by Resa Nelson
He shouted for his dresser while he pissed into a pot stored discretely in one corner. When finished, he placed a lid on it. Like many mornings, he reminded himself of how far he'd come in life. He had a faint memory of his parents and siblings. Mandulane had a stronger memory of his village being attacked by brigands who burned his family cottage and everyone inside when he'd gone off in the woods to gather mushrooms.
Even at such a young age he'd had the good sense to stay hidden, watching the entire village go up in flames. The few who escaped a fire-some death had been captured and most likely sold as slaves. He'd found his way to a land baron's estate where he joined other workers in tending crops and animals. The baron's stinginess often left the workers hungry while he and his family feasted.
Years later when Mandulane had grown into a young man, the first Krystr clerks wandered onto the baron's property and he welcomed them in a showy act of shallow kindness. The clerks offered to join his workers in the fields in exchange for daily meals. The baron agreed, not realizing the clerks had manipulated him into handing his workers over as a captive audience.
For days and weeks and months the clerks craftily spoke of the new god, his remarkable powers, and how he inevitably would conquer the gods of all other nations in the world.
Mandulane kept his silence, all the while observing the way the clerks cast their words over his fellow workers like a net over a school of fish. It took time, but the clerks succeeded in converting the workers and then staging an uprising that left the baron and his family stoned to death and his wealth in the hands of the clerks, who offered to manage it in the name of the god Krystr.
As a child gathering mushrooms in the woods, Mandulane had learned to keep quiet and observe, waiting to make the right move at the right time in order to stay alive. As a young man he witnessed the power of words and incessant persuasion, immediately recognizing a sure-fire path to riches and power.
After the deaths of the baron and his family, Mandulane soon accepted the vows of the clerk and figured out how to rise within this new and puzzling system. A year after he became an assistant to the Krystr Lord, Mandulane quietly murdered the man in such a way that threatened all others and then took his place. The previous lord had become sloppy and lazy, making it only a matter of time before someone would kill him. Mandulane happened to be the one who succeeded first. No one dared try to stop him from claiming what he believed was rightfully his. Because he was quick to kill anyone who considered challenging him, no one dared to cross Mandulane.
And one of the benefits of his new power happened every morning when his dresser brought in an array of clothes, many captured from murdered land owners or traveling merchants.
More than almost anything else in life, Mandulane loved to dress in fine clothes and costumes to remind himself that he had the ability to conquer any hardship or problem.
Still naked, he perched on the edge of his bed when his dresser staggered into the room under the weight of an armful of outfits, which the dresser carefully placed on the bed next to Mandulane.
The mere sight of his treasured clothes brightened Mandulane's spirits. He quickly forgot the crankiness brought on by this morning's rude awakening. Smiling, Mandulane said, “Show me.”
A small but spry man from the Southlands, the dresser picked up a pair of long, bright green pants and a brown tunic, holding them in front of his own body. “We acquired these last week from a merchant coming from the North.”
Mandulane grimaced. “Well, that explains it then. That is how the Northlanders dress. I have no desire to look like a common woodsman.”
“This is Northlander dress, but they're not woodsmen, they're—”
“Next.”
The dresser tossed the unwanted outfit on the floor and selected a new one from the bed. “Here we have a slim black underdress covered by a looser fitting purple robe. It gives you ease of movement—”
“I know. I wore it last week.” Mandulane paused. “Save it in case we have a more formal dinner next week.”
Nodding, the dresser folded the clothing with care and placed it on a nearby bench. He picked up the next outfit from the pile. “Ah ... this is quite lovely. The pants are a creamy linen, the tunic likewise, and the outer coat is red silk. I suggest you pair this ensemble with black boots.”
For a moment, Mandulane's heart raced. He could easily imagine himself cutting a dashing figure in this outfit. He leaned forward and nearly swooned at the smooth touch of the red silk outer coat. “Far East?”
“Yes. We encountered a merchant who spent the winter there.”
