The Royal Dragoneers: 2016 Modernized Format Edition (Dragoneers Saga)

by M. R. Mathias

  Part II

  Dungeons and Dragons

  Chapter Eleven

  If the Great Wall spoke of man’s domination over the wilderness, then the city of Kingston spoke of man’s aspirations at heavenly glory.

  Seven white marble towers rose up out of a crenulated monstrosity of huge, rectangular buildings. The center tower was the tallest, easily reaching a thousand feet into the sky. The others were slightly shorter and fell equally in height and distance as they went outward from the center in a gentle, embracing arc. To Jenka, they looked like some colossal candelabra. The hulking constructions underneath the slim spires had been whimsically built, one atop the other, by three generations of royalty. The royal family had lived on the island since the kingdom seat had moved there from Gull's Reach eighty-five years earlier. All the other buildings of the city, also white marble, were generously decorated with high-rising entryways and balconies sporting columned balustrades. There were roaring lions or wild looking Gargoyles watching over from the corners of the structures and towering statues of the realm’s heroes stood guard proudly in the plazas and parks. There were added-on balconies and arching elevated walkways spanning between the towers like spider webs. There were long multi-level wings with row upon row of arched windows and high-peaked tile roofs. There were wide-open gardens with eye-catching fountains that somehow spewed water high into the sky. And behind it all, the rocky gray island rose up and out, like some terraced stadium bowl designed by the gods to cradle the height of human achievement.

  Every bit of exposed building face; every block, brick or stone in Kingston, save the roads and the roofs, was formed from the same silver-veined, white marble blocks. Amazingly, every single roof tile and all of the window shutters that Jenka could see were painted a rusty red; the exact color of the baked clay tiles that came from the clay pits back on the mainland. Even the new construction that Jenka could see — despite the canvas-draped scaffolding that had been built around it — was of the same unmistakable white marble.

  There was a high-arched entryway connected to a port cache that reached boldly out into the sparkling harbor, and this is where the ship seemed to be going. A Deck Master was pounding a heavy drum, and six men at each side rowed the ship slowly to the steady booming tattoo. The harbor was busy elsewhere, with net haulers, sleek fancy passenger boats, and huge cargo ships that did nothing other than sail between Port and Mainsted Harbor. Near the royal entrance there were no other vessels about.

  Two well-armed men in matching plated-leather armor and cloaks as blue as the ocean's depths stood watch from a raised platform. Two other men on the platform turned a crank that lowered a huge, rusty chain strung just above the waterline. When the Captain promised the customary round of rum to the crew to celebrate their safe passage from the mainland, the rowers began to pull that much harder. Once under the port cache they saw no more of Kingston’s wonders. They went ashore over a mechanical long plank, which rotated out to meet the Serpentina. They were ushered, without refreshment, and with a bit of alarming urgency, through a maze of corridors and stairways into a lush, open bailey garden. Here, His Royal Highness, King Blanchard, was in the process of holding court.

  The courtyard was wide-open lawn, and the day was beautiful. If you could discount the three twelve-foot-tall walls and the towering building face keeping the space closed-off from the rest of the city, it almost felt like being in a forest glade. There was a raised patio lined with well-crafted marble falcons. The tops of their wings extended wide and acted as a level, waist-high rail, while their heads and bodies served as balustrades. Below them, a woven mesh of leafy vinery had overtaken the wall face, the snaking green tendrils resembling upward-licking flames. On the patio sat the king, in the largest of three high-backed thrones of hickory, inlayed with silver and gold. The thrones sat on a round scarlet carpet. On the carpet, a score of people, mostly garishly-dressed men, listened intently as the queen went about passing judgment on a matter that the king was supposed to be hearing.

  King Blanchard was older than Jenka had imagined him to be. Jenka had always pictured a late middle-aged man: tall, fit, and powerful looking. At the very least, a regal-seeming man. King Blanchard was exactly the opposite. He looked like an ancient, bloated hog, complete with an upturned, piggish nose and heavy jowls. His cheeks were splotchy with veins, as smooth as a baby’s rump and as round as the moon itself. His fleshy, layered chin lay over the golden chains he wore, and his steepled fingers were the size of overstuffed sausages. The jeweled crown on his head was too small, and it looked as if it might be painfully pinching the top of his balding pate.

