The Dragon's Fury (Book 1)

by D Mickleson

  “BUT YOU!” she waved her hands, a Relic in each one. Triston found himself jerked into the air and slammed down again, hoping in vain that the agony of the jolt would overwhelm his consciousness and send him into blissful sleep. “You spend one day on the job and hey presto! There it is in the Dwarven Turret!”

  “Auntie? Auntie is that you?” asked Abigail in a whisper so faint it could hardly be heard above the echoes of the Seer’s shouting. “What are you doing? And what happened—”

  “Silence idiot girl!” cried the Seer. “I might have let you live if I didn’t know watching you die would make him suffer.” She raised her hands again, shaking them in the air. “The one who cost me everything! Look at me. My face, ruined! My silky skin!” Her voice rose to a crescendo of hatred. “I’M A MONSTER NOW BECAUSE OF YOU!”

  Triston was staring at her right hand while she raged. The sylvana ring he’d lost in the rubble before the Fane’s Golemgate was aflame with emerald fire. Her fist was clenched tightly over the Serpentaugrum, yellow bile from her corrupted skin oozing over the Pearl’s surface.

  “Did it hurt?” he managed to gasp. “When you poisoned my dad I mean. Was his death painful?”

  Her chest heaving, she stopped short, seemingly caught off guard by the question.

  “No,” she croaked after a moment’s thought. “I regret that now. He deserved much worse.” Seeing the anguish in Triston’s eyes, she smiled. “Do you want to hear how he died?” she whispered. “We drank the fruit of the vine together, then we drank the fruit of our love. Afterwards, I lay in his arms and smiled up at him. ‘Darling, won’t you confide in me? The rumors, darling.’

  “His eyes grew hard then,” she went on. “He cursed me, said I was using him. He even swore to return to his wife! But it was too late for that.” The soft whisper returned. “The draught I had poured for him was infused with a drop of widow’s lace extract. Potent but sluggish. Much like his lovemaking actually. I told him so as he struggled for breath, but I don’t think he got the joke. In the end we just lay there looking into each other’s eyes. Until the light went out in his.”

  Triston was finding breathing difficult himself. His greatest pain in that moment was seeing the truth on her face as she spoke of his father’s unfaithfulness. The Seer stepped closer, her black eyes glittering.

  “A blissful fate compared with what awaits you, I can promise you that.” She sighed dramatically. “Of course, I can’t kill you, you know. Or do you? Maybe not, fool that you are. If you die, the Relic returns to Magog’s tomb. I made that mistake with your father. And why would I want to give you an end anyway? Give you rest? Because Triston, dear boy, I can make you suffer. Suffer for years and years for what you did to me.”

  “You mean—of course!” he groaned. “It’s bound to my life. All I had to do was kill myself, jump from the tower or something, and the Relic would have disappeared.”

  The Seer laughed appreciatively. “That’s right. I was afraid you’d think of that before the oaf forced you to find me my treasure. But you’re too selfish, too self-seeking to sacrifice yourself for others.” Her voice rose to an excited squeal. “And now I have these Relics all to myself. And I have you all to myself, and what fun we’ll have!”

  She thrust outward toward Triston with the blackened hand which grasped the Serpentaugrum, her open sores glistening. Triston felt his body rise several feet off the floor.

  “What fun!” she squeaked again, a manic light in her eyes. With a sudden jerk of her outstretched hand Triston’s body slammed to the ground with force to drive the air from his lungs. Again and again she gestured fiercely. Again and again he rose and fell, until the sweet oblivion of darkness began to form on the edge of his sight.

  Then she stopped, breathing hard and laughing savagely. “I’ll give you a minute to catch your breath, sweetie, then we can begin on the princess.”

  “Will we?” gasped Triston through clenched teeth. He gazed at the hand bearing the Serpentaugrum. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

  Her eyes followed his, and she raised her hand to her eyes. “You mean this ring? The weak little pixy band you so foolishly left behind? Not worthy of Triston the Great, Finder of Relics! And see how I used it to—”

  And then she fell in a heap over Sarconius’ twitching corpse.

