by Dave Duncan
return to the capital for almost a month. He
rarely spoke of his ordeal.
"According to others' accounts, the drake
materialized high up on the slopes of
Fyrndagum during an especially violent
eruptive episode, and this is standard for the
horrors. As you might expect, firedrakes
have no fixed form, changing shape continually. They
may stay in one place for weeks or waste the
countryside for miles around, and yet are capable
of terribly swift movement, hunting people down
to kill them. They are spiteful--they routinely
destroy empty buildings, for example. They
seem to be vulnerable to wounds, yet no unwarded
man can venture near enough to their fiery heat
to inflict harm upon them. The Wambseoc drake
had destroyed three villages and was closing in
on Nor`eddael itself. My father rode out with Earl
Ufegeat--a nephew of the king he deposed--but
when they came within sight of the monster, he went on
alone. At first he wore sandals and some light
linen garments, but he had to shed those when they began
to burn. He carried a two-handed broadsword
and several times during the battle he had
to provoke the horror by stabbing at it. The
trophies hung in Cynehof include some that show
the touch of firedrakes. As a child I was
fascinated by a gruesome half-melted
breastplate that had belonged to my great-grandfather
Cu`edblaese. It still contained a few charred
fragments of him.
"My father's purpose was to lure the monster to the
sea, and after two days' hair-raising effort and
ordeal, he was successful. The witnesses were
insistent that the thing resembled a bull. At times
it even looked like a bull, they said, but it was always
bull-like in its behavior. It soon learned
to beware of my father, but as he crept closer it
seemed to watch him. It tore up the ground as a
bull does, throwing rocks around. It blew
jets of smoke and fire and made deep bellowing
noises. And then it charged him. Just because he was
warded did not mean he was invulnerable--far from it!
The firedrake could have crushed him like an empty
eggshell or swallowed him up, burying him in its
own flaming mass. But water is the
firedrake's bane and it is curiously unable
to see even large quantities of water, although it
can certainly see people. In the end my father
dived from a rock into the surf and swam for his
life. He was a powerful swimmer and he had
rescue boats standing by offshore. The drake
plunged in right behind him and perished in great
explosions of steam and boiling water."
Silence. Raider took a sip of water,
waiting for the King's comments or questions. A faint
tap on the door announced the refilled log
scuttle. Sir Janvier accepted it and brought
it around for Wasp to put by the hearth.
"Well, that explains your trickery with the
candle," King Ambrose said. "What you still
haven't told us is how you came to be here, in
Ironhall." He flashed Wasp a
calculating look. "You must have arrived while the
war was still on."
"Right at its end, sir," Raider agreed.
"It was 351 by your calendar, Eighthmoon to be
exact. ..."
Radgar's first chance to steer Groeggos came
when he was thirteen. He almost died of pride.
Had he tried it in the open sea, of course, the
steering oar would have flattened him against the side or
thrown him overboard like an apple core, but on
the gentle swells of Swi@thaefen he could
manage--just barely manage, for the channel was
narrow and the headwind eddied erratically off the
cliffs on either hand. Low as her freeboard was,
if he let her flank swing even a couple of
points she would turn her bow to the rocks
despite anything he could do.
Radgar steering, big To`edbeorht beating out
the stroke. Radgar knew he was mostly
decoration, with Dad standing ready to grab the oar if
he fouled up, but he had done all right so far and
very few men ever had a chance to steer a dragon
ship, let alone lead a fleet of them. King
Aeled and his lady queen were journeying in state
to Twigeport with Atheling Radgar as helmsman!
It was a glory he had never imagined happening
until he was grown-up and the most dreaded ship lord
on the seven oceans. Groeggos sported her
dragon-head prow, which no ship except Dad's
was allowed to do in home waters. Her sail bore
the fiery crown emblem of the Catterings, and eight
other ships followed behind. Oars creaked, gulls
cried, and the familiar tang of the sea
tingled in his nostrils. He could imagine nothing
finer happening in his life if he lived to be a
hundred.
Mom sat nearby on an ornate chair,
smiling as if she were impressed. Both she and
Dad were already dressed in regal splendor. She
had spent almost as much time prettying up her son
as herself, but the instant Dad had offered him the chance
to steer he had stripped off everything except his
breeches. The day was warm for late summer and he
was working his heart out in his struggle with the oar--port
or starboard as the wind shifted, up and down in time
to the swell, breath gasping, bare feet slapping
on the deck.