  Beside him to the right, sat a serious looking young man who slightly resembled the king, in the sense that he was dressed similarly and as regally as the ruler of the realm, and he was sitting in a raised seat before a group of subjects. Otherwise he looked nothing like King Blanchard. Jenka assumed, correctly, that this was Prince Richard. He was thin, tall, and dark-haired, and a few years older than Jenka. Jenka had been two and the Prince only a boy when the trolls had snatched him up. The look of disdain and contempt he held on his face as he looked out at the people before him was more than a little noticeable. It was the woman on the king's left, the blooming flower amidst the thorny shrubs, who Prince Richard took his looks after.

  Queen Alvazina was strong-jawed and delicate looking at the same time. Her hair and eyes were dark under her silver crown, and the set of her brow showed that she was actually listening to what she was hearing. She looked able to have her way with either of the men who sat with her, and the ill-attired commoner speaking to her now seemed thankful for the sincerity of her attention. King Blanchard was half-dazed — drunk maybe — and might have been drooling. Prince Richard, to Jenka’s immediate distaste, was now staring openly at Zahrellion and Linux, but mostly at Zah.

  It was the queen who was actually holding court here, Jenka decided. When the man before her was finished, she granted his request with a smile. He was quickly ushered from the carpet, and the announcer called out for, “High Ranger Kaljatig, and the party under his escort,” to come before the court for questioning.

  It took Jenka a moment, and a sharp tug at the sleeve of his attractive, new wide-shouldered leather attire, for him to realize that High Ranger Kaljatig was actually Herald. He had heard the name when they were at Swinerd’s farm but hadn’t recalled it.

  The petitioners and courtiers in attendance eased in closer, and more than one murmured a bit of speculation as to the nature of this unexpected questioning. Prince Richard seemed to be taking an active interest in the coming conversation as well, and even bothered to elbow his father into wakefulness so he wouldn't miss what was about to transpire.

  Save for the two times he had been in the presence of the dragons, Jenka couldn’t ever remember being as nervous as he was when he took his knee before the royal family. It didn’t help that in the last three days he hadn’t slept, and had only been able to keep down a single sea biscuit.

  “Rise. What is this, Ranger?” King Blanchard asked Herald roughly, as if it had been Herald who had just woken him from his slumber.

  “Your Majesty, I be First Ranger Herald Kaljatig. Commander Brody at Kingsmen’s Keep ordered me to escort these two druids here to have audience.” Herald sucked in a nervous breath and continued. “This boy,” he indicated Jenka, “killed a troll and survived two encounters with the wyrms. He is Marwick Kember’s pupil and has a tale worth tellin’ as well.” Herald gave Zah, and then Linux, a look nearing shame, then dropped his eyes. “He, and the druids, seem to think that the dragons want to help us in the battle.”

  “Battle?” the queen chimed in loudly. “What battle?”

  The king grumbled and waved her off, “It’s nothing but some overzealous trolls getting ideas in their feral heads. I received a bird from Commander Corda on the matter. He said that he had it under control, and that the clay pit caravans would be back to hauling in no time.”

  “It’s
more than some exited trolls…uh,” Jenka couldn’t believe he had spoken out like that to the king. He felt a wave of hot embarrassment flush through his body. What was he going to say; that a demon called Gravelbone was loose upon the land and a dragon had told him so? He was still half delirious from being seasick for so long and had very little color in his pasty face. Stammering, he tried to control the damage he might have done with his contempt. “Uh, Majesty, uh, forgive me for speaking out of turn.” Jenka fell back to a knee humbly. “There were scores and scores of trolls coming down out of the mountains as we were leaving Three Forks Stronghold, and that was five days ago. Ask Herald,” Jenka looked up at the King’s Ranger pleadingly. “Commander Corda told us all that Weston had been completely taken, and my mother is stuck up in Crag.”