  Triston lay beside her and watched her eyes go vacant. Her left hand twitched and the Fury slid from her grasp. Her right held fast to the Pearl. All she’d ever wanted.

  “No,” he growled at last. “Ironic that you would poison yourself . . . like you poisoned him.”

  He turned to Abigail, whose blank face had registered no change at the Seer’s collapse. “Your dad’s alive,” he said, forcing the words out over the protests of his aching lungs. “I used the Serpentaugrum . . . set him on second balcony . . . above the Great Door. He’s probably . . . on his way here now—NO! Don’t touch me! Got to . . . wash my hand first . . . Akataka. Dwarf poison. Mugwort . . . all over the pearl . . . Seer had open sores.”

  His words trailed away, and they lay in silence while his breathing recovered. Then, as if by some unspoken agreement, they both struggled unsteadily to their feet. “You . . . saved my dad,” Abigail whispered, half to herself. She took a step toward the hatch door. “He’s . . . alive?” Then she was running.

  “Hey,” Triston called just as she was about to disappear through it.

  “What?”

  “Were you really trying to impress me earlier? You know, with all that about the constellations?”

  Abigail stared for a couple of seconds. A smile twitched on the corner of her mouth, then she was gone.

  “I really should get this stuff off me right now,” Triston told Sarconius and the Seer.

  EPILOGUE

  A somber mantle had swept in from the sea overnight. By afternoon, however, golden shafts were piercing the gray canopy like flaming spears, kindling in the leaden waters below an innumerable host of shifting lights. Triston lowered his gaze back to earth in time to see the last of the legionnaires trudge up a plank into a wargalley and disappear below deck.

  “A toast,” he said, raising a mug of honeymead and glancing at Abigail seated beside him.

  The princess turned from the spectacle of the departing army, favoring him with a smile that, to Triston’s perception, failed to lighten the shadow of fear that still lingered over her.

  “To the sable legions’ backsides. A rare sight in war, so they say, and a fair one, as far as backsides go.” Abigail lifted her glass, frowning at him and laughing at the same time. Triston laughed too, pleased to see that her eyes joined in her merriment for the first time that day.

  Standing at the railing on the princess’ other side, Alden lifted a glass of the king’s finest brandy and inclined his head toward Triston, then shouted, “No!” Triston and Abigail stared. “Not you squire! You’ll put that mead down and stand at attention if you know what’s good for you.”

  Owain slouched a little ways behind them. He wore a scowl fit to wither a flower garden. Which, fittingly enough, was precisely what he resembled in the embroidered silk dresscoat and matching, puffy pantaloons Alden had rustled up for him. He slowly lowered his pewter tankard and fixed Alden with a malicious grin. Raising the other hand with a finger pointed in the air, he opened his mouth to retort.

  But at a sidelong glance toward the ladies present, his lips froze. A bandaged and battered-looking Agatha hovered protectively behind Abigail, glowering at him as if he were a horde of ravaging centaurs. Owain’s mouth seemed to shut of its own accord.

  Triston, Alden and Abigail laughed together and drank.

  Lowering his mug, Triston swirled the mead dregs, watching the light sparkle on the liquid’s golden surface. As he did so, his hand brushed the dragonbone hanging around his neck on Sarconius’ golden chain. A thrill ran through his body at the touch.

  Magog was uneasy.

  King Stentor had thus far made no mention of the heirloom. He seemed satisfied at present t
o secure his own Relic, the Serpentaugrum, in an ironbound chest in the treasury until dwarven wrights could be found to repair the Dwarfglass. For his part, Triston had no intention of yielding up his father’s treasure. He wondered very much what would befall should the king suddenly demand it. Putting the matter from his mind, he turned to Alden.

  “And Commander Civitas actually knelt and proffered his neck to the king when he saw him still alive and well yesterday?”

  “Course he did,” said Alden gruffly. “He failed. He allowed himself to be hoodwinked by a renegade traitor, so his life was forfeit. But old Stentor pardoned him at once. A real decent man, your dad,” he said with a wink at Abigail. “Then the king ordered him to refrain from slaying himself, as Meridians sometimes do when they’ve dishonored themselves, and that was the end of it. Now they’re off. No need to conquer what’s already yours. Stentor’s still the emperor’s man in Corellia after all.”