He wasn't working one-hundredth as hard as the
rowers, though; all big men, all bare-chested,
red-faced, running sweat. There was no real
hurry, but when the King's ship was being escorted
by the whole fleet of Catterstow, they were on their
mettle to row every other crew to death. Hard as they
strained, they were still able to grin at their helmsman's
puny efforts and the desperate struggles that
followed every gust. He wondered wistfully when he
would have muscles like theirs. Why did growing up have
to take so long?
"Take a breather, Son." Dad laid a
red-hairy hand on the oar. He did not seem
to exert himself at all and yet instantly it began
obeying him instead of Radgar.
"I'm doing all right!" he gasped. "Aren't
I?"
"You're doing very well. I'm really proud of
you, but I want to tell you something. There won't be
time when we arrive. Can you listen and steer too?"
"Yes, lord!"
Dad removed his hand. "Then do so. There may
be trouble at Twigeport. Lots of trouble. And
it could involve you."
"Me?"
His father grinned. "Imagine! You've been doing
so well at staying out of trouble lately that I
decided to start some for you." The grin faded. "No
joking, Son. You know why I called the moot.
It will be a stormy session."
"Yes, lord." Peace! The moot was going
to hold peace talks with an ambassador sent
started before Radgar was born, and it would all be
over before he was old enough to fight in it. Dad had
ordered the witenagemot to assemble in
Twigeport, which was the port city of
Graetears, the shire at the north end of
Fyrsieg.
"Don't repeat to anyone what I'm going
to tell you."
"No, lord!"
"I'd really prefer you just call me
"Dad," Radgar."
"Yes, Dad."
"The country's badly split. Some shires
are doing very well out of the war, and others would do
better from trade in peacetime."
"Don't you decide? You're the king!"
Dad smiled. "Yes, I'll decide, but it
helps to have all the arguments out in the open. There
are going to be days and days of wind and waffle,
too! This is how these things are done: Chivial
asked for terms, in secret. We sent our list
of demands, and I put in everything I could think
of--the Chivian crown jewels and King
Ambrose's head pickled in vinegar and--"
"No!" Radgar squealed with laughter and then
hurriedly directed his attention back
to Groeggos.
"Well, not quite, but close. Now the
ambassador has arrived with authority
to negotiate, but of course he's going to start
by rejecting just about everything we demanded. He may
even add a few demands of his own, like my head
on a pike or sending your mother home." He said
that loud enough for her to hear. "We'll refuse that, of
course."
"Oh?" Mom raised eyebrows. "Suppose
I want to go back?"
"What?" Radgar howled. "Go and live in
Chivial? You couldn't possibly--"
"Of course I could. And I'll take you with
me."
"Look out!" Father snapped.
Groeggos shivered and began to swing to port.
Radgar heaved all his weight against the oar until
he thought every bone would break. Reluctantly she
turned her bow back on course again. Close
one! He managed to snatch one hand free for a
moment so he could wipe sweat out of his eyes.
"If she wants to go, she is free to,"
Dad said as if nothing had happened. "She told
me last night she didn't want to. That was in
bed, of course. She had other things on her mind
at the time."
Mom pouted and looked away. She never
enjoyed Dad's teasing on that subject. For some
reason it made Radgar uncomfortable too, although
he knew all men made such jokes.
"Will the war end?" he asked wistfully.
Everyone had been debating that for days, but he had
not heard Dad offer an opinion.
"I honestly don't know, Son. We
haven't heard the ambassador's terms yet, but
Ambrose wouldn't have sent your uncle if he
wasn't serious."
"But you decide, lord?"
"Yes, I decide. The earls will talk and
talk, but none of them will vote against a reigning
king unless they have a good challenger ready and are
sure that he's going to gather a majority. I would
know if that was in the wind and it isn't--I'm not
falling apart from old age yet! When the vote
comes, they'll all side with me whatever they really
want." Dad grinned his big grin, but Radgar
sensed the menace in it. He knew an angry king
could arrange a lot of trouble for any earl he
didn't like, even tanist trouble.
"And do you want peace or war?"
"I didn't start this war!"
"No, lord!"
"That's important, because the worst sort of
fight is the one you start and then lose--it makes
you look stupid as well as weak. The best sort
is when the other lad attacks you and you beat him
anyway. Then he's the fool as well as the
loser, and if there is guilt it belongs to him,
understand? That's why winners always make losers
confess that they started the fighting. And if they
obviously didn't, then they have to admit that they
forced the winners to attack them, so it's their own
fault anyway. Of course in this case it's
perfectly obvious that Chivial did begin the
war. King Taisson sent an insulting
ultimatum. Honor left us no choice but
to reject it, and they lost so badly that his son is
suing for peace, at last. But we are not going
to sign any treaty unless it begins with King
Ambrose admitting that his father was wrong to start the
war. He'll squirm like an eel before he
agrees to that."