  The people gathered around the conversation gasped and exclaimed concern and horror, and a few of them walked quickly away, seeking to protect one mainland interest or another. The scribes who sat at a table behind the thrones were scribbling furiously, and the scratchy sound of their quills was constant amid the murmur.

  “Is this true, Ranger?” Prince Richard asked. His curiosity now seemed genuine, and his ill expression had been replaced by one of sincere concern.

  Herald was nodding in the affirmative and about to answer aloud when King Blanchard broke back into the conversation angrily, as if the last few statements had never been spoken. It was a tactful attempt to divert the conversation away from its present course, but the emotion behind the outburst was real enough. “Who are you, boy, that you speak to your liege with such familiarity? What is your name?”

  “Jenka De Swasso, Highness. Son of King’s Ranger Jericho De Swasso,” Jenka stayed down on one knee as he proudly answered through his embarrassment.

  “You’re the boy?” this came excitedly from the queen. “Your father and Kember saved my Richard from the vermin. You and your companions will stay in the castle, in the royal guest apartments, and you will sit at my side during the tourney tomorrow. Tonight you must join us at the king’s table. I want to hear all about you and your…your mother.” She turned sharply to her husband. “You will send a battalion to Crag, won't you?”

  “Two shiploads of Kingsmen were sent yesterday to help deal with the issue of the trolls harassing the clay pits and the lumberjacks,” Prince Richard informed. “I’ll send a bird with orders for a detachment to fetch Mother De Swasso and have her brought to Three Forks Stronghold, just as soon as I see Master Zofel.”

  The happiness in the queen’s eyes, and the fact that Jenka’s father had saved his son caused the king’s anger to quell itself. Still, he scolded Jenka and the queen both with his brows and asked Herald another question. “Why haven’t I gotten word from the mainland yet?”

  “You’re getting it now, Father,” Prince Richard calmed. “A bird arrived a few hours ago, but Master Zofel is helping to ready the grounds for tomorrow’s games.” He turned to a man wearing fine leather armor who carried a long straight sword at his hip. His collar had a circular insignia that Jenka didn’t recognize. “Squire Randle, find Master Zofel and have him bring the messages he has received in the last few days. Have him bring a cage full of eager swifters and a scribe to help him.”

  “Which messages should I tell him to bring, Highness?” the squire asked. “There are scores of them each day.”

  “Everything,” the queen said sternly. “Bring every message that has been received in the last five days and bring them to the Main Hall’s annex. We wouldn’t want them blowing away out here.” The queen gave this order, and the squire, having no intentions of questioning her as he had the Prince, strode purposefully away.

  King Blanchard scowled and shook his jowls at his wife, then nodded thanks at his son for having handled her concern so deftly. He then looked at Herald directly. “You look like you need to say more, Ranger. Tell me all of it, man, but over a table board and a tankard. I know who you are. We have some of your brother’s swine roasting in the pits for the morrow’s feast. I don’t know what’s in that grain he feeds those pigs, but they’re the best in all—”

  “Your Highness, you don’t seem to understand,” Zahrellion stepped boldly up and interrupted the king. She didn’t wait for him to respond to her interruption, and she shrugged off Linux' hand when he tried to keep her from continuing. “The trolls are coming.” Her tone was urgent and pleading, but the expression came out angry, a little defiant even, and King Blanchard began to glow a deep shade of enraged scarlet around the neck and cheeks. “They are being led by a demon called Gravelbone, and they are bringing war to the mainland. They will fight the kingdom till the end. They do not want—”

  “Silence, girl!” King Blanchard raised his bulky body forward as he yelled over her. The hickory throne groaned with distress beneath him. “Do you think I care what the trolls want or don’t want? It is Duke Watlin’s duty to deal with the mainland vermin. The trolls are not coming here to Kingston, I assure you.” A chuckle was quickly stifled in the gathered crowd at this.

  The king was enraged, and his round crimson face jiggled with his anger. Spittle flew from the corner of his mouth as he spoke. “You’ll spend a while in the dungeons for that sort of insolence, miss. If it wasn’t for what his father done, that boy right there would be going there with you.” He shook an accusing finger at Jenka. “I’m the fargin king, am I not?”

