The White Dragon

by Salvador Mercer

  “Don’t move, you’ll rip the stitching again,” Mary said, dabbing at the blood on Eric’s neck as he sat on a wooden chair in the middle of his room.

  “It won’t do us any good,” Lucius said, pacing the room at the Peak Inn, the same one that Eric had awoken to find himself in. Old man Frankel was an honorable innkeeper, and Eric’s lodgings were paid for an entire fortnight, as well as his care, and the innkeeper insisted on delivering in full for services paid.

  Mary looked at the pacing man. “You can sit still too, for a change. It’s hard enough to care for Eric without having you distracting my work. Besides, I hope you both can forgive us for what happened.”

  Eric laid a free hand on Mary’s arm as she stood behind him. “Nothing to forgive. The magistrate was out of line, and I’m grateful for the lodgings and care.”

  Mary smiled at Eric. “You’ll never know how upset Master Frankel was the last few days. He really felt bad at having to bear witness in your case. A tragedy, he called it.”

  “Let him know I’m fine with it,” Eric said. “Now what are you hooting about over there?”

  Lucius stopped his pacing for a moment to turn to the pair, ignoring the small historian in the corner at the fancy desk with a quill and paper. “I was saying that the reprieve won’t do us any good.”

  “Why not?” Eric asked, wincing as Mary poured a small amount of alcohol in his wound, cleaning the skin and stitches.

  “Because, if you don’t find this white beast of yours, then you’ll be convicted of something, if not outright treason and murder, and if you do find the dragon, then we’ll be burying an empty coffin with your name etched into a newly carved headstone. I don’t see any way around it.”

  Mary finished her work and gathered her supplies from a tray that was on the floor. She moved the tray to a nearby dresser, setting it down and then moving to take a seat on the edge of the bed before she spoke up. “I’m afraid I have to agree with your associate; you’re stuck between the cheese and the cat.”

  Eric chuckled, as did the other two men. The proverbial saying was an old one, with the cheese mounted on a trap and a cat waiting there were only two options for a wayward mouse, and both spelled doom.

  “Well, this mouse isn’t going out without a fight.” Eric nodded, wincing again as the stitches pulled on his wound.

  “I told you that you’ll need to keep your head straight for a couple of days or you’ll pull them out again,” Mary said, referring to her stitches that she had to redo for the second straight time in a single day.

  “I’m afraid you can’t do this alone, fight or no fight left in you.” Lucius walked over to stand near Eric so the man didn’t have to turn his neck to see him.

  Eric let the words sink in, and he looked intently at Mary, who was now sitting directly across from him. Lucius was just to his left, and within his field of vision as well. Only Diamedes was behind him over his right shoulder where the intricately hand-carved desk was located. Eric spoke loudly so the historian could hear him. “What do you say, Diamedes?”

  The historian cleared his throat before answering. “I have to agree with your colleague. He seems to understand your predicament. However . . .”

  There was a long pause, and Eric could see both Mary and Lucky looking past him in anticipation. “Go on.” Eric took the bait, something any sane mouse would never do.

  “You only really have one option in this matter. Not vindicating yourself will leave you at the mercy of the justiciar. The man is good, but all of the duke’s lawkeepers are busy these days and he’ll be sorely pressed not to rule in the magistrate’s favor, at least on some of the charges, if not the most severe ones.”

  Lucius chimed in. “The royal historian understands the situation clearly.”

  “Yes,” Diamedes continued. “The consequences could be imprisonment, banishment, and exile—”

  “Or death,” Lucius interrupted.

  “In the extreme.” The small historian gave some context to the remark. “Either way, your future will be suspect at the least.”

  “Which leads us to what other option?” Eric said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

  Diamedes nodded, which Eric couldn’t see, but the nodding heads of his companions was enough to relay the gesture to the mercenary. “You must prove what you said and succeed.”

  “Easier said than done,” Eric said, his tone not losing a bit of the sarcasm and cynicism from his first remark.

