Alacin had his arms spread, sheltering her with his body.
“Are you sure they’re not ours?” she asked. She didn’t get a good look at the two dragons before they disappeared over the buildings.
The screams coming from the next street answered her question.
The dragons flew into view and then hovered above a row of stone buildings. Brea thought the buildings might be the back of the shops that faced the harbour. Why attack there? She had no idea, but the dragons were definitely aiming at something. Were the city guards down there?
“We need to send them on their way,” Alacin said. “Do you think you can manage two of them?”
“I don’t know,” Brea admitted. “Maybe, if we both try.”
She took a deep breath and settled herself. Alacin closed his eyes. She was about to reach for the Voice, when screams from the south made her turn. Two more dragons, both big, flew over the warehouse behind them. They were heading in the same direction the first two had gone.
“I doubt we’ll be able to handle all four,” Alacin said. He pulled himself around and began to focus on the oncoming dragons.
“They’re ours,” Brea said, smiling, as Tor and Ribion flew over the oak tree.
Brea watched as Tor spun in the air and pulled his wings in tight to his chest. Falling now, he headed straight for the two Drin’gaw. The enemy dragons hadn’t seen him yet. Tor struck the first Gaw just below the neck. The Drin flapped his wings, desperately trying to right himself before he hit the building below. With only feet to spare, the Drin managed to pull himself up.
The other had spun around and was heading for Ribion. The Drin was a third the size of the big Cuis, but much faster. Ribion had to twist hard in the air to avoid the Drin’s talons.
The two Drin were together now, flapping hard as they hovered above the stores. Tor flew higher, positioning himself above Ribion; if one of the Drin attacked; either Tor or Ribion would have a clean swipe at them. The Drin seemed to know as much. They turned north and were gone, over the wall before Brea could reach the Voice.
Shame, she thought, would have been helpful if Alacin could have Turned one of them—as with her troopers, the witch had more dragons, too.
Tor didn’t follow.
The black dragon had already told the King the Gan Dragons would not be hunting the Gaw—much to His Majesty’s chagrin. Brea couldn’t blame Tor; the dragons were brothers, and would be again, once the witch’s curse had been lifted—if it actually could be lifted.
“Come on. Let’s get to the tower before more of them turn up,” Brea said.
Alacin, who was still shielding her, unwrapped himself and sat back on his heels.
Brea felt her cheeks redden.
What was she doing? She had known the boy for a while now, so why this sudden attraction? Was it Alacin? Did she feel safe with him, secure, as if a big brother was looking out for her? An attractive big brother, with broad shoulders and a ki—no, stop it! You’re behaving like a fool, girl.
Alacin stood up and looked along the road. “That’s a bit of luck,” he said, pointing to his right. “This road leads to the Eastern Towers.”
“And how do you know that?” Brea asked.
Alacin waved his finger at a stone pillar set at the side of the road. On top, a circular copper plate had the words “The Eastern Towers” engraved on it. There was even an arrow pointing the way.
“I told you I’d get you there,” Alacin said in a dry tone.
Brea laughed. “Your sense of direction is about as good as a drunken piglet, Alacin. If I hadn’t run this way by chance, we’d still be lost.”
“You! I told you to c—”
“Never mind all that,” Brea told him. “Are we going, or do you want to sit here arguing?”
Alacin reached out a hand to help her up. He had a smile on his lips that Brea thought might well border on smugness. Staring at his hand, she hesitated. The man was wilful, self-absorbed; she didn’t think playing the damsel around Alacin would end well—for either of them. She got to her feet without his assistance.
If Alacin was offended, he made no mention of it. “It shouldn’t take long now,” he said. “It’s not like there’s anyone about to get in our way.”
“You shouldn’t joke about that,” Brea said, giving him a vexed glare.
“Sometimes, Brea, joking is all we have left.”
She had no idea what he meant by that. It was proving difficult to tell Alacin’s mood; again, he looked serious. Hoping that all this would be worth the effort, Brea let Alacin lead the way. “This had better work,” she whispered. And was surprised when Alacin answered…
“Work or not, we have to try.”
