The Dragon's Fury (Book 1)

by D Mickleson

  “We had no idea who was buried there,” he muttered, feeling wary but relieved. “Good thing they didn’t search my pockets.”

  “Yes, funnily enough, they were never ordered to search your clothes,” said the chamberlain with a wink. Alden barked a laugh while Owain looked between the three of them confusedly.

  “Wait. What’s going—”

  “Now, there’s little time, and I need to hear everything if I’m to protect you.”

  Triston spoke quickly, but left nothing out. By the time he told of their sheathing the stolen swords in the soil of a rather large and bushy pot plant in the library, both the chamberlain’s and Owain’s eyes were alive with wonder.

  “And you left me to fend for myself at that boring party for hours!”

  “Akataka. Poisoned barbs, an old dwarvish trick. Leave it to Stentor to think of that to protect his wife’s burial chamber. And you say you found no trace of the Relic, no hint of its presence anywhere?”

  “None sir. We also never found Captain Mugwort. But there’s no doubt those men were down there on his orders.”

  “Ah. Well, as to that, the captain admits it.”

  “Admits it!” said Triston and Alden together.

  “Yes. He claims they were there to guard the Relic, wherever it may be. But Stentor’s wrath is unabated. The men were found in a forbidden chamber and the king blames Mugwort. I’m afraid the former captain is in total disgrace. Stentor stripped him of his office and threatened to ban him from the realm. That may have been the end of the affair, if two of the bodies weren’t found with slit throats.”

  Alden smiled grimly. “But I thought Burt and company might lie there for months. How were they discovered?”

  “You think seven soldiers failing to report at the end of their shift goes unnoticed? No, a general search was ordered in the wee hours of the morning by the night sergeant. But Stentor himself stumbled onto the bodies early this morning visiting Queen Aurentia’s tomb. He has a way of disabling the darts I suppose, but anyway, as you can imagine, he was most displeased. The catacombs are supposed to be off limits to all but the royal family, and perhaps to a few trusted advisors. Mugwort or myself may be allowed, but seven men-at-arms is quite a breach. And the queen’s own sepulcher!”

  Alfrich sighed, shaking his head. “I’m sorry to have troubled His Majesty, but at least we can rest assured Captain Mugwort won’t be causing any more trouble. I was skeptical at first, but there now seems little doubt he was up to something.”

  “Does this mean Stentor will be needing a new captain to lead his men?” asked Alden, trying and failing to conceal his delight at the turn of events.

  Alfrich turned to him, eyebrows rising once more. “It may indeed. My, but we are ambitious this morning, aren’t we?” He rose with a sigh. Looking at each of them in turn, he commanded them sternly not to speak of the matter any further for fear of unseen ears.

  Then he smiled wearily. “You’ve done His Majesty a great service,” he said before leaving, “and I won’t forget it. Farewell.”

  TWENTY

  THE TOWER AND THE TRAITOR

  Three things I have seen like unto heaven’s wrath: a thunderstorm, an earthquake, and a king who believed himself wronged.

  —Queen Aspria, Regnatus, 1091

  Seconds after the chamberlain swept from the room, a messenger came directly from King Stentor himself with news that the scouting party had returned from Wyrmskull, absent four of their number slain by a roving band of Farthians.

  “Your story is proven, word for word, and His Majesty wishes you to know he now places his full faith and trust in you. In token of this, he returns to you your village heirloom.” He clapped his hands, and three young pages came in struggling with the longsword of Willbrand. The messenger declared them free to go if they wished. “But His Majesty begs you to stay, at least until dinner this evening when he would dine with you if you will.”

  When they had accepted the invitation and the man bowed himself out the door, Triston turned to Alden. “I’m not leaving until Sarconius has made his move.”

  “And I’m going nowhere until I’ve made mine.”

  Owain was grasping Bloodprice by the hilt with both hands, struggling to lift the weapon. “I don’t get it. How did you wield this one-handed, Trist?”

  “Magog lifted it.” He turned to Alden. “I don’t care what it takes. We’ve got to keep the Serpentaugrum out of Sarconius’ hands. He’s bad enough with just one Relic.”