“Leave this and take the rest.”
As the dresser laid out the outfit and a fresh set of underclothes, he said, “I take sorrow in your loss of the dragonslayer. She should not have escaped.”
Mandulane sighed as he stepped into his undergarments, turning his back to allow the dresser to lace him into them. “And sooner than I expected. But I sorrow not. I expect we will meet again, most likely quite soon.”
The dresser grunted while he tugged the laces into place. “With due respect, how can that be possible?”
Mandulane smiled again at the beauty of the clothes awaiting him on the bed. One of the many benefits of following Krystr was the many excuses it provided for handling women and making certain they acted on a man's request and behalf. “Haven't you learned that all things are possible? Including the domination of a girl who calls herself a dragonslayer.”
CHAPTER 20
Taddeo, Wendill, and the other dragons living on Tower Island stood in the middle of its courtyard on a day when the bright, clear sky promised the inevitability of summer. At the same time, the crisp wind reminded them that spring had yet to end. The dragons took the shape of people. The stone tower positioned behind them blocked out the sun and cast a long, chilled shadow over the flagstone yard. Cattle lowed from the nearby pasture and the air carried the scent of baking bread from the farmhands' cottages situated between the fields and the tower.
The dragons had taken their time arranging a new sacred structure in the middle of the courtyard. First, they moved the Scaldings' wooden furniture out of the tower. Breaking it into large pieces, the dragons formed a circle and made sure to place the largest pieces at the center and the smallest outside. This arrangement of wood served as the bones of a request for help.
Next, the dragons placed bowls around the outer edge of the circle and filled them with seawater gathered from the harbor. Although the poison that had contaminated Tower Island made it impossible for them to enter the sea, they were able to scoop water into the containers as long as they made no attempt to touch the liquid.
Taddeo nodded to Wendill, who transformed into a large slate-colored dragon. Like an overgrown lizard, his belly scraped the flagstones when he walked crablike on bowed legs. With each step, the back of his paws scraped against the stones before he flipped them forward, claws gleaming and sharp.
When Wendill sighed, his belly heaved like the bellows of a blacksmith. Easing down to the ground, he rested his elongated head on folded paws, spittle dripping from the dozens of sharp teeth inside his jaw. As the other dragons watched, Wendill turned to stone, resting like a marker in front of a monument.
“Fiera, we call upon you for assistance,” Taddeo said. “Behold the bones of the gateway we have created for you and the threshold upon which we beg you to enter.”
For the next several moments, nothing happened. The cattle continued complaining from their grassy fields. Birds chirped from their nests in crevices high in the tower. The sun shifted slightly and cast its warm rays down upon the circle of wood in the courtyard.
Wisps of white smoke emerged from the central pile of wood, swirling casually among the empty spaces between each piece. Like dogs, the wisps seemed to investigate and sniff each broken piece.
The seawater in the bowls surrounding the sacred circle trembled as if some giant creature walked upon the land, causing it to shudder.
The
white smoke puffed itself larger and brighter from the innermost wood, filling the air with an acrid scent.
Taddeo sneezed, and his eyes watered.
Without warning, the smoke exploded, replaced by enormous flames that climbed as high as the tower. The bonfire burned strong and bright, illuminating the entire courtyard and chasing away the shadow that had chilled it. Nonetheless, every dragon except Taddeo (and Wendill, still in his rock form) shivered.
The bonfire roared for several minutes, flaming violently within the perimeter marked by the bowls of seawater. Its heat felt like dozens of hearths crammed into a small space. Finally, the flames diminished until they formed the shape of a woman.
Standing in the center of smoldering ashes, her skin gleamed alabaster white and her long black hair curled like smoke. She wore a long flame-colored gown that swirled around her legs in the slightest breeze. Orange, red, and yellow sparkling gems encrusted the gown's bodice and high standing collar. With a disinterested sigh, she stepped out of the ashes and onto the threshold of Wendill's rock body.
