The Dragon Lords--False Idols

by Jon Hollins

  It was Balur, and he was charging.

  This time there was nowhere for people to fling themselves to avoid the oncoming lizard man. The press of bodies was too tight. Balur bludgeoned his way through the crowd like a mace into a man’s skull. Blood and destruction was left in his wake.

  Well, Will had time to think, this has been particularly disastrous. And then his table was turned over and he was sprawling forward into the savage fury of the crowd. As he sailed through the air he saw Balur reach the edge of the circle where Lette was hacking apart her assailants. Odd, he added, taking advantage of the curious time dilation such moments seemed to thrust on him, I thought he would have come to kill me first.

  Then he landed. Hands grabbed at him. Fists and feet beat at his sides. He screamed, and couldn’t hear himself. He tried to pull himself into a protective ball, to get his hands up over his head, but too many people were pulling at him. He tasted his own blood, his own fear.

  This is a shitty way to die, he thought, though he had no examples of better ways at hand at that particular moment.

  Someone had him by the hair and was managing to drag him backward through the crowd, while he yelled (for some reason that he could not entirely fathom), “The hair, you childish bastards? Seriously, the hair?” when it happened.

  He was, at first, convinced it was divine intervention. Some thunderbolt cast down by Lawl, slamming into the bordello’s stained and warped floorboards, sending bodies and splinters flying into the air. Then he realized his mistake.

  It was Balur.

  It was Balur with Lette astride his back. His fists shattering bones and ending lives. Her knives lancing out with more accuracy than any mere deity could hope to achieve.

  Retreating hands dropped Will. Bodies dropped to the floor around him. Howls of rage became gurgles of guttering breath.

  Balur grabbed Will by the front of his old work shirt and heaved him bodily over his shoulder, buttons popping, peppering the crowd.

  “Now,” Balur growled, “we are fighting!”

  A blast of purple light lanced across the room and smashed into Balur’s chest. Roaring, Balur skidded back, feet digging splintered trenches in the floorboards. Smoke wafted up from a black scorch mark on his chest.

  Across the room, the man from the table stood, staff aimed at Balur, purple smoke drifting from its tip.

  “No, you stupid bastard,” Will heard Lette say, “now we run for our lives.”

  “I am being an Analesian!” Balur growled. “I am not running!”

  “Gods,” Will heard Lette groan, “how many times do I …?”

  Will was still draped over Balur’s shoulder, staring directly down the lizard man’s muscular back.

  “Look,” Lette went on, “don’t think of it as a retreat. Think of it as a way of not dying as stupidly as the rest of your fucking race.”

  A man charged them screaming. Balur’s fist ended the scream, quickly and bloodily.

  “If they can be taking us, then they are deserving their victory,” Balur insisted. “That is being the way of life. You cannot be crawling and hiding from the truth of the world. It will be finding you, and it will be clawing your guts from your chest.”

  “Look,” Lette tried again, “we’ve had this talk. The mightier thing totally works when you’re dealing with roughly equally numbered sides, but when you’re outnumbered, say … two hundred to one at the best, then it’s a really, really stupid philosophy.”

  Another blast of purple light struck Balur, sending him skidding back. He was pressed up against one wall of the bordello now. The angry crowd had spread out in a crescent before him, slowly closing in, bloodlust overcoming trepidation.

  “How about,” Will tried, “we don’t think of it as a retreat, but instead—”

  A man, braver than his peers, ran forward. Balur punted him toward the back rows of the assembled men. The crescent drew back a little.

  “—instead think of it as more of a tactical regrouping. Aiming for a strategic advantage on the battleground. Not so much a show of cowardice, but rather outwitting them. Mental might, so to speak.”

  Balur let out a deep rumbling. It could have been a considering hum, or a bloodcurdling growl. Will always found it hard to tell with Balur.

  Their assembled foes took it as the latter, and finally found their spine. They let out a yell, their collected voices bursting over Will, Balur, and Lette like a tidal wave.