  Alden nodded. “If that’s all he has. Didn’t you say there’s more?”

  Triston held a hand to his forehead. The sense that he’d forgotten something vital had only grown since the night, and his head was throbbing. “What’s that? Yes. More. I don’t know.” His thoughts drifted back to the first time he’d seen Sarconius and the Seer, the day he lost his Fighter’s trial. Something had happened then that he ought to remember. It was there on the tip of his brain . . . but no, all he could remember was being bludgeoned by Gorwain. “Ald, do you remember anything—”

  “—and Stentor couldn’t refuse me her hand if he’d already made me Captain of the Guard. Wait, what?”

  Triston realized Alden had been speaking animatedly of the princess without his knowing it. “Never mind.”

  Alden was holding up two tunics, frowning gravely. One was plain white, the other, white with ruffles. Beside him, Owain was still battling for control of Bloodprice. By the look of the globe, now sliced into several pieces with the blade stuck in the earth’s core, that fight wasn’t going well.

  “Which me is sexier, Trist: sleek ‘n steady or ruffled ‘n ready?”

  “Trist, grab the blade by the tip and I’ll pull. I promise not to cut you.”

  Triston looked back and forth between them.

  “I’m going to get some fresh air. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Half an hour later, he found himself pacing along the Fangwall again. All was activity below. Regiments of soldiers marched up and down the bridge to the mainland, and horsemen rode to and fro, busy with the king’s commands. Looking more closely, Triston was surprised there seemed to be much more going than coming on the bridge. He didn’t trouble himself overmuch, thinking perhaps a drill was planned in the fields beyond the city.

  He had more than enough to worry about without looking into Stentor’s minor troop movements. Sarconius was coming. Whether he brought an army or came alone, the man would be here. And with him, Magog’s Fury.

  What use would the sorcerer make of the dragon’s spirit to steal the Serpentaugrum? Triston lamented his ignorance of such deep matters. He wished fervently he had some clue where the Serpentaugrum could be found. Knowing the location would be a comfort, just in case. If it came to a spell duel, he just might have what it takes to best the Meridian lord. But no. For better or worse, the king would hear no word of breaking the long ban on wielding Relics. And what use was idle speculation anyway? Triston’s feet had stalked the castle’s many ways inside and out, even deep into the catacombs, and no hint of a Relic’s presence did he find.

  “Back again?”

  Triston looked up, startled, and found himself facing Princess Abigail. He’d wandered down the south spur without knowing it and now stood at the same viewpoint where they’d met before. She smiled, beautiful in a white dress overlaid with silver brocade. Her face was pale as ever, her nose and ears alone pink with cold in the sea breeze. Whether from the salty gusts or a sad heart, her eyes were glazed with a pearly sheen.

  “I could ask you the same question,” he answered, returning her smile and bowing. Stepping up beside her, he looked out at the endless miles of sky and sea. The water boasted a richer blue, but he knew the sky’s vault was deeper. “A fine view of infinity. Do you come here often?”

  Abigail followed his gaze to the horizon, then looked at him with a guilty expression. Her eyes flitted to her governess, Agatha, who Triston had only just noticed standing a few paces behind her. “All the time.” She lo
wered her voice conspiratorially. “Though Daddy hates it.”

  “Really? I know he wants you on palace grounds, but this is near enough.” She smiled distractedly, then returned her gaze to the sea. “I would come here often if I lived in the palace. It’s a lovely spot,” said Triston, his eyes on her.

  “I don’t think so. I hate this place.”

  Triston frowned but said nothing. They stood in silence for a few moments, watching the tiny whitecaps form and break in their endless rhythm. Then he saw that she wept. Without thinking, he placed an arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into him. “And they broke into her tomb, today of all days. Did you hear? Why would they do that?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault,” she said, her voice surprisingly firm. Firm and bitter. Triston shivered. “It’s no one’s fault but hers.”

  “What happened?”