  “Quite right,” Diamedes answered. “The key to my last remark was that you must not only prove your statement but you must succeed, which means living through another encounter with your white dragon.”

  Lucius snorted and shook his head, resuming his pacing. Mary sat stunned, looking from the historian to Eric and then back again. Finally Eric spoke, “I lost my entire company to that beast. Two of the best warriors this side of the Felsics—”

  “Forstag was the best, not one of the best,” Lucius interrupted, a trait that seemed to not go unnoticed by the historian.

  “Then you must gather together new resources, better warriors, and something special to combat the creature,” Diamedes said.

  “Like I said, easy to say, hard to do,” Eric said, not moving his neck, but his veins started to pulse and rise quicker at the stress of their conversation.

  Diamedes put his equipment down and walked over to the bed, nodding at Mary, who patted the mattress next to her. “Thank you, my dear,” the historian said, taking a seat next to her and facing Eric. “Surely you know people who can assist you?”

  Lucius spoke instead. “Everyone who could be trusted and counted on was in The Hunt. That group was Eric’s life work. It is lost now, and he is lucky to be alive. There is no one else, and those who died took decades to gather under our company banner.”

  “And decades to get the crowns of Agon to recognize it,” Eric said, looking down, dejected.

  The four individuals in the room sat or paced in silence, pondering the issue. The clock on the wall ticked, a rhythmic sound, not a common sight, something only found in the most expensive of homes or establishments, time not being something that most individuals marked precisely.

  Mary sighed, and Lucius shortened his pacing so that Eric could see him as he walked three steps, turned, three steps back, turned, repeating the obsessive habit till Eric tired of listening to his boots marking rhythm with the mystical gears of the wall apparatus.

  “I think I could call on a few people I know,” Eric finally said.

  Mary and Diamedes looked up hopefully, but Lucius put a damper on any hope with his next remark. “I’m the recruiter in this operation, and I’m pretty sure we tapped everyone we could think of.”

  “Not everyone, just those with whom we wanted to work.” Eric shifted his body to face the left so he could see his colleague better.

  Lucius stopped his pacing and faced Eric. “Exactly who do you have in mind?”

  Eric fidgeted and looked down, which wasn’t exactly reassuring. “Well, there are a few people I’m thinking of . . .”

  “Names,” Lucius demanded.

  Eric looked up and held a hand out to prevent a protest by his colleague. “Now, Lucky, we are desperate and in a situation that we haven’t been in before, so we haven’t thought of a few people—”

  “I hate when you get like this,” Lucius said, a frown creeping over his face.

  “Go on,” Mary encouraged. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”

  Silence.

  Finally, Eric looked away from Lucius, speaking at Mary. “There is a fierce warrior who I once worked with closely, though since retired the last few years . . .”

  “That sounds promising,” Mary said, nodding and looking at Lucius, who hadn’t moved and indeed, hardly appeared to breathe.

  “Who is this warrior?” Lucky finally asked.

  It was obvious that Eric didn’t want to name the warrior, but finally he muttered a single name. “Gabrielle.”

  Luci
us stammered, stuttered, and spat, trying to speak as his face turned red. “You can’t be serious, Eric.”

  “Why, what?” Mary asked, and Diamedes looked at both men, taking mental notes but otherwise remaining silent and letting whatever this little melodrama was unfold without his intervening.

  “She would make a fine sword—” Eric started, but Lucius cut him off.

  “If she didn’t kill you first.”

  Mary stood and stomped her foot on the wooden floor, getting both men’s attention. “What in Agon are you two fighting about?”

  Lucius was quick to explain. “Gabrielle is Eric’s ex-wife.”

  He let this sink in on the other two, Mary and Diamedes, who both sat surprised at the revelation.

  “It’s not as bad as it seems,” Eric began. “You see . . .”

  “You see,” Lucius took over, “the last time these two love struck individuals saw each other, she swore that she would kill him if ever she laid eyes on him again.”