  “All right,” Balur said. “I can be living with mental might.”

  He took a roaring step toward the crowd.

  They charged.

  So did Balur. Backward. Spinning on his heel and heading pell-mell toward the wall of the bordello, shoulder lowered.

  Will heard wood give way. He felt the rush of cold night air embrace him after the sweat and stench of the bordello. He heard the change in the timbre of the crowd’s yell. And then the three of them were running through the town night, he and Lette still clinging to the lizard man’s massive shoulders.

  “So,” he said to Lette, finally shifting his weight and facing her, “was that more what you had in mind?”

  She stared at him incredulously, and then, finally, grimaced. “Yes,” she said despondently. “I suppose it was.”

  5

  Master of His Own Domain

  It had taken Firkin about a week to realize that Balur was not coming back.

  There had been panic at first, of course. Their prophet missing, the charred tents, the blood, the dead bodies. But Balur’s massive body itself had not been found. And so after much pleading and cajoling, Firkin had been able to convince the populace that this was not a disaster of epic proportion, nor the death knell of their hopes and dreams, but was instead a moment of transition, of becoming.

  “Like, you know, one of them … oh fuck it, flappy things,” he had screamed to the assembled crowds. “See a shit ton of them in the summer.”

  He had been standing on a hillside, in a natural amphitheater, the rock at his back amplifying his words.

  “Bird?” someone had yelled back.

  “No.” Firkin shook his head.

  “Duck?”

  “No.” Firkin knew that wasn’t right.

  “Swan?” checked another soul.

  “These are all just birds!” snapped Firkin. “I said it wasn’t a gods-hexed bird.”

  “Butterfly?” someone in the front rows yelled out.

  Firkin pointed. “Yes! One of those bastards. That’s it. We’re like one of them. Just before they’re one of them. When they’re the fat little grub things. Not,” he corrected himself, taking a swig from his wineskin, “that we’re a fat little grub.” He shook his head violently, watched the world wobble in front of him. “No, no, no. We were one of them. But now we’re in the in-between state.”

  “Chrysalis?” yelled out the same helpful voice in the front row.

  “Shut up!” Firkin barked. “Who’s the voice of the fucking prophet here?” You had to keep the rabble in line, he’d learned. That was a big part of it.

  He returned his attention to the crowd. “We’re a chrysalis!” he yelled.

  There was an inhalation of breath, a vast nod of understanding. It had all been pretty easy after that. He just kept on saying things that Balur would say, without all the bothersome chore of listening to Balur actually say them. It was a marked improvement.

  And then, finally, he realized that Balur was just not coming back at all ever. And then things became significantly more fun because Balur had had a way of saying boring, tiresome things like “No, that is being completely insane,” and “No, that will be leading to mass starvation, and the death of everyone,” and “No, you will be causing a war, and our bloody slaughter,” and “No, the human body cannot be fitting that much wine inside itself, you will be causing parts of yourself to rupture,” and things of that ilk.

  Now there was no one to say, “No,” and it was glorious.

  To be fair, there were a number of deaths, and
a lot of ideas that in retrospect were somewhat regrettable. That said, Firkin was generally of the opinion that they were funny enough to be excusable.

  Still, things were getting dicey by the time the Vinlander ambassador came back. Firkin met him in the second-best Kondorran tent. The first best was still in ashes where Balur had left it. Nobody seemed to want to clean the area up and it had taken on an almost religious quality. People gathered there now. At least in part to avoid his dictates.

  “Wotsit?” Firkin slurred at the ambassador.

  “Issa trade deal,” the ambassador managed after a few false starts. He was noticeably more drunk this time around.

  Firkin had vague memories of Balur telling him to send people off after the ambassador the last time he was here so they could agree to things. Firkin hadn’t bothered to do that. Balur should have known better than to trust him with things like that. So really, whatever was about to happen was Balur’s fault. “Iss Balur’s fault,” he said. He thought it was important that people know that.

