Tales of the Dragon's Bard, Volume 1: Eventide

by Hickman, Tracy

  The woman shook her head. “You did it perfectly, Patric.”

  Father Patrion looked up. “What did you say?”

  She took both his hands in hers. “I need to tell you something.”

  “What?” the priest asked, his heart quickening.

  She leaned forward and spoke quietly in his ear. “You wrote it down correctly . . . just not right.”

  Father Patrion pulled back. “Who . . . what does that mean?”

  The woman smiled quietly. “It means that I told you to mix up the instructions . . . and you heard me and did as I asked.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “Because a young man needed to learn what lasting love required,” the woman said, “and that it doesn’t come in a Treasure Box.”

  Father Patrion stared in wonder at the woman.

  “More than that,” she laughed. “So that you, my faithful friend, would learn after all that I know how well and forever remembered you are for serving this blessed town on my behalf . . . my own, dear Father Pantheon.”

  She reached up and pulled back her hood, and the radiance of the sun filled the church. When it faded, the Lady of the Sky was gone.

  And Father Pantheon never again wrote to the Masterpriests in Mordale—but happily served all the people of Eventide all the days of his life.

  “This is the worst plan I have heard yet!” shouted Aren, his voice nearly shaking the rafters of his own home. “He’s going to bring a dragon . . . here to Eventide?”

  Abel could only shrug.

  “That’s what the note said,” Beulandreus huffed. “And the whole town knows about it.”

  “You mean he told them he was bringing a dragon to the town?” Aren looked down at the dwarf in astonishment.

  “No, not at all!” the blacksmith replied. “He told them that the dragon was coming to ravage the countryside and burn down the town. He suggested that the town fathers form some sort of a defense and that the only logical one to handle it was the bravest man in all Eventide . . .”

  “Jarod Klum,” they both said at the same time.

  “Aye, that’s what he told them,” the dwarf continued. “And pretty much what that Gossip Fairy and that whole group of hens on Cobblestone Street have been spreading about the town all day.”

  The centaur folded his arms across his wide chest and shook his head. “He cannot seriously think this is going to end in anything but a disaster, can he?”

  Abel tried to look anywhere but at Farmer Bennis.

  “The note here says,” Beulandreus pointed at the parchment in his hand, “that he will ask the great dragon Khrag to fly over the town a time or two after Sobrina and Lucius get wedded, spout a bit of flame, and then fly off. Jarod will be the hero of the day and Caprice will be his the next day.”

  “So, he’s left us with a pretty story and run off,” Aren said, seething.

  “Says here,” Beulandreus continued reading the note, “that you’d say that and that he is leaving his scribe here as his assurance of his return.”

  The centaur scowled at the scribe, who feebly waved his hand in reply.

  “If that’s our assurance, then we’ve seen the last of the fabled Dragon’s Bard,” Aren said in a husky voice. “The only thing to do is take that note to the town fathers and let them know they’ve been tricked.”

  “Unless they ain’t,” Beulandreus said, folding up the note.

  “What are you talking about, blacksmith?”

  “I mean, what if he has gone off to get a dragon?” the blacksmith replied. “We go to the town fathers with this note, they don’t do anything about defending the town, and then a dragon shows up? That don’t do anyone any good.”

  “So then Jarod spends all his nights watching the skies for a dragon that is never going to show up?” Aren threw his hands up in the air. “How does that help him win the heart of his woman?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about that on the road out here, you might say . . .”

  “Please, I’m not sure I want to hear—”

  “What we need is a contingency dragon,” the dwarf pronounced.

  “A . . . what?” Aren thought perhaps the world was going mad. “Where would we get another dragon?”

  “Well,” said the smith, “I could build one.”

  It is a curious thing about humans that they like to scare themselves. The dire news of the approaching dragon galvanized the town and set them on a determined course to provide for their own defense. The ladies of Cobblestone Street spoke of being murdered in their beds by the dragon while Jep Walters and Squire Melthalion argued endlessly over the preparations being made for the defense of the town.