Brea couldn’t argue with that. If only she weren’t so frightened.
* * *
King Otto Vierdan was sitting on his throne in the Grand Hall of Bailryn Palace. It was hot, and he was bored. Evin was seated in the smaller chair next to him, watching, as generals, nobles and merchants filed past with reports and petitions.
“When will we be done with this?” he asked Evin. “Surely these people have better things to do than bother me.”
“Unfortunately, it is the way these things work, Majesty. We have a chain of command and, like it or not, you are at the top. If you do not give the order—there is no order.”
Otto sighed. He remembered being a child wishing for the day when he would be king. If he knew it was going to be like this, he might have let one of his sisters have the throne—Olivia, not Bryoni or Battina.
“Any news from the wall?” he asked.
“Not in the last few minutes, Majesty. Be patient, it’s going to be a long day. If history is any judge of these matters, there will be a lot of long days before all this is done.”
Otto felt his shoulders sag. It had only been a few hours, and already he was miserable. Wars were supposed to be glorious—no, not glorious: honourable—yet he might as well not be there, for all the good he was doing. Oh, he understood about the chain of command, but the generals knew what they were doing—most of them.
Speaking of generals, Otto eyed a familiar figure shuffling past the still-open door—more merchants were filing into the Grand Hall. “What’s Denisan doing here? I thought I sent him south with the women and children?”
Evin shrugged. “Maybe he’s gathering his belongings.”
Otto let out a long sigh. “What was that you were saying, ‘The chain of command ends with me’? What good is that if nobody listens to my orders?”
“Those that matter listen,” Evin said. “There are always a few that won’t shape up at times like these. Don’t let it concern you, though. Mikelmoor, Re’adh, the Cren; they have the plan well in hand.”
“The Cren,” Otto whispered. “Any sign of this Kirin’thar fellow? He should have been here by now.”
Odaman’s waving hands caught his attention before Evin could answer. The little man was standing by a group of well-dressed merchants, evidently waiting for the nod to approach the throne.
Otto waved them forward.
“He’s on his way,” Evin said. “But you should expect a delay; he has to travel via the southern bridge.”
He looked at her questioningly. Then remembered: “Of course, the Westgate will be closed.”
Evin gave a shallow nod. With visitors within earshot, it wouldn’t be proper for her to talk directly to the King.
Otto turned back to the merchants.
They looked typical enough. Fat, overdressed men and women with pink-cheeked faces and too much jewellery. All except the man on the left, who was pulling a… dagger… out… from under his cloak?
Otto reacted instinctively. Kicking his stool away, he threw his goblet at the dagger man. His sword was drawn and ready before the would-be attacker could respond. Another merchant, a fat woman, shrieked and passed out. Fortunately, she fell against the dagger man, who had to sidestep the toppling woman to regain his footing. Otto had his sword in the man’s gut b
efore he could stand straight.
A sharp pain coursed through the King’s arm. Another man—a short, skinny fellow with hardly any hair—had scraped a dagger across Otto’s wrist. The smaller man was fast, and before Otto could gather his wits, the small man had made another cut across his thigh. Only a short, shallow cut, but it stung like hot iron.
Evin had pulled her own dagger. She threw it at the little man. The blade dug three inches in the attacker’s right shoulder. The assassin dropped the knife and tried to run. He didn’t get far; a guard floored him with a crushing shoulder barge.
“Don’t kill him,” Otto shouted.
The guard lowered his blade and sat on the little man—who lay face down on the marble tiles.
Evin looked at the blood on Otto’s sleeve. “Call the doctor,” she shrieked.
“It’s not deep, Evin. I’ll live.”
“It might be poison!” Evin said. Her voice shook with nerves. “Why else would he just scratch you?”
That was a good point. And before Otto had time to fully appreciate the irony, a wave of nausea hit him. “I think you might be right,” he said, as he dropped to his knees.