Taddeo extended his hand to her, smiling.
Taking it, she wrinkled her nose and stepped daintily and barefooted onto the flagstones, oblivious to Wendill rising up out of the rock behind her. “What stinks?” she murmured.
“Hello, Fiera,” Taddeo said. “It delights me to see you, too.”
CHAPTER 21
As Astrid and the Iron Maidens traveled into the Midlands on foot, spring eased toward summer, a reminder that several weeks had passed since Astrid had first met the Maidens and that they’d spent much of that time traveling.
Because they headed north, every day felt the same. Despite occasional showers, the skies looked bright and clear, while the temperature stayed balmy. New grass and budding tree leaves warmed the landscape with the yellow green of new spring growth, while lavender, snowy white, and butter-colored flowers dotted the plains. Their heady sweet scents mingled with the crisp clean air lilting from the mountain pines.
The maidens who called the Midlands home suggested a longer route allowing them to wind through valleys and around a stretch of mountains. Unlike the Northlands' jagged and towering mountains, those in the Midlands suggested a gentler nature. The Midland mountains looked like giants nestled against the ground, sleeping an indefinite nap. The broad roads winding through the surrounding valleys made for easy trekking around those mountains.
Like Astrid, the Iron Maidens continued to dress like men, tucking their long hair under jaunty caps and keeping their weapons sheathed at their sides. From a distance, most people assumed they were a group of boys out on an adventure.
Unused to having company when she traveled, it took a week or so for Astrid to adjust to the constant chattering of her new companions. The Iron Maidens hailed from several different countries, and they clumped together in groups of two or three, each group conversing in its native tongue. Overwhelmed by all the languages and knowing she had no knack for learning them, Astrid felt alone for the first day, even though surrounded by other women.
Then Thorda decided she needed to become more fluent in the Northlander language and took it upon herself to convince Astrid to tutor her while they walked. With Thorda as a walking mate by day and sharing meals with all of the Iron Maidens, Astrid soon felt the loneliness fade, replaced by a sense of camaraderie and purpose.
That sense grew stronger when she joined them every day for their early morning weapons practice. Astrid immediately recognized Vinchi's drills and fell back into the habit of practicing techniques designed to fight men instead of lizards.
And as Thorda learned more of the Northlander language from Astrid, she took the opportunity to learn more about Thorda, who had tended crops alongside her family for a land owner who had treated them well.
“What types of crops did you raise?” Astrid said one day as they walked a road flanked by grassy fields.
Thorda paused, gazing to each side. Mountains stood in the distance to their right, but farmers tending plowed fields sprouting new growth stretched to their left. Smiling in recognition, Thorda pointed at two different kinds of new growth. “Those.”
Astrid squinted as if that would help her recognize the new crops, but they looked the same to her. Laughing at herself, she said, “I worked in a smithery and never noticed much about crops. I don't know what they are.”
Thorda pantomimed shucking something and then holding it horizontally and eating.
“Corn!” Astrid cried in recognition. “It's covered with a green husk, and it's yellow and white and sweet.”
“Corn,” Thorda said, concentrating on the new word. “Corn.”
“Exactly. What's the other kind of food you raised?”
Thorda paused, puzzling out an answer. When the wind kicked up, blowing from the mountains, her face lit up. Thorda raised her arms straight above her head. When the wind blew again, she let her arms drift with it.
Now it was Astrid's turn to be puzzled. “I don't understand.”
Thorda became more fluid, letting her entire body move with the wind.
“Is it wheat? You're showing me the way wheat waves in the wind like the ocean?”
“Yes!” Thorda brightened again. “We use it to make bread.”
“Yes, that's right. It's called wheat.”
Thorda took a few moments to repeat this new word, too.
Astrid paused. She wanted to be thoughtful of Thorda's experience with the Krystr army but she also wanted to learn from it. She took a mindful approach. “Was it Mandulane who killed your master?”
