by R. D. Henham
This time, Sandon threw a pillow at the soldier, not caring if the man had a sword on his hip. “Stop it! My dad’s a good man! The magic on this valley is very strong. It keeps Lazuli out, and the blue dragon’s magic isn’t strong enough to break the enchantment.” He sighed. “Yattak’s the wizard. And Umar, but I don’t think Umar can cast any spells. Yattak could, if he stopped drinking and eating long enough to wiggle his fingers a bit. But really, he’s no use.”
“He didn’t protect the valley either?”
Sandon laughed out loud. “Him? No! Yattak’s spells do interesting things like … clean his room. Or churn the butter. Or mash grapes into wine.” Sandon rolled his eyes. “He specializes in that one. Basically, like I said, he’s useless, and absolutely terrified of the blue dragon.”
“No use, eh? And your guard’s not strong enough to fight a dragon, from what I’ve seen. Although that Vilfrand’s got a spine. He’s the only one of ‘em willing to stand up against Malaise when she was in there throwing her weight around.” Kine paused. “So why hasn’t your barony sent messengers to Palanthas for help?”
“We have.” Sandon shrugged. “Lazuli ate them as soon as they left the valley.”
“Sounds like a fairy tale.” Kine put his feet up, dirty soles smudging pillows of the bench seat. “I heard lots of fairy tales when I fought in the war, kiddo. Dragons that ruled entire kingdoms by living inside a king’s dreams, dragons that fell in love with humans, even dragons that traveled to the moons. But it’s hard to think of human magic that could stop a dragon from doing anything it wants. Unless maybe you had the great Raistlin Majere come enchant your little valley on one of his kinder days?”
“No. I’m told that the spell was put on the valley generations ago by a gold dragon that used to protect us. As long as my dad doesn’t blow the horn and invite Lazuli into the valley, he can’t enter. His servants can enter—like Malaise, or the bandits that have come in his wake—but the dragon can’t.” Sandon punched half-heartedly at one of the pillows. “Torentine talks about it every time he comes up to speak to Dad. ‘Safe valley’ this, ‘legend’ that, ‘great protector,’ blah, blah, blah.”
“Guess that’s why your uncle thought I might be working with Lazuli, huh? If the dragon can send in his servants?” Kine laughed, low and filled with irony. “What a waste. Here I thought I’d get a free meal or two and finally be off the battlefield, and right when I think I’m safe, I almost end up eating a sword. Figures.” He slurped a bit more of his ale, wiping his unshaven chin with the back of one calloused hand. “So tell me, how’d your family trick a gold dragon into putting a spell on this place?”
“We didn’t trick anyone. The stories say it used to be our friend. I don’t know, I never met the creature. I did see it in the sky once or twice, though, when I was a little boy. Torentine said that the dragon put the spell on the valley as part of a promise to show the people of the barony that it meant them no harm, and would come only when they called.”
“So where’s this great protector when there’s a blue dragon breathing down your necks?”
“Ugh.” Sandon made a face. “It’s still here, living in its cavern. If you climb up to the highest tower of the keep on a bright day, you can see it sunning itself out on the ledge. But it doesn’t respond to the horn anymore. It hasn’t for years. It doesn’t even come when it sees us give tribute to Malaise and Lazuli’s cronies. I think the gold dragon just doesn’t care anymore.”
“So it’s letting the Blue take its place as your protector.”
“That’s hard to believe.” Bristling, Sandon paced across the room.
“It protected you until something really scary came along. It’s easy to run off a few armed men if you’re a dragon. Trust me. I’ve seen it happen during the war. But what happens when another dragon wants to horn in on the first one’s territory? Or when Takhisis’s soldiers were marching across the continent? Where was your protector then? Nowhere, right?” Kine shook his head. “Your dragon turned out to be one big coward, if you ask me.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t ask you.”
Kine drained the last of his ale and set the glass aside. “Look, kid. I’ve seen a lot of dragons in the war, and I know a little about them. One thing’s for sure: that blue dragon wouldn’t be sticking around if he didn’t think he’d get something out of it. There must be something in this barony that is worth the dragon’s time, or he’d move on to somewhere with more to give him.”
“I never thought about that.”