  Abigail shook her head. She placed her cup on a table and looked up at Alden with a hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun’s slanting rays. “It’s not the end of it. Not even close. There’s to be an inquiry as to how such a breach of trust could have happened. We still don’t even know if the emperor was secretly behind all this or if Sarconius was acting on his own. But at the very least, the imperial coffers will take a hit by the time Daddy’s finished reckoning up the damages we’ve sustained. The Seagate’s in ruins and you can’t place a price on the lives lost. Captain Mugwort bewitched—Daddy doesn’t blame you Trist. You had no choice but to kill him—and my aunt! I still can’t believe . . . and, and Lord Strungent . . . .”

  Her voice broke for half a second. But almost immediately she mastered herself, straightening her shoulders, lowering her hand and looking unflinchingly toward the golden west. “He was always so kind to me. He didn’t pull through the night and . . . I heard servants talking. They were saying he was in pain at the end.”

  Triston found himself rooted to his chair as he saw the sorrow in her eyes. But Alden at once knelt beside her and took her hand, gently caressing her shoulders with the other. Abigail froze at the touch, then suddenly hunched forward with silent weeping.

  “He was a good man, Lord Strungent,” said Agatha, her aged voice thick with emotion. She shuffled forward and nudged Alden aside with surprising strength. “A true gentleman!” she proclaimed, placing her hands on Abigail’s shoulders. “Noble blood you know, and it showed. He knew how to treat a lady with respect, unlike some of this riffraff and vagabonds nowadays. No decency. Young people today could take a page out of his book—”

  “Thank—thank you, Agatha,” said Abigail. “Uh, that will be all for now. You can wait for me in my chambers. Don’t forget the healers said you need plenty of rest.”

  Agatha was not easily gotten rid of, but the stubborn princess had her way in the end. The governess’ dark grumblings trailed away into the silence she left behind.

  “Old bat,” muttered Owain when the silence had grown awkward.

  “Don’t!” said Abigail, suppressing a laugh. “She really means well. She’s just . . . .”

  “An old bat.”

  Abigail nodded. “Yes, she is.” She turned to look at Triston and Alden. “So you still plan to leave in the morning?”

  Triston nodded. “Only for a couple of—”

  “We hate to leave you,” Alden broke in. “But the villagers will be returning and they’ll need our help picking up the broken pieces of their lives. We owe them that much. But have no fear,” he went on with a grin, returning his hand to her shoulder. “I’ll be back in time to win the King’s Celebration Tourney in your honor.”

  Abigail raised her eyebrows, giving Alden an appraising look, then turned to Triston. “And you’ll be coming back too, Trist?”

  Triston looked her straight in the eyes. “My heart won’t have ever left.”

  Abigail returned his gaze, her cheeks blushing pink, and Alden gave a low whistle. Behind them, Owain spewed a mouthful of honeymead back into his upraised tankard. “Wow,” he said, laughing. “That wasn’t over the top or anything.”

  Alden leaned casually against the railing and considered Triston for a few moments. “Fancy a bit of sparring down on the lawn, Trist my lad? The princess would probably enjoy the spectacle.”

  Triston took his time draining the last of his mead. “Not a bad idea,” he said at last, fingering the Relic reflectively. “I could fetch Bloodprice and we’d have ourselves a nice little duel.”

  Alden eyed Magog’s Fury in alarm, but before he could speak Owain slapped his knee, shaking his head and laughing. “Maybe one of you should grow up and ask her what she wants to do, hmmm?”

  “That would have been nice,” said Abigail, standing. She looked back and forth between Triston and Alden, then shook her head dismissively. Her eyes were bloodshot, but a sudden grin lit up her face. “Young squire, how would you like to join me and Miss Thistlesifter for an afternoon tour of the countryside?”

  Owain gaped. “Me? Uh, sure! But who’s Mrs. Sifflesister?”

  “That would be my mare, more or less.”