  This, of course, was all being done to counter the rumored approach of a dragon that no one had ever seen. Prior to this, the fact that no one in Eventide had seen a dragon had been attributed to the Dragon’s Bard having done his job so well in collecting stories that the dragon had withheld its wrath. Now the Dragon’s Bard had disappeared, and rumors of impending doom ran rampant in the town. No effort was being spared to save Eventide from this unseen menace.

  So the Dragonwatch was formed the next day. Made up of a volunteer militia, this muster of valiant, stalwart men and (thanks to Deniva Kolyan’s insistence) valiant, stalwart women as well were to defend the town against any attack by this newly perceived threat. Nearly everyone in town insisted on being listed in the ranks, except for Lord Gallivant, who said that he had seen too much of that sort of thing and would just wait in the inn until it was over. Aren Bennis, the dwarf blacksmith, and Abel were all conspicuously absent but excused as they seemed to be working on a project of their own out in the barn behind Bolly’s Mill.

  Jarod the Fearless (as he had become universally known in the town) was by unanimous acclaim put in charge of the watch—his bravery after his induction into the Black Guild Brotherhood now the talk of all Eventide—and though he had never served in the King’s Army, the village put their faith in his planning for their defense.

  Jarod took the news of his posting well. It came with regular pay for his services, straight from the parish council, which would slowly allow him to build up his bride price offering. Those coins he started putting in his Treasure Box, counting them each day. Yet he knew that the very survival of the town had been entrusted to him, and he took his duties most seriously.

  He sat down at his desk in the countinghouse and drew out a few sheets of parchment, having decided to come up with a plan.

  Jarod had heard a number of tales about dragons and used these stories as a basis for his deliberations. His father always told him to take his time and reason through things step by step in his mind before he did anything. Jarod approached the defense of the town with serious thought.

  Dragons, he reasoned, flew through the air; therefore, it would be in the air that they would need to mount their defense. People, he then reasoned, do not fly, and he considered possible ways of changing that condition but could come up with no workable solution. Pixies flew, he thought, as did fairies, but he hardly thought they could do enough damage to a dragon to be of use. Then he remembered the dwarf showing him some tapestries he had made depicting some of the epic sieges of the past against castles and dragons. Those had large devices that looked like enormous crossbows hurling bolts the size of tree trunks high into the sky—ballistae, the dwarf called them.

  At the time, Jarod’s mind had leaped at once to the possibilities of using these machines to launch the men and women of the Dragonwatch into the sky to fight the dragon . . . but the dwarf said the boy was missing the point. When Jarod calmed down a bit, he realized that the dwarf meant to hurl the enormous bolts into the sky to pierce the dragon, but Jarod wanted something more dramatic . . . what if the huge bolts carried fire with them?

  Now, that would look wonderful in a tapestry!

  At Jarod’s insistence, the town built two huge ballistae—all they could afford—and stationed one of them in Trader’s Square just in front of the Gu
ild Hall and mill while the other was placed across the river in Charter Square next to the sundial. Each of them stood pointing skyward in anticipation, the tips of their huge bolts covered in oil-soaked peat from the southern bogs. Burning torches in braziers were placed near at hand, ready to ignite the bolts with flame in an instant. Extra bolts were laid up against the sides of the inn and the mill. Open kegs of oil were also stored in the mill, should the first bolts fail to hit their mark.

  At last all was set. Jarod took the first watch. The crews for the ballistae stood at the ready.

  All that night . . .

  And the next . . . and the next . . .

  Night after night passed, and though the skies remained as free of dragons as ever before, the tales of the dragon’s potential terror rose with each passing sunset. The latest rumor said that the dragon was magical and could actually make itself invisible so that the power of its terrible breath could rain down on the village homes before it was ever even seen. The Muster of the Dragonwatch redoubled its efforts now to see the dragon even if it was invisible.