The soldier grunted. “Think about it. Then think long and hard about whether your father’s going to eventually give Lazuli what he wants—whether that’s blood, or steel, or something more important.” Fixing Sandon with a steady stare, the soldier continued in a cold voice, “Because eventually, maybe even right now, down in that room, your father’s going to realize it’s easier to give the Blue what he wants and hope that he goes away thereafter. And eventually, kid, for the most important reason of all.” When Sandon couldn’t find the courage to ask, the soldier finished, “Because this barony won’t have anything else to give.”
Sandon sat quietly on the bed as Kine turned to stare out the window. Could he be serious? Sandon had always thought that even if his father was stiff and unyielding, he was still a good and noble man. A man like that would never give in to the dragon’s demands no matter what the circumstances. No. Kine was wrong. Just plain wrong. The soldier didn’t know Baron Camiel, and he didn’t realize how much Sandon’s father loved this barony. No matter what the dragon was asking for, there was simply no way that the baron would give it to him. Father was stronger than that.
But then, unbidden, an old memory came into Sandon’s mind. Four years ago, bandits were attacking the town. Sandon stood with his father on the high central tower of the keep as the baron raised a horn to his lips. The sound of a single, echoing note rang out across the valley, as it had done twice already—and each time, there was no reply from the empty blue sky. Sandon remembered the look on his father’s face as he lowered the horn and tucked it into his belt, turning away to order his men into the village to counter the assault. He’d looked a lot like one of the puppies born in the pantry that year, the ones whose mother had died in childbirth—sad and lost.
But most of all, terribly alone.
unrise touched the horizon, shedding a pale, wan light through the mist. Sandon awoke later than usual, blinking at the fact that he could see everything in his room. Where were the morning bells that roused everyone in the castle for chores before breakfast? Had he slept through them? Groggily rolling out from his warm, fluffy covers, he felt underneath the bed for his shoes and jerked them on. He dunked his head into the porcelain washbowl on his dresser, then dumped cold water from the pitcher over his hair and shoulders with a muffled yelp.
The fire wasn’t lit, and his clothes from last night hadn’t been taken away for the wash. Where was everyone?
Sandon threw open the door and ran out into the hallway, catching a nearby patrol guard by surprise. “Hey, Jonas,” he called. “Where’d everybody go?”
The guard stiffened and twisted his head around, answering instinctively, “Out in the square, young lord, with your father and the others. But … he said you weren’t to be awakened!”
Out in the square? But that meant Baron Camiel was already meeting with Malaise—he’d decided on the tribute. Why hadn’t he brought Sandon along? Probably because he thought I’m too young to handle it, Sandon thought bitterly. Why won’t he stop seeing me as a child?
Ignoring the guard’s protests, Sandon raced pell-mell down the stairs and into the main hall, then through the big oak doors and out into the courtyard. From there, it was a short jog to the keep wall, where he could see the village square only a hundred yards away. Indeed, out in the square stood the baron, three of his men—including Vilfrand, Sandon’s uncle. They were all dressed in their armor, swords at their sides, but none of them was readying a weapon or preparing for
battle. Guildmaster Torentine stood by the baron’s side, arms crossed over a starched white apron, sunlight glinting off his bare head. On the far side, a few steps beyond them, stood the sivak draconian Malaise. She was rubbing her hands together eagerly as Sandon approached, her lisping speech easy to hear in the crisp fall morning.
“An excellent exchange, my dear Baron,” she was saying, her blue-tinged eyes narrow with greed. “You will stand by this proposal?”
“You heard me say it,” Baron Camiel snarled in response. “Is my word not good enough for you?”
“Good enough for me, certainly, my lord. But I must tell my master—and he is not so forgiving to those who promise, but do not fulfill.”
Sandon pulled up short behind Captain Vilfrand, quickly searching the area for signs of the tribute. There were no wagons, no oxen, or crates of wheat and corn. Had Malaise taken it already? But if she had, wouldn’t he still be able to see it marching down the road out of the valley, toward the blue dragon’s eager maw? He didn’t see any wagon tracks or signs of anything else. Maybe the tribute had been in steel and coins, as they’d often paid in the beginning? If so, how had his father scraped up enough money when the barony was so poor?