  “She jumped into the sea. Today. Right from this spot. I mean, today last year.” She shook her head, wiping her eyes on his shirt. “I’m not making sense, but it doesn’t make sense anyway. Well, the jumping makes sense. It’s what she did before that I can’t explain.”

  A withered hand clasped her shoulder where she leaned into Triston. “Your Highness, please. You’ve said enough—”

  “No Agatha! Let go! You’re just a spy for him anyway.” Abigail tore away from them both, the same wild, trapped look returning for a fleeting moment. Then she stepped up to Triston and whispered in his ear. “There’s a place we can go. She won’t be able to follow. Get ready.” Then with a fierce “Now!” she was gone, racing along the wall toward the castle.

  Triston looked at Agatha, who rolled her eyes in despair, then he too was racing. Abigail was faster than he expected. He didn’t catch up until they’d reached the door leading into the upper levels of the palace. A doorward watched them, looking bored, as if the antics of the princess were well known to him. They darted past him without a word.

  “We have to hurry,” she said breathlessly as she swung open a door leading to a long, spiral staircase. “Before Agatha alerts Mugwort—but no, he’s no use to anyone now.” She laughed, sounding gleeful where moments earlier she’d been distraught. “This might be even more fun than I thought.”

  Triston followed, soon breathing hard. He marveled at her gazelle-like grace as she fled down corridors, up flights of stairs, and through dusty rooms where all the furnishings were covered with white sheets. Finally they reached an ironbound door at the end of a long hallway Triston had never been down.

  She stopped, looking at him excitedly. “Royals only,” she said with a wink. Producing a bejeweled key identical to Alfrich’s from a chain around her neck, Abigail unlocked the door. Looking through, Triston saw another spiral staircase leading up, up, as far as the eye could see. “The Dwarven Turret,” she said. “The highest point in the castle. Daddy or Alfie would take years getting up here, and no one else but Mugwort has a key! Let’s go.”

  Triston hesitated. “Am I allowed—”

  “Yes!” she said impatiently, pulling on his hands. “Don’t be a coward. Come on!”

  The traitor stalked along the Fangwall, his fury threatening to unmask him as he brooded. He passed a guard, who saluted, but he could no longer force away his scowl. The way he’d been treated, the way he’d been spoken to, and after all his loyal service! But retribution was coming. Oh yes, retribution was not far away, and then Stentor would grovel. He would beg, but it would be too late. And who would then stand between him and the girl? His eyes turned westward, from where all his hopes and plans drew near. And now, too late to feign friendliness to the guard, a smile took root.

  He reached the Seagate Control Tower and acknowledged three more salutes with a dignified nod. “I bring word from His Majesty,” the traitor informed them in a commanding voice.

  “Yes sir? What does the king command?”

  The traitor’s smile grew. It was all too easy. Yes, he had taken the gold. His imperial contact had believed it a necessary bribe. But in truth he would have done this free of charge just to see the look on Stentor’s face when the life was wrung out of him.

  “I have new orders. This one’s not on the books so I came myself. Are you ready to update the log according to the king’s wishes?”

  “Yes sir. Go ahead. What are the new orders?”

  The traitor’s grin broadened, and now he had to rein it in. This was supposed to be business as usual, not a cause for celebration. No gloating yet.

  But soon.

  Breathing hard, Triston forced his eyes off her annoying grin and looked around.

  The Tower Room was big. In fact, it was too big. Much too big.

  Viewed from the outside, the top turret seemed only a little wider than the tower, like an arrowhead sitting atop a feathered shaft. But from the inside, this circular chamber seemed spacious enough to hold a good-sized house with room for a garden besides and height for a tall tree.

  “You all right?” the princess asked brightly. Her words were innocent, but her tone dripped with triumph. He had been foolish enough to propose a race up the winding turret and was now paying the price.

  “Fine,” he said, trying and failing not to sound defensive. “Why do you ask?”

  “You seem a little tired.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “Hmmm.” She let her eyes linger on his rapidly rising and falling chest, then met his gaze with a smirk.

  “All right. Maybe you’re not a half-bad runner.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell your friends.”

  “Thanks.”