"Good!" Perhaps peace wouldn't come after all and
Atheling Radgar could grow up to be the dreaded
Ship Lord Radgar, flail of the Chivians.
...
Dad chuckled and tousled his son's sweaty
hair as if he could hear him thinking. "You may
suppose it doesn't matter much whether King
Aeled or King Ambrose accepts the blame,
but it matters a whole lot! It especially
matters in a country like Baelmark, where the king can
be deposed. A king who admits to a mistake
is starting to list. Two mistakes and he
sinks."
"You didn't make a mistake! They started
it and you won!"
Dad grinned again. "That's right. Point
to starboard, helmsman. Now listen! There's going
to be a lot of argument in the witenagemot. About
half the earls are like me--they'll listen to the
terms and then make up their minds. But the war-forever
party has at least five sure votes, and so
does the peace-at-any-price party. I call
them the Bloods and the Wines, but don't repeat
that."
Radgar nodded, keeping his eyes firmly on
what his ship was doing. "Yes, lord." It was
exciting to be trusted with state secrets like this.
"And although I'll make the decision, I can't
ignore the witenagemot completely. I will
canvass the earls in private before we vote, and
in the end we'll probably all vote the same
way. But the talk isn't all fake and there will be
a lot of menace and bribery going on. The
Bloods have enough wealth to buy some Wine votes.
The Chivians will have brought sacks of gold and
bales of promises. Twigeport's the heart
of the Bloods, a hotbed of hotheads. I
won't be surprised to see butchery before this moot
is over."
Shocked, Radgar glanced at his father and did not
like the grim look in his eye. The witenagemot
met at least once a year in Waro`edburh and
he could not recall there ever being violence worse
than the inevitable drunken brawls.
"Swordplay?"
"Swordplay, cudgels, knives in the
back. Perhaps even poison or enchantment. If
a tanist and his earl don't agree, then a
knife in the kidney is a quick way to switch a
vote. Swetmann is head of the Bloods.
He's violent and unscrupulous. He'll
play very rough if he has to."
Swetmann was Earl of Graetears. He was
new, young, and heartily distrusted. A
few months ago he had challenged one brother
for the post of tanist and then another for the earldom
itself. Both had chosen to fight and had died in the
resulting duels. That sort of fratricide was
legal, but it did not bring a man much respect.
Worse, as far as Radgar was concerned, was that
Swetmann was a Nyrping and the Nyrpings were the
second-ranking royal house after the Catterings.
Swetmann might be a threat to Dad one day.
"Then why did you summon the witenagemot
to meet in Twigeport?"
Dad's eyes twinkled brighter than the
emeralds in his shoulder brooch. "Because Stanhof
is larger than Cynehof. Because it's traditional
courtesy to a new earl. Because I can keep the
Chivians in one city and stop them spying too
much. The one thing I don't want to hear is that you
or your mother have been taken hostage."
Radgar squealed, "What!?"
"It's possible. That's one way to change my
vote, which is the one that really matters."
"But ...!" Radgar spluttered as he
realized the implications, and Groeggos almost
got away from him again. This time Dad had to lend a
hand--just one hand, and he did not even move his
feet. He made it seem so easy!
"Yes, but you're a special person and very
important to me and to Baelmark. I had to bring
you, because you should meet your uncle, but I've told
Leofric to keep extra guards around me and your
mother. I've assigned Wulfwer to look after you."
Wulfwer? Had Dad gone crazy? Radgar
glanced aft. Today his cousin was helmsman on
Ganot, bringing his father as part of the royal
escort. Wonderful!--Ganot had dropped
back in line, unable to keep up. Groeggos
had pulled three or four lengths ahead. So that
was why the rowers were grinning! No credit to his
steering.
Cousin Wulfwer was twenty and a thegn now, one
of the largest men in the fyrd. He had gone
a-foering, boarded Chivian ships, swung
a sword in battle, sprayed Chivian
blood. He still wasn't popular, but he was much
esteemed as a fighter. A madman, men said
admiringly, and the scops compared him to a killer
whale. It was obvious that the cousins must eventually
contend for the earldom. It was true that Healfwer's
second hlytm had decided that water and not
Radgar would be Wulfwer's bane, but that
did not mean Wulfwer might not hanker to be