Dragonslayer (The Dragonslayer)

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  He tried to pull a clear thought from his pickled brain. Should he not go back and see what had been hit by the flame? Surely the beast would be long gone by the time he got back there. What should he do? Raise the alarm or investigate further? There was a time when he wouldn’t have hesitated—when he would have known how to react to danger, and wouldn’t have hesitated to do so. Then people had called him a hero and he might actually have deserved the title. He needed to get himself together.

  In the village square, he turned around slowly, trying to remember which house was René’s. As he did, he spotted light from behind the village hall’s window. Rushing over and throwing open the door, he found René and three farmers sitting around the table. They all turned to look at the interruption.

  “Gill?” René said. “What brings you here at this time of night?”

  “Thank the gods,” Gill said, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out with a sigh. The candles fluttered in the breeze he had let in, casting shadows in all directions. “I thought you’d all been killed.”

  “Killed?” Richard said.

  “There’s been another attack,” Guillot said. Even in the candlelight, Guillot could see the colour drain from their faces. “By the road out to the manor.”

  “Franc’s farm,” Alain said.

  Guillot nodded, noticing the open bottle of wine on the table and realising how thirsty he was. His nerves were shot and he reckoned he deserved a drink after what he had been through that night. Without waiting to be invited, he walked forward, poured himself a cup, downed it, then refilled the cup. The liquid washed down his throat and the tense muscles in his neck eased almost immediately. He let out another sigh as calm started to return to him.

  “Nobody is to go out at night,” Guillot said. “Not until we’ve dealt with it. I’m going to go for help in person. The king wants a favour of me, according to the fellow just arrived in town. Perhaps he’ll do me one in return.”

  “Banneret of the White Nicholas dal Sason,” René said.

  Guillot nodded. “You know him?”

  “We’ve met. He’s staying at Jeanne’s.”

  “Indeed,” Guillot said. “I’ll go to Mirabay with him and bring back soldiers.”

  “Why don’t we just send to the duke in Trelain?” René said. “Mirabay is a far longer journey.”

  “The Duke of Trelain is a drunken degenerate,” Guillot said, then blushed, realising that the men at the table could think much the same of him. “He spends most of the year at court in Mirabay anyway. I’d have to go there to speak with him. If I’m going that far, I might as well speak with the king. We’ll need everything he can give us. I saw it with my own eyes. You were right, Philipe. It’s a dragon. A huge black dragon. Believe me, we’ll need more help than the Duke of Trelain can provide.”

  René started to shake his head in disbelief. In Guillot’s opinion, the man’s years away studying winemaking and viticulture left him thinking he was a little smarter than everyone else, Guillot included. He looked at Philipe, who refused to meet Guillot’s eyes, probably embarrassed that the only man who believed him was the town drunk.

  “Tell them what you saw, Philipe.”

  Philipe hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “It’s true, Mayor. I saw it too. With my own eyes. A great black beast with wicked claws and enormous wings. You know I’m not a man to exaggerate. I saw what he says. Gill’s not making it up.”

  René nodded, but slowly, clearly not convinced, and Guillot felt his anger build. Any lord worth his name would have a vassal flogged for such contempt. That wasn’t his way, however, and in that moment he realised his anger was directed at himself. He had allowed this situation to come to pass. If they respected him, there would have been no pause for consideration. He was the only one to blame for that.

  “You’ll need to leave at first light,” René said. “Who knows when this beast will decide it prefers the taste of human flesh to cattle and sheep. If it is as you say, we need help, and we need it soon.”

  “At first light,” Gill said. “I’ll need travelling provisions,” he added, trying to take some of the initiative back from René. He considered putting down his cup of wine to punctuate his statement, but the desire to drink it first was too great. He drained the cup, then set it down with a thud. “At first light,” he repeated, wiping his mouth as he left.

  * * *

  Dal Sason was eating breakfast when Guillot walked into the tavern the next morning. He had not been up this early in some time and he felt out of place.

  “Good morning,” dal Sason said. “Would you care to break your fast with me? As you said, the food here is excellent.”

  Guillot hadn’t slept much, and the early start had done nothing to improve his mood. “I’m going to Mirabay with you,” Guillot said, the words sticking in his craw.

  “That’s very good news,” dal Sason said. “Mayor René mentioned as much to me this morning. Do you mind me asking what changed your mind? I’ve heard whispers of some livestock killings. Is that it?”

  “I don’t think you and yours are behind it anymore, but I’m not convinced you don’t know exactly what’s going on. Even if you don’t, I reckon your master does.”

  “I’ll need a few minutes to pack,” dal Sason said.

  “Be quick. I don’t intend to wait for you. Meet me outside my house.”

  Dal Sason nodded, stood, and headed for the back room, leaving his food unfinished.

  “I’ve travelling provisions for you,” Jeanne said. “René told me to tell you that he sent Jacques to bring your horse down from the manor.”