  Eric looked down, and silence enveloped the room again. There was a long pause before Mary asked her question. “Are we talking about a scorned woman?”

  Lucius explained, “Most definitely. Eric had a few roaming expeditions of his own, and instead of facing up to his actions, he bolted, divorcing her in the process. Took the easy way out, didn’t you, Eric?”

  Diamedes looked up intently at Lucius, and then, glancing over to Eric, the small historian sought clarification. “Am I sensing a personal issue here?”

  Eric responded, “Of course. We’re talking about my ex-wife.”

  “No,” Diamedes clarified, “I’m asking about the dynamic between you and your colleague Lucius.”

  Both men looked down before Eric answered, his voice low. “Lucky is Gabrielle’s father.”

  “Gods of Agon,” Mary said, making a sign of warding.

  Diamedes ignored the remark, continuing. “This explains much, but actually, it’s perfect, if you ask me.”

  “What?” all three said in unison, looking at each other inquisitively at the coincidence.

  Diamedes explained, “I can’t think of anything more a dragon would fear than one of our scorned, angry females.”

  “What news?” Amora asked the heavily cloaked man as he reached them on the outskirts of town. The pair of wizards and the approaching man were at the edge of a street where two businesses were located, though closed for the evening. All of the action in the town was now at its center where the many pubs, taverns, and inns were located.

  The man brought down his hood, revealing a face worn by the weather. Creases and scars crisscrossed his face, giving the man an appearance of both danger and wisdom, most confusing for those who met the assassin. “The Ulathan judge gave the mercenary thirty days to make his case, and the rumors you asked about are true. The royal historian Diamedes is indeed here.”

  “Why so long?” Kirost asked from where he stood next to the mage.

  “It appears to be their custom,” the man answered. “Do you want me to dispatch the judge?”

  “No,” Amora said. “The justiciars of Ulatha are another matter. They will soon find an end to their days, but before then, we must prepare to have the Highstone cut off in order for the High-Mage to complete his plans.

  “As you command,” the man said, eying both Kesh warily.

  “Balaria still stands with Kesh, does it not, Zokar?” Kirost said, noting the gaze that the assassin gave.

  “Of course,” the man said simply.

  “Is Belost ready?” Amora asked, ignoring the banter between his subordinates.

  “He is,” Zokar said. “Do you have a new raid for him planned?”

  “Not at the moment,” Amora continued. “The draconus has been awakened, and we only need to lead it to do our bidding. Belost and his men will be our insurance in case our plans are interrupted.”

  Kirost snorted, disgust evident in his action. “That fool couldn’t interfere with our plans if he tried.”

  “Quite right,” Amora said, looking past Zokar and toward the center of Moartown where the Peak Inn was located. “It is not the mercenary with whom I am concerned. The meddling historian is here.”

  Kirost looked at his master intently. “He should be dead by now.”

  “Should be, yet if Zokar’s report is accurate, then the man has found himself all the way out here in this backwater town where someone of his stature should not be.” Amora shifted his staff to his left hand and stroked his long grey beard with his right, never taking his eyes off the inn far in the distance.

  After a few moments of silence, the assassin asked, “Do you want me to kill the historian, then?”

  Amora didn’t answer right away, instead pondering the manner in which he would handle the troublesome record keeper. Still stroking his beard, he addressed the assassin. “Yes, but not yet and not here. We must wait for the man to be alone and vulnerable. He has had far too many escapes from our designs, and it is not all coincidence.”

  “So then what?” Kirost asked, also looking past the Balarian at the town.

  Amora finally stopped stroking his beard and then looked at the wizard. “We wait and follow.”

  Zokar nodded and replaced his hood over his face. The twin sisters, Sara and Tira, were climbing into the night sky from the eastern horizon to dance their way across the heavens before fleeing the wrath of the dragon’s fire as it rose to herald the start of a new day. Seeing that the Kesh were done with him, the man turned and walked back to town.

  He had news to report, and if the Kesh became aware of his true allegiance, he would face a fate worse than death.