  He took his feet off the kneeling man he had decreed should become his footstool and leaned forward.

  “I think,” he said, then hiccupped and lost his train of thought. “I think … I think …” He rummaged through mental closets looking for the errant words. “I think you can piss off.”

  Despite himself, the Vinlander looked impressed by Firkin’s audacity.

  Pleased by this reaction, Firkin warmed to his theme. “No trade,” he spat as vehemently as possible. “No agreements. None of your namby-pamby, bullying bullshit. We won’t have it. We are Kondorra. We are proud. We are defiant. We are …” He paused and tried to think of something else they were. “Are … proud!” He said it louder this time. That should do. “We don’t bend to bullies like you. We don’t capitulate. We fight! We struggle and we succeed. It’s the, er … the, er …”

  “Way?” suggested the ambassador.

  Firkin shook his head.

  “Stuff?” the ambassador hazarded.

  Firkin shook his head. “No. That’s not what I mean. Where we are.” He pointed at the ground. “Here.”

  “Tent?” asked the ambassador.

  “No. Begins with a K.”

  “Kondorra?”

  Firkin smiled and nodded. Then spat at the ambassador’s feet. “It’s the Kondorran way!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

  The ambassador nodded sagely. “Bloody fine then,” he said.

  The ambassador turned his back and Firkin felt a surge of divine, prophetic power thrum through him. That would put bloody Balur in his place. Never back down. Never surrender.

  “Of course,” said the ambassador as he reached the tent flap, “this does mean war.”

  He pulled back the flap and a stream of soldiers poured into the tent. Ten, twenty, thirty of them. They surrounded Firkin, swords drawn.

  “Oh,” said Firkin in what felt like a small voice. “Well, you know, in that case …” He shrugged. “We surrender.”

  6

  Round Two

  The morning after her disastrous evening with the Emperor, Quirk returned to his palace to warn him about the magic-wielding assassin currently trying to worm his way into his eminence’s favor. She strode through Tamathia quickly, feet tap-tapping on the cobble steps. It was early and the sun was just breaking over the yellow stone of the city’s skyline, shining down into the streets in blinding shafts, illuminating straw and cobbles. Despite the sun, though, the day was still cold, and her breath misted in front of her as she bustled past clerks and storekeepers scurrying off to work.

  She could have taken a carriage, of course. Her jaunt to Kondorra had been profitable, to say the least. But her wealth was of little interest to her. She used what little she needed to fund her research, and the rest she let the Chancellor and Bursar of the university freely pilfer. Still, in return they had offered to let her use the university’s carriages whenever she wanted. But having worked so hard to become one of the everyday citizens of Tamathia, it seemed foolish to remove herself from the streets and to shutter herself away from the people she had so long aspired to mimic.

  Afrit had tried to talk her out of this visit at the university gates. The woman had been there collecting her mail from the gatekeeper. And it was just coincidence they bumped into each other again, of course. Quirk could hardly assume she had been waiting for her all night …

  “Where are you off to so bright and early?” Afrit had asked, as eager as ever.

  And then somehow it had all spilled out of Quirk. Every detail. Everything she had planned to say to the Emperor. Every accusation, every plea. Afrit had listened, eyes growing wider and wider.

  And then at the end of it, “You can’t go.”

  Quirk had gaped at her. She had to go. She had told Afrit as much, though perhaps not as politely.

  “What proof do you have?” Afrit had asked. “Assassination is not a slight charge.”

  “The Emperor knows I do not shy away from the truth, however distasteful,” she had replied. “That is why I am in his good graces. My word will be enough.” And she had finally felt confident then, because that was true. She had built her reputation at the court on firm foundations.

  Afrit had had more to say, but Quirk hadn’t stayed to listen for it.

