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

by M. R. Mathias

  Jenka touched Zah’s shoulder and she turned. “I heard him,” she said flatly. All the joy and sadness of her previous expression was now replaced with frustrated ire. “Go see what that fool king wants. Then we will go see if the apple has fallen too close to the tree.”

  Jenka didn’t even try to fathom what she was upset about. He soon found out.

  “Ahh, Sir Jenka,” King Blanchard welcomed him by waving off Jenka’s bow and clamping a doughy hand on his shoulder. “Sit here,” the king indicated the seat that the squire had been sitting in before.

  Jenka sat.

  “I don’t know how much of this mudge business you believe, but I’m here to tell you that it is the truth.” Jenka wondered why Zah had been so upset. It appeared that she had convinced the king of at least part of her theory. “Some dragons have intelligence and others don’t,” the king continued, while watching intently the impending crash of the jousters below. “Other dragons are so intelligent and powerful that they can win your mind and command you like a puppet.”

  The crowd held its breath, as the huge destriers thundered down the lane. The knight riding under the green stag’s head banner took his foe's dampened coronal directly under the chin and went out of his saddle, heels over head. His competitor, a knight with the yellow rising sun on his banner, threw his lance off to the side, and he shook his gauntleted fist at the crowd in triumph. Most of the crowd cheered, but a certain contingent of people, all seemingly located in the same general section of tiered bleachers, threw red kerchiefs with pebbles tied in them down onto the lanes. Jenka thought that the fallen man’s throat might have been crushed in the collision, but the people were cheering crazily.

  “I will not rescind the bounty on dragon heads, but not for the reasons that hard-headed girl thinks.” The king looked over at Jenka and held his gaze. Below, the man who had been unhorsed was still down, and a group of robed men and a distraught woman were all hurrying out into the yard to attend his injuries.

  “She convinced me, Jenka,” the king told him. “She convinced me that a dragon has gotten into her mind and altered her judgment.” He held up a hand to forestall Jenka’s comment. “I’ll explain it to you, because I see that you are smitten with her, and I don’t want your head bungled, too.”

  An attendant arrived with a tray of goblets and the king took two, handing one to Jenka. To be served anything by a king was no small honor, and the act wasn’t lost on Jenka or any other aspiring noble in sight of the royal terrace. Once the attendant was gone, and both of them had sipped at the light, peachy-flavored drink, the king turned back to Jenka and went on quietly.

  “If I rescind the bounty, then it is the mudged dragons who gain. These High Dracus, as she calls them, aren’t the ones getting killed by men. They are supposedly mighty and clever and they live in the highest reaches of the peaks. How could we hurt them? Why would they care what our laws and bounties dictate? If they are so smart and powerful, then they really are beyond us, yet one of them wants me to stop killing the mudged. It makes no sense.”

  “I think that Zah has failed to explain why the dragons want the bounty gone,” Jenka said. The steadiness of his voice conveyed a stability of emotion that Jenka knew he didn’t really have at the moment. His grief and sorrow were just under the surface, festering again, waiting for a word or an action to help burst them free.

  “Why?” the king asked, giving Jenka a look that said his opinion of him might suddenly gain a new, and not-so-elevated perspective after he gave his response.

  “Your Highness, there is more I need tell you about the trolls. But about the dragons, there is this: As you know, some of them aren’t as mudged as others. There will come a time when those dragons will have to choose a side. They might be the tide that turns the battle. They will be more likely to side with the High Dracus against the mudged and the trolls if they knew that the king of men has taken this step.” Jenka didn’t know how he had realized all of this, but he had. “They need to believe that, after the war, there will be at least the chance for an understanding to be reached between us. Otherwise, they could all just band together and annihilate us, then fight it out amongst themselves.”

  The king held his second chin with his hand and pondered the idea. Jenka took the moment and went on to tell him what he had been meaning to say the previous night.

  “The Goblin King isn’t going to have his hordes attack the wall,” Jenka said flatly. “He will attempt to besiege us from beyond it.”