Torentine cleared his throat and scowled. “Your master should learn a little forgiveness, lest he drain dry the very beast and find himself starving. You want this valley to feed Lazuli’s hunger? Then you’d better make preparations for it to last, or he’ll be headed back to the battle lines—what few there are left—and war.” Malaise hissed at the guildmaster’s impertinence. Torentine didn’t flinch. He kept his arms crossed, muscles tensed like tight steel wires. “Or has Lazuli given up on the war, and his Dark Queen as well?”
Ignoring the guildmaster’s taunt, Malaise snapped her head around to Baron Camiel, baring her teeth cruelly. “Very well. On behalf of my master, we accept. Such a generousss tribute requires a token of high esteem, Baron Camiel. Sssomething appropriate to show the proper respect for your offering. I would surely accept it myself, but I am too poor and humble a creature to do it justice.” Malaise’s teeth glinted, and her tongue slid over her thin lips as if she could already taste her prey.
At last, Vilfrand looked behind him and caught sight of Sandon standing behind their small guard. He growled, low in his throat. Stepping back from the others, Vilfrand gripped the boy’s arm so hard that Sandon could feel his uncle’s fingers bruising his flesh. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to watch the tribute. It’s my right as the baron’s son and heir—”
“Quiet, Sandon!” Vilfrand shook him lightly, panic flickering in his eyes. “You weren’t supposed to be here. Who woke you? Jonas? Curse him and his tromping boots.” Vilfrand glanced back at the keep, searching for anyone else hiding behind the portcullis. “Go back inside this instant. You’re only making this harder on your father.”
“What’s going on? Why are you so angry? Stop pinching like that, Uncle, you’re hurting me!” Sandon struggled to keep his voice low so he could still hear what his father and the draconian were saying. What was that? Something about a horn?
“Go back to the keep!” Vilfrand pushed him, trying to turn Sandon around, but it was too late. Sandon stopped still as his father’s words suddenly made sense.
“Father, no! You can’t invite Lazuli in! He’ll eat the barony!”
In the silence that followed, Sandon was keenly aware how childish his words sounded, but it made no difference to him. The threat that the dragon posed was anything but a fairy tale.
“Sandon.” Catching sight of his son, Baron Camiel shook his head wearily. Vilfrand’s hand loosened on Sandon’s arm in defeat as the baron turned to face his son. “I’d hoped to do this without you here.”
“What are you doing?” Sandon insisted, shaking himself free of his uncle’s grip.
Malaise was the one who answered first, her silken voice hissing the syllables in gleeful malice. “Your father has made a very wissse decision. Rather than give oxen or jewels, your father has offered something truly to be treasured above all other things in this barony.” She twisted her claws in the air as if snatching a bug from the breeze. “Himssself.”
“Father.” Sandon’s voice failed him. “No.”
Baron Camiel snapped back to Malaise, shoulders square. “No need to rub it in, you foul wretch,” he told her. “Your master’s victory is short lived. Even if I leave this barony, my brother will keep the throne in trust for the day my son rules—and by that time, your brigands in this valley will have come to the attention of the rest of Solamnia, and you will be destroyed. It’s only a matter of time before someone notices what’s going on here and sends help.”
“Perhaps,” simpered Malaise. “Perhapsss not. But the matter of gathering the tribute is still at hand.”
The baron ground his teeth. “If I blow the horn and invite your master in, what promise do I have that he will leave once he has taken his tribute?”
“None,” Malaise said simply. “But if you do not, then Lazuli will ceassse his protection of the fields at the edge of the valley, and the rest of your autumn harvest will go up in flames. Do you think your barony can survive the winter on dirt and ash, Baron Camiel?” Her lisping laugh hissed delicately, and she tossed her reptilian head. “Let us come to an accord. You trust us … and we’ll let your precious barony survive another winter. Tell me, what do you have to lose?”
“Very little.” The words were as cold as carved stone.
In the silence that followed these words, Sandon ventured, “Father, you can’t do this.”
Torentine nodded. “That spell is the only thing protecting our barony from the dragon, Baron Camiel. It was left behind by our true protector, and it is all the security we have against Lazuli’s evil. If you release the last gift of the ancient gold dragon, it may never return to us.”