  “You are, Father. No one has forgotten,” Prince Richard tactfully intervened. “Remember though, these druids are religious pioneers, come to warn us of what they have observed in the peaks.” He glanced pleadingly at Zah to say no more, and then at Linux, telling him with his eyes to restrain her mouth. “Great-Grandfather granted the Order of Dou amnesty to pursue their strange arts, remember? The druids may lack manners and protocol, but I don’t think that they have any intention of disrespecting you or the throne.”

  “Yes, Husband,” the queen’s criticizing voice held a tone that made the king cringe and scowl that much more. “They are to be our guests, and it sounds to me like you need to find out what is going on with all of this and direct your rage elsewhere. While you’ve been lost in your cups and foul couplings, things seem to have been going unattended.”

  “Shut up, woman, before I have the headsman shorten you a foot.” The king waved away the heavily muscled guard that had eased up behind Zahrellion to arrest her. Jenka was thankful for it, because he didn’t know what he would do if she let loose one of those powerful yellow blasts of magic here.

  The king raged on, “And if things have been going unattended, then Duke Watlin might be the one who needs your scolding. Do what you will with these queerly-marked religious folk. I’ll be in the annex, hearing the whole of my Ranger’s tale. The boy will come, too. And Richard, I expect you to join us just as soon as you round up that lackey of a Message Master and set that bird to wing. Tell Commander Corda that we want a full report on the troll situation, especially up in the foothills. He is to report directly to Kingston now, directly to you. Duke Watlin just might need an appointment with the headsman. Have the Walguard search him out and ship him here. Now, this court is dismissed!” With that, the heavy king stood and stomped off into the white marble building, angrily waving away the attendants and any other who dared approach him as he went.

  Chapter Twelve

  The annex was a high-ceilinged room, as big as a ranch house, connected to the much larger Royal Gathering Hall. The royal gathering hall was filled with row upon row of finely decorated plank tables, all ready and awaiting the guests who were to attend the morrow’s feast. The annex had tables as well, but those four were plain, exposed pine without a cloth over them. It wasn’t quite festival time in Kingston, but preliminary competitions in several events were being held to cull out some of the unworthy competitors before the upcoming Solstice Festival. Thus, the feast was prepared to commemorate the beginning of the season’s games.

  There was no fire in the well-used hearth, which was fine with Jenka. The air
was sticky with humidity here, and he still wasn’t feeling well. The heat would only have made it worse. He wished that he were outside in the open until trays of fruit, bread, and cheese arrived.

  The tankards came next, kept full by a trio of well-rounded servant girls. The ale wasn’t watered down at all; Jenka felt it warming his guts immediately. After two swigs he was spinning in the seat he had been given. He was next to Herald and across from the king. The two heavily-armed and armored King’s Guard watching over their liege had eyed him suspiciously at first, but they were now listening raptly to Herald, as he spoke of things that seemed fantastic and unreal to the island-born men.

  The king had asked Herald to start at the beginning, so Herald was getting into his side of the tale of Jenka and the trolls that Jade had killed. To Jenka’s surprise, the over-plump king was acting less like a monarch and more like an ordinary man. He had changed out of his heavy, formal robes, and Jenka could see there had been a time when the man was fit. His arms, though the size of hams, didn’t jiggle and shake like his chins and cheeks did. There was a thick layer of muscle underneath all that bulk. His crown had been removed, but a ring of peachy red skin had been indented, leaving a perfect line ringing around his skull.

  Every so often, a nervous young man dressed in a pale blue robe and slippers came in and placed a satchel full of messages on the next table. Jenka figured he was the scribe helping the Message Master carry out the queen’s order.

  “How did you survive it, boy?” King Blanchard asked Jenka directly, causing him to flush with embarrassment again. He hadn’t been listening to Herald, and he wasn’t sure what exactly the king was referring to.

  “He’s been green at the gills since we left Port, Your Highness,” Herald came to the rescue. “He throwed his guts up all the way across. Go on, Jenk, tell the king what happened from the start of it.”