by James Duvall
As he drew closer he could see the smaller dragon, a slayer, was still peering at the dead dragon's wound. He would pause now and then to look up and down at the length of the stone weapon, as though trying to gauge how heavy it might be. Rickthicket found himself wondering the same. He had an idea what sort of creature might carry – a breath of warm air fell across his back.
On instinct Rickthicket lunged. He landed on all fours, turned in an instant, and rose to his hind legs. Fire crackled to life between his paws.
“One step closer,” he declared, “and I'll burn that nose of yours right off.”
The night slayer stood in front of him now. Rickthicket stole a furtive glance back toward the dead guardian and found the corpse unattended. The night slayer did not smile, nor scowl at him. It simply lifted its head and looked down at him with bright golden eyes that shone with an intelligence that made Rickthicket feel uneasy. He recognized that look, that brightness.
I'd rather face a dumb one, he thought. At least then he could warp away. The dragon had a contemplative look, eyes only partly opened as he tilted his head down to appraise the spy.
“Why are you here?” the dragon asked eventually. He held his head high, clearly unafraid.
The dragon's voice was strong and commanding, lacking the cold gravelly tone of the larger breeds. His scales were dark black, shot through with jagged bits of gold. Golden horns rose behind his ears and an onyx mane ran down the length of his neck, partially concealing a row of sharp spikes that tore at the evening sky like hateful knives. A small golden spike adorned his nose. Unlike the guardian his muzzle was longer and slender in shape, curving into a hooked overbite that reminded Rickthicket of a falcon in a way that made him very much want to warp as far as he could without sinking and just keep running until the sun came up the next morning.
“If you must know,” Rickthicket said. “I am looking for a colleague of mine. His name is Arthur Greelam.”
The dragon nodded slowly and bowed his head, tucking his chin up against his chest, a draconic bow. His eyes closed slowly in solemnity. “He is dead. I am sorry for your loss.”
Rickthicket narrowed his eyes at the black dragon. How did he know who Arthur Greelam was? “It was you that sent the letter!”
The dragon nodded again. Onyx flames swirled about him, consuming him in an instant. When they were gone, the dragon had been replaced by a man; tall, with hair black as a raven. This was his alter; a human form used to more readily interact with the non-draconic races of the world.
In this form he had a short beard, neatly trimmed, and was well dressed in a black cloak, dark trousers, and a nice shirt with silver buttons. Rickthicket felt another twinge of fear. This was not an ordinary dragon. He had seen plenty of alters before, but this dragon did not use his to blend in among humans. No, this outfit was designed to catch attention and stay in a person's memory.
“It was,” the dragon easily confessed as though this was a simple matter of record and of no consequence to anyone.
Rickthicket's temper flared. “Who in Ilsador's name do you think you are, sending us a letter like that?” he demanded. He stamped his foot, creating a little cloud of ash around him.
“I am called Grimlohr,” the dragon said cordially, unbothered by the outburst. It seemed that he did not even notice Rickthicket's patience with him fraying like an old dry rope set to flame, which only further stoked the forge of Rickthicket's anger.
“I am Princess Talya's new guardian, come to replace poor Jalkin, who lies hence. You may notice I am much smaller than he, so you may consider me an adviser to Her Majesty if that better suits your sensibilities.”
“And the letter?”
Grimlohr had the hard gaze of a man that did not often take the world at face value. He fixed this gaze on Rickthicket. “It is factual, and I sealed it with Arthur Greelam's feather. He expired sometime in the night before I arrived. If it is any consolation, I do not believe he outlived Jalkin.”
“How is that any consolation at all?” Rickthicket demanded.
Grimlohr bowed his head again. “It means he died quickly, which is the only mercy I can think of for any poor soul that had the misfortune to be in attendance of the last battle of Jalkin of Hal'Durrath. May his flame of life burn eternal in the halls of his forefathers.”
Rickthicket drew a small wand from its holster on his back. It was little more than a matchstick that he had sharpened on one end, but at his size it was about the right length for a proper mage's wand. “Master Marreth tried to summon Talya, thanks to your letter!”
“I had hoped he might,” Grimlohr said. He seemed pleased with himself, but was politic enough to keep it from his voice. “I know of his reputation. He is willing to push limits his limits, as men do.”
Rickthicket seethed. “You know the risks of summoning large creatures! He may very well lie in his death bed, thanks to you! He tried to summon your princess just two days ago and was struck down for his efforts.”
“Was it a spellstorm?” Grimlohr asked. Despite the gruesome revelation, his voice remained impassive and Rickthicket hated him for it. The self-titled adviser had arranged for Marreth to risk his life and did not show the least bit of remorse for what he had done. Teleportation spells were notoriously dangerous, only the smallest of creatures could blink around like himself, and even he reappeared with an icy rush of wind from his brief brush with the Cold. Bigger creatures needed summoning spells, anchor stones, and portals. Dragons fell into the largest category, alter or not, but portals took weeks to build and were not useful for prying a young dragoness from the clutches of her abductors. Summoning her was brash; Marreth might have dropped her into the Cold, or been drawn in with her. Instead he lay near death, struck by a crackling fork of lightning from the very phenomenon Grimlohr had predicted as though it were bidden by his very words.
Rickthicket hung his head and answered in a quiet voice. “Yes, it was.”
Grimlohr said no more and strode back into the battlefield, ash fluttering around his feet. He motioned for Rickthicket to follow.