Thorda's eyes darkened. “No. His men.”
“Mandulane sends out smaller groups of men? Is it like a first attack to make another attack easier for Mandulane?”
“Yes. Mandulane has big army. He murders hope.”
After being in his camp and looking into the eyes of his women tattooed blue, she had no problem understanding Thorda's meaning. Small groups that initiated first attacks on land owners probably succeeded in most cases, like Thorda's. After killing the land owner and his family, these small Krystr groups could easily control the farmers and other workers. By the time Mandulane arrived with his massive army, anyone entertaining the idea of revolt would likely give up such thoughts and cave in to Mandulane's rule.
An unexpected metallic ringing made Astrid come to a sudden halt. “Stop!” she called out to the Iron Maidens. “Quiet!”
Although some of the women didn't speak the Northlander language, they'd learned a few simple commands from Astrid. Within moments, they stood still and listened.
There it was again: the rhythmic singing of hammer upon anvil, floating in the air like the scent of flowers.
“There's a village up ahead, and they have a blacksmith.” Astrid beamed, already looking forward to talking shop with a fellow blacksmith. “Maybe we can spend the night.”
Astrid dropped one hand to the pouch hanging from her belt, squeezing the pouch's exterior until she felt the comforting sharp edges of the stone of darkness hidden inside. If the village happened to be a large one, they might also have an alchemist.
Fee and Glee had told Astrid her own sword Starlight held a portent about the stone of darkness. They'd said something about not knowing if it was like the sunlight breaking through clouds or a coming darkness or both.
Mandulane's men had attacked before the alchemist sisters could tell Astrid what she wanted to know about the stone, although she now knew more about her family, especially her grandfather, Benzel of the Wolf who had been the first dragonslayer. And the sisters had confirmed what Astrid had long suspected of her brother. Without their father's knowledge, their mother had conceived Drageen by sleeping with another man, leaving Drageen with none of Astrid's dragonslaying blood.
But what was the stone of darkness and what did it mean?
Astrid had to find out. Maybe the portents in Starlight's blade would divulge a way to defeat Mandulane and his men.
Suddenly, Astrid remembered how Fe
e and Glee had warned her not to let anyone know she possessed the stone. As much as she had grown to care for the Iron Maidens, Astrid also believed the alchemists had been wise to caution her. She relaxed her grip on her pouch and cast a casual glance among the Iron Maidens.
As far as Astrid could tell, none of them had seen her tell-tale grip of the stone of darkness inside the pouch.
CHAPTER 22
Hours later, Astrid and the Iron Maidens made their way cautiously into a large, bustling Midlander village. Like most towns in this region, the village rested in a flat, open space surrounded by fields of grain and vegetables. However, large thickets of oaks, aspens, and evergreens threaded through the entire village, resulting in a maze of nooks and crannies hiding cottages from view. Astrid suspected when the village had first been established, its founders either cleared an existing forest or transplanted parts of a forest into the town.
The comforting scent of smoke from a blacksmith's fire permeated the air, and Astrid smiled as she inhaled. Most of the villagers labored in the surrounding fields and the village was quiet, except for the honks of ducks and geese and the ringing music of the blacksmith's hammer.
Turning toward the Iron Maidens, Astrid said, “See who you can find and ask if there's enough room for us all to spend the night, even if it's in a barn. Thorda, come with me and we'll talk to the blacksmith. The rest of you search through the village. Anyone who speaks the Midlander language, make sure you keep company with those who don't. Stick together.”
The Iron Maidens split up and headed in different directions.
Thorda kept pace with Astrid while she walked toward the sound of ringing metal.
Observing every cottage doorway in sight, Astrid stopped when she noticed a small puff of bright yellow smoke spill out of one open doorway, followed by a teenage boy who coughed as he stumbled outside. “Are you all right?” Astrid called out.
Looking up in surprise, the boy nodded. Clearly, he understood the Northlander language.