“The Gold’s had plenty of time for that,” the baron answered Torentine with a sharp note in his voice. “And I think the dragon’s proven its interests are no longer in this barony. We have to fend for ourselves.”
Torentine glanced up at the mountains outside the village. “Our protector may yet awaken. We should not give up hope.”
“Protector?” Baron Camiel stared down Torentine, his fists clenched. “A real protector wouldn’t have abandoned us when we needed it the most. That gold dragon was here for the first part of the war, and then, when things got rough, left without warning or a by-your-leave. And what do we have? Nothing but a worthless spell. What good did it ever do us? The blue dragon’s still out there, our people are starving, Hartfall’s lands are blackened so much that what few harvests we have are thin and dry, and there’s nothing we can do about it. We can’t even send for help. Tell me something, Torentine. When was the last time you shipped village wares out on the merchant roads?” The baron snorted deprecatingly. “Your coffers are as empty as mine.
“We’re trapped in a cage, spell or no spell. Unless someone outside stumbles upon us and tells others—we’re as good as dead.” Camiel sighed. “The best Hartfall can hope to do is stretch its resources and hope to outwait Lazuli. This gives us more time. That’s the best I can do.” Lowering his head in defeat, the baron turned back to the draconian. Torentine snarled, disgusted. The baron continued; “Is it a deal, Malaise?”
“Very wise, Your Excsssellency. We are agreed. When would you like to make the exchange?” She leaned forward eagerly, rubbing her hands one over the other. Sandon was sickened at the sight of her obvious glee.
Baron Camiel bowed his head with a single, sharp nod. “Tomorrow. At sunset. But if your master breaks our deal … if he harms anyone—”
“Anyone other than you, you mean?” the flight marshal said sweetly, twisting the knife with her words. When the baron didn’t bother to answer, Malaise continued, “Sssunset will be fine. I recommend that you have your people at a respectful distance, but present. It will appease my master’s temperament to see proper fear and respect among thos
e who offer him tribute. If you wish for the village to survive his visit, it would be in your people’s best interessst to indulge his pride.”
Sandon couldn’t believe it. His father was going to be the tribute? That couldn’t be true. What would the barony do without him? What would Sandon do?
“Keep your eyes dry, boy, or you dishonor your father’s sacrifice,” Vilfrand murmured. Sandon hadn’t even realized that he was crying, but at his uncle’s words he wiped his cheeks with his sleeve and felt the material grow damp. “You shouldn’t have come.” Vilfrand wasn’t making this any easier, but Sandon couldn’t blame him. The gleam in his uncle’s eye was too bright, and Sandon guessed that his uncle was doing a better job holding back tears than he was.
“Go, Malaise.” Baron Camiel turned on his heel, showing the draconian his back. “Do not return until sunset tomorrow, or I swear I’ll have your head—dragon or no dragon.”
Malaise hissed, and whether it was mild anger or mocking laughter, Sandon couldn’t tell. She opened her silvery wings once more and beat them on the air, lifting herself from the ground in awkward, heavy strokes. Sandon’s hair fluttered around his head in violent swoops, beating against his cheeks and neck with every beat of the sivak’s ascent.
Guildmaster Torentine bowed slightly to the baron, and then reached out to ruffle Sandon’s hair. “Good day, gentlemen.” His eyes were sad. After the baron started to walk back to the keep, Torentine stopped Sandon. “Listen to me,” he whispered. “Your father’s very upset right now, and he’s trying to do the right thing. You have to stick with him, you hear me? Talk him out of this. Whatever you do, don’t let him pay the blue dragon any more tribute.” He nodded, stepping aside so Sandon could pass. “This needs to stop here.”
Sandon pondered Torentine’s words as he followed the guards back to the keep. His feet churned up little piles of dust, graying his once shiny black boots with the remnants of the barely used roadway. The baron was silent, his men and son marching on in somber procession. Sandon felt as if his heart were kicking along under his boots, turning just as gray as they were. He dragged himself onward through the mud of the road back through the courtyard, in through the big oak doors that opened on the main hall. When they were finally inside, away from the prying eyes of the villagers, Sandon couldn’t help himself.