  Jarod, however, began to despair. He really did not care about killing the dragon—the prospect of killing anything frightened him—and he hoped the dragon would simply not show up. Each night on watch he sat quietly by the Charter Square ballista until the early hours of the morning before dawn, staring at the sundial, turning his wooden Treasure Box over and over in his hands. He pondered the curse that had broken the wishing well. He wondered how it could be ended by a sunset and sunrise being heralded at the same time and if there were any way to put a sunset inside his wooden box.

  “Hail, my old friends! It is I, the Dragon’s . . .”

  The centaur clasped his enormous hand over the mouth of Edvard and dragged him into the back of the blacksmith shop.

  “What are you doing here?” Aren demanded.

  “I’ve returned, as I said I would,” Edvard said. “Surely you knew that of all minstrels, a Dragon’s Bard is a man of his word!”

  “I’ll let that alone,” said Beulandreus. “Did you bring that dragon after all?”

  The Dragon’s Bard was suddenly crestfallen.

  “Alas! Dragons are fickle and difficult things,” the Bard replied. “Though I pressed my case to him in most earnest terms, I fear he will not be able to assist us as I have hoped. He did give me every assurance that he would make an attempt, barring further conflicts and previous commitments, of course . . .”

  “So you mean ‘no,’” the centaur grumbled.

  “Not exactly,” Edvard replied. “There is most definitely and positively something of a chance that he will attend.”

  “Then Friday night it is, dwarf,” Aren said. “The night of the wedding.”

  “The wedding is this Friday?” Edvard exclaimed. “What an excellent opportunity. I shall delight the assembly with my rendition of ‘My Love Lies Softly There’ and perhaps a ballad or two . . .”

  “No, you’ll be with us, since this was largely your doing,” Aren said, gripping the Bard’s shoulder in his enormous hand.

  “And what are we doing that night?” the Bard asked.

  “Flying a dragon,” the centaur replied.

  “We are?” Edvard gulped.

  “Yes,” said the dwarf. “We’ve our own fine plan.”

  Had they asked, even Edvard could have told them that of all the fine plans ever devised, none have ever gone according to plan.

  • Chapter 21 •

  The Siege of Eventide

  With the everlasting Lady of the Sky smiling down upon you . . . and the blessing of gods you honor in your thoughts and deeds . . . and before the good citizens of Eventide . . . I wed you, Sobrina Morgan, and you, Lucius Tanner, one to another as wife and husband and unite you as one before the gods and our community.”

  The couple turned toward each other. Lucius drew Sobrina into his arms and kissed her passionately.

  The Pantheon Church was overflowing with guests, all cheering wildly.

  Sobrina and Lucius turned to face their friends. Sobrina was resplendent in her wedding gown, its yellow color still as vibrant as on the day her mother had worn it. The lightly fit bodice of the dress came to a point in front, accentuating her narrow waist. The skirt was of heavy satin that flowed in princess lines over her hips and flared wide to the floor. Her light hair fell in waves down her back, crowned with a circlet of delicate dried flowers that Aren Bennis had brought over the night before and, in a quiet and somber voice, begged Sobrina to wear. It was a remarkable gift that Sobrina was inclined to refuse, but Caprice interceded, seeing how the centaur was so heartbroken and sincere in his offering. The wreath crowned her head in glorious display.

  Lucius had cleaned up remarkably well and stood before the altar in his long coat and a high button shirt. His boots were polished to a shine brighter than still waters under a clear sky.

  But all the splendor of their dress and careful grooming was nothing compared to the radiance of their smiles and the joy they felt in their union. Sobrina, standing before the roaring approval and applause of her neighbors, was transformed. The Frost Queen had somehow melted in the chill of the changing late autumn wind. Now her eyes shone with a startling warmth and there emerged a smile that warmed the soul just to look upon it.

  Lucius and Sobrina both raised their hands, showing the assembled townsfolk the two halves of their marriage coin. The crowd cheered again all the louder. Sobrina laughed out loud, then stepped away from her newly minted husband toward the dwarf standing nearby.