  The dubious look that came over the king’s big, round face held much contempt, as well as a degree of mirth. Jenka was about to lose the favor he had somehow gained with his king if he didn’t speak carefully here. “The islands are dependent on the resources of the frontier.” Jenka opened his hands wide with open palms up, indicating that he wasn’t certain of anything. “Once the Goblin King has forced us behind the wall, the way of life people here have come to enjoy will cease to exist. What will they do on Gull's Reach for firewood? How will the forges operate, and the kitchens? Captain Corda said that twelve shiploads of wood come from the frontier every month. That, and the clay pits, and the lake’s water, and the iron and copper up in the mines will all be lost to you here.”

  The king's brows had narrowed as he began to see where Jenka was going with all of this. “We receive shiploads of lumber from South Port, and Mainsted Harbor, too. So do the other islands. What will he do once we are pinned, do you think?”

  “That, I can’t perceive,” Jenka shrugged. “We must cut the trolls and goblins down and drive them away for good. We can’t sit behind the wall and quietly wait for them to go away. We must take the initiative while we still can.”

  “You are your father’s son, Jenka,” King Blanchard said with a bit of pride. “Did you know that Jericho and I competed here once in the archery competition?”

  Jenka didn’t know it, but the idea of his parents being here reminded him that he had a message to deliver to the old Hazeltine Witch that his mother had once worked for. He would have to ask an attendant, or maybe Prince Richard, how to find her residence.

  Down on the field, the man who had been injured was finally hauled away to the cheers and jeers of the people. This meant that Prince Richard's joust was coming up soon.

  “I think we should cautiously open our arms to the High Dracus, Majesty. Make them show their loyalty to you by helping us defeat the Goblin King.”

  The king had that dubious look again, but he also showed some regard for the deep intelligence reflecting in Jenka’s eyes. “Do you still want to be a Ranger like your father was?” the king asked suddenly.

  Jenka took a deep sip of his peachy offering, and he shook his head in the negative. “I want to kill the Goblin King before he destroys everything I’ve ever known. I wasn’t born on the Islands, Highness. I wasn’t even born in your kingdom. I was born in those hills on the mainland under the peaks, just like the trolls and the dragons were, and that is my home as much as it is theirs. I will not let them take it from me.” He paused to bite back a tear, then decided that his emotion was clouding his judgment.

  “My son wishes to speak with you on matters of the mudged,” the king said, seeing that the Prince’s squire was getting fidgety. Already, the joust was being announced. “He has taken a queer interest in the dragons. Go with his squire, but when the competition is over this evening, we will meet again in the annex. My Commanders will be there to hear your thoughts. Together we will form a plan. I sent two more shiploads of men last night to fortify the wall and help the folks at Three Forks. Another ship is going up the eastern coast all the way into Seacut. They will free the people up at Kingsmen’s Keep, and they will get your mother and the Rangers to safety.” With that, the king turned back to the games and began clapping politely for the man who would be competing against his son.

  The squire led Jenka and Zahrellion down a long, tight, spiraling stair, which opened into a segmented stable area. Men and horses stood patiently in variou
s stages of armament, as squires, pages, and stablemen ran about, fretting frantically over the contestant they were assigned to attend. The crowd was roaring for their Prince, as he trotted his beautiful white destrier out into the sunlight. Jenka felt a bit of jealous awe at the sight of him.

  Prince Richard wore a gleaming breastplate, lobstered gauntlets, and a polished steel helm with golden hawk wings sweeping back from the temple. All of the armor was chased with dark blue enamel work. He looked larger and more substantial than he had the night before, more warrior than Prince now. In the right light, the wings looked a bit like horns, and his faceguard lent his brows a sinister sharpness. The squire urged them over to a ground-level railing where they could watch the competition. The Prince spun his mount around and snarled at the crowd, adding to the terrifying effect of his helm. Jenka got the idea that the look was intentional and meant to strike fear in the Prince's competition.

  Jenka’s assessment was confirmed when the Prince trotted over near them and gave them a sincere, boyish grin. He cut his eyes at his squire before he lifted his visor, and the man stepped quietly off to retrieve the Prince’s lance. “I am pleased that you, my fellow Dragoneers, are worthy of the duty that fate has given us. I had feared I would have to face the coming storm with children or fools at my side.” The Prince's expression grew troubled. He glanced up at the terrace where his father and mother were watching with the kingdom's notables, and sighed. “I am sorry that I didn’t meet you sooner, for your sake, Jenka, what I am about to do must be done. Do not interfere, Zahrellion. We will see each other again soon enough.” With that, he spurred his mount over to his squire, snatched his lance up just under the vamplate, and raised it high to feed the frenzied crowd’s excitement.