Otto’s vision blurred. Evin’s voice sounded as if she was talking underwater. He felt an overwhelming desire to sleep, and laid himself down in front of his throne. The noises faded. He could taste the poison in his throat. He closed his eyes and, for a second, he felt relaxed. Then nothing.
* * *
Elspeth did not like feeling useless. She had been watching the doctor as he poked around Gialyn’s wound and had gotten angrier by the minute. She’d held her tongue, though; it wasn’t as if she could do anything to help—which was probably why she had felt angry.
Gialyn, looking pale and gaunt, was lying unconscious on the Princess’s huge bed. Olivia, looking prim, perched on a stool in her creamy-white dress, mopped Gialyn’s brow with a damp cloth. She was talking quietly to the doctor. Too quietly for Elspeth to hear, unfortunately. Although she could hear the doctor well enough…
“Gods,” the doctor whispered. He was a tall, thin man, with thick, white hair and bony fingers. “He should have been resting. What have you been doing to him? The wound has ruptured. I’m going to have to open it up and start again.”
Olivia shot Elspeth a reproachful glare as if she were to blame for Gialyn’s state.
Elspeth, in turn, scowled at Elucia. She wanted to scream at the woman. No, what she really wanted was to yell at Brea for taking Gialyn to Eiras in the first place. But the Oracle was off, playing the hero with her brother.
“So what’s your plan, now?” she asked Elucia. The old witch was sitting on the small chair by the dresser, reading. She looked calm, wholly disinterested in Gialyn’s condition. “Whatever it is, I hope it’s worth all of this.”
Elucia laid the book down on her lap. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “You really should come back with me to Eiras. Geraldine wasn’t so sure, but I’m convinced we can mould you into a useful tool.”
“‘A tool…’? Is that what you think we are? Is that how you thought of Gialyn when you used him?”
Elspeth could feel her anger boil. She wanted to wipe the smug look off the woman’s face. How dare she use people so?
“He has done his job, has he not? Quite admirably, too, if I may say so. He has fulfilled the duty Bausamon had given him—at least this part of it. You should be proud of your friend, not looking to shift blame for what happened to him.”
Elspeth closed her mouth. What was Elucia saying? “If anyone is to blame, it is you, you and that… Oracle.”
Elucia let out a long sigh. “Brea is carrying her burden: a task that could save your kingdom. Gialyn did his duty, a charge he undertook, despite knowing the risk. In truth, Elspeth, I have thanked the gods every hour since those two arrived in Bhail. And what do you do… belittle their efforts—as if either of them had any choice—and all because you feel guilty. Now, if you don’t mind, unless you have something important to say, I’d like to read my book.”
She stared at Gialyn, and then quickly looked away. He had nearly died saving her. The thought made her dizzy. Could she have done the same? Now here he was, laying there, in pain, a doctor stitching his gut back together. The sight of it made her queasy—again.
Could it really be guilt she was feeling, not anger? A bitter taste rose to her throat. No, it was not anger; it was shame. The witch was right, she had been behaving like a child, moaning at Elucia and blaming Brea for having the strength to do what she could not. She sat down on the other chair before her shaking legs gave way. Staring at Gialyn’s ashen face, she considered what she had been doing, and why. Maybe she should go back to Eiras with Elucia. One way or another, she resolved to stop blaming others for her weakness.
* * *
Arfael sat in the cold tomb under the Great Hall of Bailryn Palace. The single torch, held on the wall with a scrolled iron bracket, gave enough light for him to see just how dire the place was. Stone shelves, filled with the skulls of lesser nobles, took up one wall, while brass plaques, engraved with family crests and the names of the dead—the wealthy dead—filled the other three. Olam, wrapped in a grey shawl, his staff by his side, lay on a broad, flat slab in the centre of the room.
A guard had told him what happened—an hour ago, when he left the Princess’s room in search of his friend. He could still hear the man’s voice ringing in his ear: “The Eurmacian is in the tomb, killed two nights ago. Sorry, mister.” Sorry, mister—the guard didn’t care; nobody did, or so it appeared. Where were the priests, the mourners, the blessing candles? Why weren’t Olam’s hands and feet bound, or his face covered? Daric was with him when he died; he should have known what to do, what Eurmacians expected friends to do.