  Beulandreus Dudgeon stood in the front near the altar. He was dressed in his best leather coat, and he stood still holding the red velvet cushion on which he had presented the “broken” marriage coin to Father Pantheon. The smith had carefully cut the coin himself and had felt terribly honored when Lucius and Sobrina had come to him and asked him to be part of their wedding ceremony.

  Sobrina stood before the dwarf, still gripping her half of the coin, and joyfully bent over, kissing Beulandreus on the forehead.

  The dwarf never moved, but a tear escaped from one eye and fell onto the velvet pillow.

  Meryl Morgan and his younger daughters stood to the side, beaming with joy. Caprice and Melodi both held small nosegays that were threatening to come apart under their excited applause. Abel stood as near to Melodi as custom and decorum allowed, one of the Dragon’s Bard’s more interesting volumes in his hand as he searched for a proper moment to present it to the youngest of the Morgans with his appreciation for her interest in such tales.

  The centaurs from north of town, standing just beyond the columns outside the church, bellowed their husky approval with a loud, hooting sound. Aren Bennis was there among them, leading them in their peculiar cheer.

  Yet not everyone in the congregation was happy.

  Jarod Klum stood trapped uncomfortably close to Vestia Walters inside the church. She was standing next to her father and mother on the other side of half a dozen dwarf-dwarves and the Widow Merryweather, who looked rather discomfited among the diminutive tannery workers. Ariela Soliandrus hovered nearby, trying to keep a discreet distance between herself and the dwarf-dwarves while still remaining close enough to the ear of the widow. Vestia kept smiling at Jarod and waving her gloved fingers in his direction. Standing behind her was Percival Taylor, whose carefully affected steely gaze and menacing frown were also fixed on him.

  Jarod pulled at his tight collar and thought how ridiculous a spectacle he must look in his uniform.

  The fervor of the town regarding its defense against the rumored impending dragon attack had quickly carried down to include the ladies of the town. The ladies of Cobblestone Street reacted quickly and decisively: several committees were formed and bandages were rolled out of old bedding as quickly as possible in order to tend the inevitable horrible casualties of the coming conflict. The saying even got about that they might be cooked and eaten in their beds—the first change in horrible fates among the Cobblestone ladies in years.


  Among those carried away in the fervor was Winifred Taylor, who, upon hearing of Jarod’s appointment as Captain of the Muster of the Dragonwatch, decided that her best contribution to the effort would be a proper uniform for its commander. She felt that such a position would require a gloriously dignified ensemble so as to command the respect and attention of his subordinates in the Muster. She enlisted an equally enthusiastic Merinda Oakman to construct an equally impressive and matching hat.

  The result was an outrageous red tunic embroidered in yellow with matching hose. Over this was fitted a black jacket closed in the front with yellow toggles and cords. Then, knowing the long, uncomfortable hours the Captain would have to spend out of doors, all of this was topped by a thick woolen grey watch coat and a red-lined cape that almost covered up the epaulet boards on both shoulders—each ornately decorated with small dragon tapestries. The entire affair was extraordinarily hot even at night and caused Jarod to break into a sweat whenever he wore it. The hat, unfortunately, was the worst part, for it sported a metallic band around the plush red velvet of the beret with small ornamental dragon wings fixed to both sides. Merinda had, no doubt, gotten them forged at Beulandreus’s shop, and Jarod could only imagine the hours of amusement that had given—and probably was still giving—the dwarf. All this was topped off by an old sword Aren had given him that was too long and too heavy for him to wear without having to constantly pull up his belt.

  Jarod was suddenly aware that the crowd was moving. Each person had a handful of grain, and they were positioning themselves outside the southern end of the church. With the crowds thinning before the altar, Jarod moved quickly forward.

  “Caprice?” he called to her. “Please, wait.”

  Caprice stopped, turned, and spoke to him in a brusque voice. “What is it, Jarod . . . what do you want?”

  You, he thought at once.

  “I need to talk to you . . .”

  “I’ve no time now,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Later, then,” he said, reaching for her arm.