  Guillot nodded his thanks and took the bag of supplies she handed over. He had determined not to take another drink until after he got back from Mirabay, so didn’t check to see if she’d given him a bottle—and he could tell she was watching to see if he did. Not drinking was an easy resolution to make first thing in the morning, if his rising time could be called that. He would have to see how easy it was to stick to as the day progressed. He didn’t want anyone in Mirabay—particularly the Prince Bishop—to see what he had allowed himself to become. He was nervous about returning to court after all these years. He had left a failed disgrace, and it shamed him to think he was going back even worse.

  The first things to pop into his mind were foolish, superficial concerns. Would his good clothes be moth-eaten? Would they still be fashionable? He cut himself off at that thought, almost laughing at himself, realising how glad he was that he no longer made his life at the capital.

  At his house, Jacques waited for him with a saddled horse. He glanced up at the sun, which had risen higher than he’d hoped. The day was getting away from him, and they needed to get going soon if they were to make it to Trelain before nightfall. Gill gave Jacques a nod of thanks and a penny, unfastened the saddlebags, which he threw over his shoulder, then went inside. He went to his bedroom and cleared the empty wine bottles from the top of his trunk before opening it; he was pleased to see the clothes within had not been reduced to dust. A quick inspection proved he would not shame himself in them, so he threw them into the saddlebags along with Jeanne’s provisions and returned downstairs.

  Next, weapons. A duelling rapier was most suited for the city, so he strapped on its sheath and belt—relieved that it fit—and slid the sword home. Just then, dal Sason appeared at the door.

  “Can I help with anything?” the younger man said.

  “No. Almost ready.”

  Dal Sason studied the only painting on the wall, of a young woman with gently curling chestnut hair. “I was told your wife was a great beauty, and now I see that she was. I’m very sorry for your loss. It’s always a tragedy when the gods choose to take someone so young.”

  Guillot almost said something, then thought better of it, then felt churlish. Dal Sason was only following his orders. Guillot’s grievance was not with him. “Thank you,” he said. He patted the coin purse on his belt to confirm it was still there, then looked around to check
for anything he had forgotten. There was nothing. “I’m ready to go.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Solène slid the wooden peel into the stone oven and pulled it out in a fast, practised movement, leaving the loaves of raw dough inside. The heat of the oven’s fire warmed her face but made her tired eyes water. Ignoring the sting, she fixed her gaze on the loaves, sitting deep in the oven’s red glow. A focussed thought was all it needed to ensure each loaf baked perfectly—crusty on the outside; light, fluffy, and delicious inside. More importantly, that would guarantee a repeat customer and ensure the queue outside the bakery door every morning continued to grow.

  Still, she was ambivalent about using magic. Even calling it magic seemed silly, but it was hard to argue that it could be anything else. Part of her wanted to turn her back on it entirely, while part of her thought she might as well take some advantage of the talents that had brought so much trouble to her life.

  At times, when she felt tired and alone, she wondered if they might be able to find her because of it. Every so often she would see one of them, the black-cloaked spectres—Intelligenciers—moving about the town as though they had some great, important business to attend to. Trelain wasn’t big enough to warrant their permanent presence, which was why she chose it, but as she had quickly learned, they made it their business to be everywhere and unpredictable. Caution was her only shield, a tricky thing when she had only the most basic understanding of her gift and affliction. She had fled from her home as soon as the villagers had discovered what she could do, hoping her disappearance would be enough—that they would forget her rather than report her to the Intelligenciers. Bastelle was a small village, far from everywhere. Few there thought much beyond the pastures surrounding the village and it was the sort of place where a person lived and died within a few paces of where they were born.

  They were good people, people she had known and cared for all her life, and their fear of her had wounded her deeply. Friends. Family. She supposed she couldn’t blame them—they were farming folk who took their traditions and superstitions seriously. They couldn’t imagine magic as anything other than a force for evil—sorcery—and fear drove them to do things they might not have otherwise.

  The Intelligenciers were dangerous and relentless, and had centuries of experience in hunting down users of magic. If they found out about her … She couldn’t bear to consider the consequences. She knew it was risky to use magic to aid her loaves, but how else could a girl with no family or friends, and hardly any money, get ahead in a town where a little misfortune could lead to a life on the street? It was so small a thing—surely it would continue to go unnoticed, as long as she was careful. She sighed, comforted by the smell of the cooking bread. She might be a fool, but in that moment, she was a happy one.

  She closed the oven door and turned back to the work top where a book waited for her. In an hour, the doughy shapes would be the best bread in the town—perhaps the best anywhere—and she could go home with a hot loaf tucked under her arm. The baker seemed glad to not have to get up before dawn, leaving her in peace for the early morning bake, but he was not glad enough to pay her well.

  She could never have guessed that something as simple as baking bread could be so satisfying, nor that she would dream of having her own bakery some day. It would take time, hard work, and sacrifice, but she had a plan now, one that gave her hope for a happy future.