  Owain’s shoulders slumped. “Oh. I’ve never really . . . I mean—I’m not much of a rider really. I haven’t had the—”

  Abigail waved an elegant hand. “That’s no problem. We’re both small enough she can manage the two of us. You’ll just have to hold on tight so you don’t fall off. Can you handle that?”

  Owain’s face reddened. “Sure. Of course!” he spluttered at last. Then his gaze lowered with something like horror to his flowery ensemble. “I’ll just go throw on something else, shall I? I’ll meet you at the Great Door in—”

  “No. I think I like what you have on.” She took him by the hand and led him toward the open door leading into their rooms. “You deserve it.”

  “I. Deserve?” he stammered.

  “Yes,” she said as they passed inside. “I haven’t forgotten the hot springs that easily.”

  Triston and Alden watched them go, both too stunned by the turn of events to say anything. “That’s too bad,” said Alden after a moment’s recovery. “I was just growing fond of my squire. And to think I promised him a few extra pieces of dragon gold if he agreed to wear that finery. Shame to have to kill him now.”

  “I’ll do it if you don’t have the guts,” said Triston, glowering toward the castle. He turned to face Alden, frowning. “She’s just toying with us,” he said, trying to sound confident. “She wouldn’t really end up with . . . not him.”

  Alden made a face like someone taking unpleasant medicine. “I don’t think so, but you never know with women.” A silence stretched between them, and both turned to watch the play of light on the distant billows. “I’ve never wanted anything so much in all my life,” he muttered a minute later.

  Triston smirked. “Not even as much as—what was it? ‘Rebuilding the shattered lives of our fellow villagers?’ Is that what you call claiming a long lost treasure trove?”

  Alden shrugged, then poured himself another brandy. “Nice of you to keep your promise. About the treasure, I mean. Even when we’re both . . . you know. Her.”

  Triston gazed into his empty tankard. “Yeah, well, a promise is a promise.”

  At that moment approaching footsteps sounded inside. The familiar face of the footman peered out onto the balcony, blinking in the sunlight. He stood before Triston and bowed.

  “His Majesty requests the presence of Sir Slendrake in the Council Room.”

  Triston put down his cup. “All right. Did the king say what for?”

  The footman hesitated. “Forgive my forwardness, but . . . you saved the king’s life, so I hear. All of our lives most likely. Thank you, Sir.”

  Triston nodded uncomfortably. “Uh, the summons?”

  “Ah yes! Well, from what I gathered, the Meridian commander delivered over to the king certain belongings of that nasty old sorcerer, Lord Whatsit or what not. Anyway, His Majesty craves your counsel on what to do with one ite
m in particular.”

  “Oh yes? And what is that?”

  “I was in the room, Sir, and so I saw it. And heard it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Triston asked, growing impatient with the slow unfolding of the man’s mind.

  “It’s this helm, Sir. This black helm. Ugly thing, and filled with horrible magic I’d guess. Well, it’s . . . it’s talking, Sir. Leastways, there’s a voice coming from inside it, and, not to alarm you, Sir, but it’s saying . . .”

  “Well? Saying what?”

  “It’s saying your name, Sir. That’s all it’s saying. Just your name, over and over, real slow like.”

  Despite the sunlight pouring down on them, Triston felt a chill smite his heart. He shivered, and was surprised to find himself gripping the dragonbone tightly with his right hand.

  “Very well,” he said stiffly. “I’ll see the king right away.”

  Without a backward glance he strode from the sunlit balcony.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  one high hopes

  two Summit Surprises

  three puzzles

  four at the tannery

  five overheard overhead

  six revenge is bitter

  seven The Crow Road

  eight an enchanting ride

  nine fiend and fire

  ten the high fane

  eleven a carnival to remember

  twelve the gathering storm

  thirteen The dragon

  fourteen mindlord

  fifteen The black helm

  SIXTEEN HOT WATER

  SEVENTEEN WHITECASTLE

  eighteen Intrigue

  nineteen akataka

  twenty The tower and the traitor

  twenty-one the living dead

  twenty-two The one with the dragon-eye

  twenty-three The serpentaugrum

  epilogue