Unfolding the cloth he had taken from the kitchen, he stood over Olam’s body and carefully covered his face. Then tied the feet with a length of blue twine a maid had given him. Bind the feet lest the soul do wander. He blinked away a tear as he did the same to Olam’s hands. Tie the hands lest they cling to life. It was all Arfael could do not to wail in despair. His friend was gone, his brother, his mentor. He tied the last knot, then placed his quivering hand on Olam’s chest.
He hoped he had done it right—tied the knots the right way. It would have to do. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do. Kneeling, he recited an old prayer Olam had taught him. It was a prayer for restful sleep, not the right one for such an occasion, but it seemed appropriate.
Footsteps echoed off the stone stairway leading up to the temple. The three priests entered the room, heads covered and hands bound. They weren’t Siegists, like Olam’s people were, but they had agreed to honour the tradition: see his friend through the day and night.
Arfael nodded kindly to the priests and then left in search of the blacksmith—there was nothing more he could do for Olam, but the witch had a bill to pay.
* * *
The palace blacksmiths was huge. The shop took up the whole ground floor of the eastern barracks. Arfael searched along the racks of swords, shields, and halberds. They were all fine weapons, expertly crafted and fit for their purpose, but not good enough for what he needed.
Three blacksmiths and a young boy—probably an apprentice—were sitting on a long bench next to the back door, eating a late breakfast of crusty bread and corn-cobs. They were all big men—even the boy had wide arms and a thick neck. It would be difficult to force them to cooperate: maybe Arfael could just buy what he needed.
“Morning, sirs,” Arfael said, dipping down to a respectful bow.
“Morning to you, young sir,” the oldest of the three replied. “And what can we do for you, this fine morning?”
“I’m looking for your best steel, sir. Raw ingots are fine, or any weapons made with such. Ealdihain steel would be my choice… if you have it?”
“Ealdihain, aye. Well, my boy, most of the Geddy ore ends up in Beugeddy. I have some, though; a little. But why raw ingots?” The old man stood and made
his way towards a counter, which stretched along the left wall. “We can make anything you need—best blacksmiths in Bailryn. That’s a guarantee.”
“I’m making something… different,” Arfael told him. “It’s nothing you can help with. A personal project, if you will.”
“Oh, I’m with you, young man. Funny time to take up a hobby, though. Now let me see. Yes, here we are, this bucket is all Ealdihain ingots, finest there is, outside of Krasis.”
“Krasis? I didn’t know the island had the ore.”
“Aye, Krassian ore makes the purest bright drawn steel, half again as strong as the Ealdihain.”
“And do you have any?” Arfael asked.
The blacksmith smiled. “I do. But it’s expensive, two gold an ingot.”
“I’ll take ten.”
“Ten!” the man’s eyes widened. Laughing, he said, “What’s this hobby of yours, young sir? Are you planning to make a suit of armour?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Arfael replied.
“Well, to be fair, I must advise you against it. It will be too heavy to wear.”
“Thank you for your advice, sir, but I have been doing this for a long time. The ingots?”
Arfael opened his purse and put twenty gold on the counter.
“Smudge, go get the man ten ingots of the Krasis. It’s on the top shelf, the crate with the bull-head stamp.”
The boy grabbed a thick wicker basket from the shelf behind him, then disappeared into the store. Arfael heard clattering, and a few moments later, the boy emerged with a half-full basket of the brightest steel Arfael had ever seen. He picked up one of the ingots and ran his finger along the surface. It could have been silver, it was so lightly coloured. But the blacksmith was right; it was very heavy, and dense, not far short of lead in weight.
“It is difficult to shape into plate,” the blacksmith said. “If it is armour you’re after, I’d make an alloy with the Ealdihain steel.” He picked up a darker ingot and bounced it on his palm. “I’ll give you six of these for two of the Krasis.”
The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1) Page 121