  The early hour was no imposition for her—no one waited for her in her small room at the back of a carpenter’s workshop, and staying busy helped her forget how alone she was. It wasn’t as if she had to get out of bed to get to the bakery, either. She worked at a nearby taproom as well, and by the time she had finished cleaning up there after the last patron stumbled out the door, it was time to light the ovens at the bakery.

  Lighting a fire was not a problem when you had a special gift, so she was able to get the ovens up to heat quickly. With the dough safely deposited, she could relax and lose herself in whatever she was reading. This was her favourite part of the day, the time where she could let go of her problems, let them drift far away.

  * * *

  Solène scooped several mugs into the crook of her arm and wiped the table with the damp cloth in her other hand. No sooner was the table ready than it was filled by new occupants. The taproom was full and noisy, as it was most evenings. The owner served good wine and cider at fair prices, making it the most popular tavern in the district. She navigated her way through the press of bodies and deposited her burden on the counter, then headed out to repeat the process.

  Although Trelain was the capital of the duchy it resided in, it was what a character in one of her favourite books would have called parochial. It might have been as cosmopolitan as could be found in western Mirabaya, but the vast majority of the people living there were from the town, and Solène’s accent—though only subtly different from theirs—gave her away as an outsider, and it was very obvious that that mattered to the locals. It meant making friends was a challenge and she was lonely at times, but she hoped this job would help her integrate.

  Every evening, the patrons saw her in the taproom and her face and accent grew a little more familiar. When she had enough saved, she would open her bakery, and they would be comfortable enough to buy her bread. Once they’d tasted it, they’d never buy bread anywhere else. She recalled something from a book of philosophies she had read several years before, while still a teenager, that gave her comfort when the difficulties in her path seemed too many: great things aren’t achieved in a day, and the things that can be are not great. In that, at least, the philosopher had been correct.

  “Get me a jug of last season’s red,” said a man, part of a group at the next table, pulling Solène from her day dreams as she gathered another batch of empty mugs for washing.

  “I don’t work the bar,” she responded. “You know that, Arnoul.”

  The other men at the table looked uncomfortable with his behaviour. Arnoul seemed to need to order other people around to make himself look big in front of his friends. He kept trying to show off, every time he came to the tavern, but never seemed to impress his drinking companions, and tonight was no different. He was either stubborn or stupid. Solène suspected the latter.

  “Why don’t you come over here and keep me company then,” Arnoul said. He laughed, looking at his friends, clearly expecting them to join in. They didn’t, and Solène wondered why he couldn’t tell his behaviour wasn’t impressing them.

  “I don’t do that either,” she said. “Go to the bar to order, like everyone else. Go to the brothel if you’re looking for company.”

  That drew some chuckles from his friends and Arnoul’s face darkened. He grabbed Solène by the leg. When she pulled free, one of the mugs fell from the crook of her arm, splashing wine all over Arnoul’s trousers and shirt. His face twisted with anger, but Solène could not restrain the tongue that had so often gotten her in trouble.

  “That looks like last season’s red to me,” she said. “Enjoy.”

  Laughter erupted from the other men at the table. Arnoul smouldered. Solène gathered up the fallen mug and disappeared into the crowd, wishing she’d smashed the mug on his thick skull.

  * * *

  Solène didn’t think for a moment that being given the keys to the tavern indicated the owner’s growing trust; it merely meant everyone else working there wanted to get home as early as possible. By the time she finished cleaning, they were all tucked up in bed. Nonetheless, it gave her the chance to prove she was trustworthy, another small battle in the war to integrate. It might mean a promotion to the bar, more pay, and her bakery a few weeks or months sooner. After double-checking the lock, she started the short walk to the bakery.

  Usually she avoided the shortcut, a narrow lane clogged with rubbish, but tonight she was running later than usual and the ovens needed to be lit. A fight in the tavern had resulted in a bloody nose and it had taken an age to scrub the blood from the floorboards. Sh
e picked her way down the lane, through the debris as best she could by moonlight, and froze when she heard a voice.

  “Big city bitch.”

  The voice came from the darkness, but Solène knew who it was. Only Arnoul could be ignorant enough to think her accent came from a big city.

  “Think you’re funny?” he said.

  “Your friends did,” Solène said, backing out of the laneway. She put her foot in something squishy and forced herself not to react.

  He loomed out of the darkness, his face twisted with anger. “I’m a big man around here. You can’t speak to me like that. I’m going to give you something to help you remember your manners.” When he raised his hand, she saw moonlight reflected on the blade of a knife. She could tell from the look on his face that he meant to do what he threatened.

  “Why don’t you go home to your wife, Arnoul?”

  “Not until I’ve taught you some manners, serving bitch.”

  He lunged forward, grabbing her by the lapels of her coat. Her heart leapt and she tried to pull back, but Arnoul’s grip was too firm.

  “Let. Me. Go,” Solène said.

  “Do big city bitches bleed like us simple townsfolk?” Arnoul said, his mouth twisting into a vindictive smile. He pressed the blade to her cheek.

  Fear flooded through her. Arnoul had always been a talker. She’d never thought he would actually do something. She closed her eyes for an instant.