  Now the palace guard nodded to her as she passed through the gatehouse. She was well known to them. She strode across a gravel courtyard and up the stone steps to the ornate double doors, which were opened for her by a pair of footmen who seemed blind to the presence of the woman they were helping. Inside, a butler—clad entirely in the same ghastly velvet as the table she had been eating at last night—led her to a seneschal, who in turn led her to the court marshal, who was still standing before the ornate double doors that led to the ballroom. Gray circles hung below his eyes.

  “Mistress Bal Tehrin,” he said, “it is so good that you return to us.” From his demeanor, you would never have known that he had last seen her running from this place halfway to tears.

  This whole palace was like a carriage, she thought, insulating the emperor from the reality of the city around him. She should talk to him about that too, once the business with Ferra was dealt with.

  “Is his eminence available for an audience yet this morning?” she asked, cutting through the social niceties. Small talk was something she had mastered late in the recovery from her childhood and the skill was usually the first to abandon her when she was stressed.

  The court marshal pursed his lips and exchanged a minute glance with the seneschal. Quirk flicked a glance at the woman, just in time to see the fractional nod.

  “His eminence has yet to retire from the evening’s revelries,” the court marshal said.

  Which was an impressive level of debauchery even for the Emperor. It also meant that if she went into the ballroom, she would probably not be the only woman there, but she might well be the only one wearing a blouse. Still, she had no desire to wait.

  “Is he receiving guests?” she pressed.

  Another pursing of the lips. This one so hard, Quirk thought he could have cracked a walnut.

  Another glance at the seneschal preceded his nod. “I shall announce your return, Mistress Bal Tehrin.”

  He knocked upon the ballroom doors once with his gilded, ceremonial staff and then opened them wide. Quirk, who had been expecting to be buffeted by the dubious sounds and scents of revelry, was surprised by the quiet. Just the low whisper of two voices.

  “Mistress Bal Tehrin!” bellowed the court marshal, shattering the silence.

  Quirk stood at the top of the ornate staircase leading down to the ballroom. The dinner table was still there, still clad in velvet. A few plates of grapes remained. The Verran dignitary’s statue had been pushed off to the side of the room and covered back up with its sheet.

  The Emperor sat where he had during the meal, leaning forward on the table with both elbows. His head was cocked to one side, resting on his golden neckpiece. An expressio
n of rapt attention was on his face. It was a look with which Quirk was intimately familiar. She had enjoyed it on many occasions as she regaled the Emperor with stories about dragons and Kondorra, and gave him her opinion on political philosophy and the aesthetics of the court.

  But today, she was not on the receiving end of that gaze.

  Sitting across from the Emperor, bathing in the warmth of his rapture, sat Ferra.

  The man turned his bald, hawk’s head upon her and smiled broadly. Hate and fire flared in her. Where had this man come from? Where had he gotten his information? Who did he have spying on her? Her mind flicked quickly to Afrit, back at the university. The young professor’s insistence that she not come here and confront Ferra. Was she protecting him?

  “Mistress Quirk!” Ferra interrupted her thoughts, speaking before the Emperor could. “You return to us! And we are so glad to see you.”

  Quirk hesitated. How could the Emperor have been with Ferra all night? Ferra had been at her rooms trying to kill her. She had injured him. Gods, how could the Emperor have sat here all night listening to this man’s drivel?

  She was still standing at the top of the steps. She had her mouth open. She had been ready to burst in full of bluster, and import. She had been ready to dismiss whores, and shake the Emperor by the lapels. And yet now she looked like a fool. Ferra had made her leave looking like one, and now he made her enter like one. He had her entirely wrong-footed.

  She stopped. She breathed. She pictured the surface of a still lake. She had learned to control her emotions. That had been the crux of her recovery. She would not lose all that progress to this man.

  She walked down the steps slowly.

  “Ferra,” she said, and she was pleased that her voice was calm. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “While the Emperor and I both expected your return.” Ferra’s smile didn’t falter for a moment. He was prepared for this war. She needed to collect herself quickly.