  The festivities were intense despite the poor mood of the town. Two caravans had arrived in Moartown, one from Ulatha headed north toward Rigal, the capital of the northern realm of Rigis, and another returning from the same place. The northern realm was deep in war with the northern clans that had somehow convened to attack it in force. The conflux of two large wagon trains meant that the inns and taverns were busier than normal, and many townsfolk congregated to hear stories by the travelers, which was basically a rudimentary form of news gathering by the town.

  Of course, the other talk of the town that night was the status of Eric Bain and the trial against the mercenary. These were played out in the three major meeting places, and it was no different at Peak’s.

  “You sure you want to be here?” Lucius asked his companion. “We need to leave early in the morning if we are going to make it to . . .”

  Eric looked at the man and then to his companions sitting at the table that they occupied in a dark corner of the establishment. One of the perks to having the owner’s sense of guilt over what happened was that Frankel reserved them the best table for watching the guests of the establishment without being too overt doing so.

  “Yeah,” Mary said before Eric could answer. “The last three company leaders were so rude to you.”

  “News travels quickly,” Eric said, picking up his tankard of pale ale and taking a long swig of it before setting it down and wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

  “Use this.” Mary offered a linen cloth from the table.

  “Shouldn’t you be working or something?” Eric asked her, pushing the napkin away.

  “You don’t need to be rude to me just because your old friends were rude to you,” Mary said, sounding hurt.

  “They were never really friends,” Lucius said, looking around and sipping his glass of wine, preferring a finer taste for his palate.

  “So how long will you sit here and mope?” Mary asked, picking up a piece of bread, and using her knife, she began to butter it, taking dainty bites as she looked over the crowded floor of her workplace.

  “I’m not moping,” Eric stated. “Also, I’m sorry. That was rude of me to say, but I’m at my wits end understanding why my peers are ostracizing me. Surely they can’t believe the magistrate charges, can they?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Lucius said, eying a table waril
y. “You’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll see if I can secure some funds for us to use.”

  Lucius stood and walked over to a table near the middle of the room where a group of travelers, not so wise as to the influential people in Moartown, were engaging in a game of chance. Lucius talked to a couple of them and laughed, acting somewhat intoxicated, and then sat down as a man at the table pulled up a chair, offering it to him.

  “What is he doing?” Diamedes asked.

  “Making money,” both Mary and Eric said, having seen the scene repeated dozens of times.

  “I don’t understand,” Diamedes asked, watching the scene intently.

  “You don’t think they call him Lucky for nothing, do you?” Eric asked, picking up his tankard and repeating his drinking ritual.

  “He’ll drink and act goofy and then win just enough to make him seem lucky, promising to return to gamble some more after excusing himself from the table to take care of personal business,” Mary explained.

  “You seem most detailed in your analysis,” Diamedes noted. “You’ve not only seen this before, but you’ve assisted him, correct?”

  Mary and Eric looked at the historian with raised eyebrows, but Mary answered truthfully. “Well, yes, I simply would interrupt when he signaled, giving a compelling reason why he was needed elsewhere.”

  Eric laughed and Mary winked. Diamedes pressed on. “Reason?”

  “The one they use the most is that Lucky is a doctor and a house call requires his immediate attention.” Eric reached for the cloth in a gesture to make up to Mary for his rudeness earlier.

  “Ah, I see,” Diamedes said. “A truly enterprising operation you have going here.”

  Mary smiled. “Well, I don’t actually get paid for my services, but Lucky tips me well for my service when I’m tending in the common room.”

  “Quite right,” Diamedes said, looking past the room at the front door. “Speaking of luck, I think ours has turned a bit for the better.”

  Eric and Mary followed the historian’s gaze to the front doors, and there could be no missing what they were looking at. There, at the front doors, having just entered, stood one of the largest warriors they had ever seen. The person towered over the rest of the people in the room, clad in a shiny plate mail breastplate, a huge broadsword attached to a massive belt that held all manner of weapons, pouches, and bags.