  It was then that Jenka saw a tiny speck in the distant sky, streaking purposefully towards them just beneath the clouds. It was only a speck at the moment, but Jenka knew that it would grow larger as it came nearer. There was no question in his mind what it was. It was a dragon.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rikky didn’t know what to think. He was in so much pain that he hated trying to think at all. Worse, it was the lower leg and foot that wasn’t even there any more; the part of him that had been eaten by that horrid little goblin, which was hurting him so badly. He had enough of his thigh left that he felt he could get a long peg-leg fitted, and he was hopeful, but he wouldn’t even be able to breathe until the pain began to lessen. He longed to be fighting the trolls that were now harrying the people of the frontier into the Stronghold, or even fighting the pain of learning to walk again. He did not want to be fighting a ghostly pain that shouldn’t even exist.

  Outside the small closet-of-a-room he had been assigned next to the barracks in Three Forks Stronghold, Rikky could hear the frustration of the men. The trolls were pushing them in seemingly organized bunches now, they said. The Goblin King and his dragon had gained a couple of winged allies, and now other dragons swooped and harried everything they saw moving.

  The Goblin King’s horde had herded the people out of the frontier and behind the walls of the Stronghold. The gates were closed now, and a hundred or more people — some women and children — who hadn’t been fast enough, had been torn apart and eaten within sight of the Walguard as they watched from atop the Stronghold's wall. There was nothing they could have done to save them except waste arrows trying to arc one out that far and get lucky. The city of Three Forks was aflame. Captain Corda admitted that they were about to be in a pinch. There were over four hundred people packed into the hold, a third of them women and children. The kitchens were thin for the harvest was coming up and the stocked staples hadn’t been replenished since last year. There were only seventy-three trained Kingsmen and Walguard combined. The rest of them, sent out to the settlements and towns, hadn’t returned.

  Captain Corda said that they needed to be back behind the Great Wall. Three Forks would be completely cut off from the rest of the kingdom soon, and things weren’t looking so good for making a break for it.

  Rikky cursed the gods and mocked the Life Giver. He just wanted to stop hurting long enough so that he could wrap his mind around something other than agony, but it wasn’t to be just yet. Pain engulfed him, and he fell back into the cool sea of oblivion that often saved him from losing his mind in the hurt.

  When he opened his eyes again, Spell Master Vahlda was there, and so was Stick. Stick told him that he had made it back from the clay pits with the Kingsman and a few others. He looked like he had been raked across the chest by filthy claws a few days ago. Three long, festering scabs cut from his shoulder down to his ribs, and were oozing pus. His normally mahogany skin was pallid, and his eyes were sunken back into his skull. The Spell Master was working a healing spell, and Rikky clenched his jaws and shifted himself up so that he could better see. He had seen Master Vahlda do the very same thing on several other wounded men, and each time Rikky couldn’t help but be drawn to watch the bewildering magic firsthand.

  Stick sat on a cot with his hands high over his head. Master Vahlda was moving his open palm over the wound like he might do if he were scrubbing it with a rag. A warm, yellow glow radiated from beneath his hand, and a tangible static seemed to make the air around them hum, and crackle, and hiss. As the glowing power scrubbed over them, Stick’s festered wounds were ever so slightly starting to lose their angry redness.

  A slight drip of greenish yellow fluid started down the young man’s chest, and he voiced his discomfort. Master Vahlda soothed him with unknowable words as he continued. The Spell Master’s face was beaded with sweat, and his eyes began to sink into darkening sockets, but he didn’t give up. Eventually Stick's long gashes faded into dark, ugly scar tissue, but the doing of the deed cost Master Vahlda a lot.

  The act ended with the Spell Master pitching forward. Stick dropped from the cot he had been seated on to catch him. Master Vahlda was exhausted and incoherent, so Stick carefully laid him out on the cot across from Rikky.

  “He’ll recuperate,” said Rikky. “You heard about Mortin?”

