenal. If she could remake the Shard, of course. Which she would, there could not be any doubt of that. She would have sixteen dragons with which to flatten the enemy.

  Landing as near as possible to her tent, she had been met by the new captain. She hadn’t remembered his name. A short man, even for a Kel’madden, he had wispy hair and small eyes. Another noble, she had thought. Well, he couldn’t do much harm here.

  As it happened, she need not have worried. The little man, a Captain Reddis, had informed her that the rest of the reserves and the backup supplies were on schedule. That had made her smile. She would remember this Captain Reddis; organising the camp without her having to look over his shoulder, she could do with twenty more like him.

  Almost two days since Elspeth destroyed the Shard, and things were beginning to look up – apart from that brief moment in Reddis’ tent, when she could have sworn somebody was watching her. She would replace the Shard and be back in time to see the palace defeated. It was mid-afternoon, and with a renewed feeling of confidence, Vila took to her bed for a nap. For the first time since the Shard had been destroyed, her mind felt clear; she knew what had to be done. More importantly, she was sure she could do it.

  * * *

  Vila woke with a start. Sitting up quickly, her sweat-drenched sheet gathered around her feet. A lump in her throat made her want to sick up her tarts. A scream gathered in her gut, hard to suppress. She realised who had been watching her – the Gan Oracle. How could she be so stupid? Cursing, she kicked the sheets away and poured a glass of wine. That girl should be dead; they should have killed her outsid
e the Tunnels of Aldregair. Incompetent fools. Now there was another Oracle! Another with her power; only this… child had access to Arenthenia and the Knowledge of Ages.

  A chill came over her as she contemplated the possibilities. The girl could direct their armies; know every move the Kel’madden made. She had to get back to the Karan and block her… But what about the Shard? Maybe a message to the captains, tell them to keep altering their plans, or at least make more than one. No, they would think her mad and would want to know why. Maybe just a note to the general.

  Then it came to her. A smile blossomed on her lips. “She knows I’m going to Eiras. She will follow me,” she whispered, and then laughed. That would leave the Gan at least one dragon short, maybe two, if she brought others with her. “Ha! Let her try to stop me. I’ll have a nice surprise waiting.”

  She called out to her maid.

  Elka ran into the tent and bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I will have dinner in an hour,” Vila said, pulling a dressing gown around her shoulders. “I’ll take it in here.” Elka curtsied again and turned to leave. “Oh, and Elka.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Bring Elspeth, once dinner is ready. We will dine together.”

  It was time to tell the girl what was at stake.

  * * *

  After leaving the command tent, and once again staring at the dragons in the corral, Elspeth could do little else other but follow Elka as she continued with her duties. Apparently, Elka – a handsome, motherly lady, and the shortest woman Elspeth had ever met – was also in charge of the kitchens and laundry. Despite appearing gentle, Elka was as fierce with her staff as any foreman or deck master.

  Elka, who dressed all in white apart from a blue fringe on her collar and hem, marched from one tent to the next, waving a long ladle as though it was a cane for beating folk. Most of the workers were old men, some with the grizzled scars of battle. Yet, despite towering over her, no one questioned the older woman’s orders. Even the lesser officers, those Elspeth thought might be sergeants or corporals, moved out of her way.