  She laughed. “So what do you think of this place?”

  Glad for the change of subject, he returned his attention to the extraordinary room. The walls, white marble flecked with minute grains of gold like the exterior, curved in a great ring. But the circle was incomplete. Fully a third of the wall was missing. A vast gap in the marble opened to the blue void beyond. He cautiously approached the brink and looked down. Endless fields of sky lay before him, broken only by the coastlands gently rising to a purple haze of hills in the distance. Right at his feet sat a toy town, Leviathan by the sea.

  “It’s . . . wow. It’s huge. Is it enchanted?”

  Abigail shrugged. “It’s dwarven. It’s ancient. What do you think of this?”

  She was gesturing at an elongated brass object mounted near the brink. Longer than a pikestaff, smooth and round like a column, it widened in stages toward one end, and was crowned by a lens of convex glass.

  “I think . . . what is it?”

  “You don’t know?” she asked, her voice mocking. Whether she jested or meant the insult, he couldn’t tell. Laughing, Abigail walked to the narrow end and sat on a brass chair bolted to the strange object’s mounting. She then leaned forward, brushed some loose locks behind her right ear with a trace of her hand, and thrust a lever by her knee downward.

  Triston gaped. The brass cylinder jolted forward on a heretofore unnoticed track right to the edge. It jerked to a halt with the heavy end leaning dangerously—or so it seemed to him—over the ledge. With a flick at another lever, her seat and the narrow end with it actually rose off the ground. The wide lens on the far side was now pointed almost straight down. Triston ran forward to help her out of the contraption before she toppled to her death a thousand feet below. But she laughed and batted at his outstretched hands impatiently.

  Then she placed an eye right against a glass aperture capping the small end and gasped. “My, the market’s full today! Must have been a good fish-haul this morning.” She twiddled the second lever and the cylinder nudged ever so slightly up and to the left. Triston saw with amazement that each motion of the arm-size lever somehow pivoted the whole object on a giant swivel at its base. “Ah, gulls mating on a roof. And oh, how sweet. An old codger kissing his wife. My, my. Love everywhere today. And what’s going on over there?”

  Another twiddle, and—“What the . . . he should really put some clot
hes on.” She screamed suddenly. “Oh no! Not again.” Giving both levers a quick tug, the seat crashed to the ground with a spray of sparks even as the mounting slid backwards on its track to its original position. “I hate it when that happens!” the princess wailed. She leapt out of the chair and stepped away from the contraption with her back to Triston.

  “What’s going on? Are you all right?” he demanded, bewildered.

  Abigail took a moment to gain her composure. “That’s not the first time . . . .” She shuddered. “Why they have to do it outside though!”

  “Who? What?”

  “That fishmonger and his wife. In broad daylight!”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t care if they have a walled garden. It’s still indecent.”

  “What?”

  She looked at him hopelessly for a moment, then sighed. “Never mind. I was going to give you a turn but I think we’ll do it some other time.”

  As Triston stared in bewilderment, her blushing face abruptly took on a mischievous grin. “Or we could point the Dwarfglass out to sea! That would be fun! Who knows what we’d see. Ships, whales, probably just a bunch of blue waves actually. It’s not allowed, it’s definitely not allowed. But let’s give it a try! Do you want to?”

  Triston shrugged, weary of waiting for her to make sense. Her words came faster but he paid them no heed. A strange feeling came over him as he watched her excitedly go on about the fun they’d have. She’s like that. Childish, a little spoiled. But there’s more, deep down. A sadness, and, I don’t know. She revels in every moment. It’s nice.

  Seeing his stare, she abruptly fell silent, returning his gaze with eyes which shone with anticipation. A soft breeze played gently with her raven locks, and he felt a thrill raise bumps on his arms.

  Triston suddenly felt awkward. “Er, maybe we should just find a nice place to sit and talk for a while. Maybe over here—” Abigail took him by the hand while he spoke, her eyes still fixed on his. “Right. Well, as I was saying, maybe here. There’s a good view, but not so near the ledge that we . . . that we might . . . .” His words trailed away as she began to pull him across the room.