  “Yeah,” Stick rubbed and scratched at his scars curiously while looking curiously at the Spell Master. “They couldn’t save the leg?”

  “Nah, I was too slow getting here to keep it.” Rikky heaved a frustrated sigh. “I’m gonna kill that fargin Goblin King, or I’ll die trying. I swear it on Master Kember’s soul.”

  “Them’s heavy words, Rik. You en’t seen how bad it is out there now.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Rikky snorted, and pointed at his missing leg. “It’s as bad as it gets right here. I might die, but that’s not so bad. I’ll die on my own terms, and that’ll be trying to kill that fargin thing out there. Will you help me?”

  “I will,” Stick nodded. “I’m a made Forester though, so I still have to follow orders. But where I can help you, Rik, I will. What do you need?”

  “I need a smith, or maybe a woodworker...or both, to come see me here.” He winced. He was just a boy, and wasn’t certain what he really needed. “I don’t have hardly any coin, but I might be able to impose on Commander Corda for enough to get done what I need.”

  “A leg?” Stick moved over and pulled back the flattened sheet to see Rikky’s stump.

  The leg was gone from mid-thigh down, and a lot of the meat that should have been there had been eaten away so the grotesque limb was thinner and more scarred than it should have been. It hadn’t had time to start healing at all. Stick swallowed hard, but started nodding hopefully. He could actually envision a sleeved piece sliding up onto the stump and maybe buckling diagonally across Rikky’s chest and over his shoulder with leather straps. “I think you got enough to work with, but you need a lot more healing before you try to get around again.”

  “Na, Na, Na. It hurts like molten fire,” Rikky clenched his jaws. “It can’t hurt any worse than it does now, no matter what I do. I’m feeling the parts that en't there no more, nothing else. It’s maddening. I’d rather not just lay here. Will you fetch me
who I need? Will you talk to them craftsmen that came in from the frontier and help me?”

  Stick looked down at his chest and shook his head affirmatively. “Should I get someone to tend to him while I go?” He indicated Spell Master Vahlda’s peacefully sleeping form.

  “Nah,” Rikky answered with a nod of respect toward the mage. “He does this after almost every healing, and there have been way too many in the last few days. He needs the sleep.”

  “I’m off then,” Stick told him. “I’ll try and get someone over here that has an inkling of what you intend, but I got to hurry about it before I get new orders. Them trolls is closing on the Stronghold, and we might have to make a charge back to the Great Wall.” He patted Rikky on the shoulder. “I’m sorry about Master Kember, I really am. And if we go retreatin’ to the wall, I’ll make sure you get there.”

  Rikky nodded his thanks, and though he didn’t see Stick again, a man with a knotted string and a set of scribe tools came later that evening and started measuring and sketching ideas for Rikky to ponder.

  Rikky added and took away from the design, and even grew a little excited about it, but the pain of his missing extremity never lessened. He began to savor the hurt, and used that pain to strengthen his resolve. He would get a peg-leg, and he would walk and ride again. He would suffer every single minute of it if he had to and, when the time came, he would kill that fargin Goblin King. “I will rise up and come for you,” he told himself over and over again when the pain gripped him the most. Two days later, his peg-leg completed, the mantra of his revenge was scalded into his mind for good. “I will rise up and come for you.”

  When he tried his first step with the peg-leg, he fell face-first into the foot board and spent half the afternoon vomiting from the intensity of the pain, but he got up. “I will rise up and come for you,” he told himself.

  It would be no small feat to master the raw agony the device caused him, but he knew that he eventually would. It fit his stump well, and it would work, but when the call to evacuate the Stronghold finally came he still couldn’t walk. He could do little more than cling to his wooden prosthesis with all he had as he was hauled like a sack of grain and tossed into a wagon with some other men. I will rise up and come for you, he kept saying in his head as two excited horses and a terrified driver started them out of the gates in the dark of night. It wasn’t until they were being hounded by howling trolls, heavy rocks pelting the canvas, that he had his first doubts. “If I survive this flight, I will rise up and come for you,” he amended with a snort of disgust at the idea of falling prey to the trolls again. “If I don’t survive, I’ll haunt this world for all eternity.”