The ground was soft beneath his paws, a fine mixture of cooled ash and shredded earth. He kept his eyes peeled for more of the dragon's illusions, but saw none.
“You may very well have gotten him killed,” Rickthicket accused when the dragon did not speak again. This earned him a scornful look from the dragon dressed up as a nobleman, but his anger was not sated. “He could still die.”
“What I did,” Grimlohr said, “was offer him the opportunity to assist in a grand endeavor to save a young girl's life. His choice in the matter was his alone.”
“Did you not hear me? He could die!”
This finally got a rise out of Grimlohr. The adviser turned swiftly, his cape billowing out behind him.
“And if he did?” Grimlohr asked, his voice sharp and accusing. “Are you implying that there is some wickedness in my actions? It seems to me that he is made far better going to his creator having met his end in glory in the pursuit of a greater purpose, than to simper in the quiet shadows and hope to be overlooked until he is old and gray. I may approach Ilsador's throne with much blood upon my claws but let me not crawl on my belly as a sniveling old coward.”
With that, Grimlohr drew a knife from his belt and used it to pry a shard loose from the coarse stone weapon sticking out of Jalkin's left breast. He produced a mortar and pestle, then ground the fragment into dust. Fire erupted from his palm and consumed the mortar like a kettle on the cooking fire. The flames danced until the stone began to glow. Everything inside burned away but a fine ash. Grimlohr scooped a little gob of it onto his finger and touched it to his tongue. Ashes poured out of the upturned mortar.
“Hmm...” he said, looking slowly along the horizon. His gaze came to rest on a place to the south where the trees were not only burnt, but broken and leaning, as though shoved aside.
“Did you figure something out?” Rickthicket asked.
“Yes.”
“Car
e to divulge?” Rickthicket asked when the dragon took to cleaning out his equipment and packing it away instead of explaining.
“You are Rickthicket von Thimblemar, a Silverwind mage who is apprenticed to Marreth Stormwood who is of greater renown than you but only half your age. You're a useful lot, and your heart is in the right place, unerringly paranoid but often too gallant to make the sacrifices needed to ensure the success of your mission.”
Rickthicket felt his temper flare again, and he nearly rebuked the dragon, but age had brought him some small degree of wisdom. It had not escaped his notice that Grimlohr was carefully guarding his emotions and withholding information. He could see the hurt behind the dragon's carefully crafted calm. It was written in the slouch of his posture and the way the corners of his eyes wrinkled when he looked upon the dead guardian.
“Was he a friend of yours?” Rickthicket asked, looking to Jalkin.
“I knew him,” Grimlohr said, taking a moment to gather himself. “Jalkin was clever as stone, but he did his duty. I cannot ask for more than that. I am not a sentimental man, mage. He is in Ilsador's Kingdom now, and what I can do best for his memory is find his killer, and hopefully my new charge as well. I can do many things, but I can do very little for the dead.”
Rickthicket felt he finally had begun to understand this dragon. Grimlohr had seen more than his fair share of death. Rickthicket too was familiar with Dakrym's craft, and he could envision the fallen guardian standing before the Keeper of Death and hearing his words, welcoming him into the next life and bidding him not to worry, the long struggle was over.
“It really was golems, wasn't it.”
It was not a question. Rickthicket was smart enough to see the truth when it was laid out so plainly before him, no matter how unlikely the truth seemed to be.
“It is,” Grimlohr said. “The weapon is the sort of stone they prefer, and too heavy for even Banidan warrior to bring to bear. I struggle to think how a dragon could do this in his alter, and surely he could not carry such a weapon in his native form. We could not rise up enough with the spear in our claws to thrust it and leave it sticking up like a gravestone.”
“Yes...” Rickthicket agreed. The letter was still fresh in his mind. A simple note, revealed by Marreth's Silverwind feather. In a harried scrawl it read 'Jalkin Dead, Talya taken by golems.'
“No one has used golems since before the days of King Rufus. They cannot be controlled. It's a fool's errand,” Rickthicket said, reciting nearly the very same argument he levied against Marreth when he had so eagerly embraced the mission bequeathed to him by the late Arthur Greelam. No doubt he would still be as enthusiastic to pursue it, if not moreso, once he had learned that the task turned out not to be from the mage, but instead a dragon who had conveniently come upon a man's corpse and used it to further his own purposes. It infuriated Rickthicket, but it would only spark Marreth's zeal.
That's the difference between us, Rickthicket thought. That and about 5 feet.
Grimlohr rubbed his bristly chin. Rickthicket wondered how it was that dragons picked up such human behaviors for their alters. Observation? Or perhaps the beard simply itched whether you were a dragon's alter or a genuine human being. “The evidence says otherwise,” he said at last. “Fresh golems are still responsive for a few months. Perhaps our adversary forged a few for this duty alone.”
Rickthicket did not hear a question in the man's voice. His mind was made up. Marreth's words echoed in his mind. “What else would be able to withstand the dragon's flames and have the courage to face the beast?” Few things in all of Ryvarra could.
It was bad business, all of it. This was a dragon's affair and best left to the big brutes, as far as Rickthicket was concerned. He did not much like that he had been sent by a probably dying man to hunt down the source of Greelam's last words. Dragons were big, and Rickthicket was not. Even Grimlohr, so much smaller than his guardian counterpart, towered over horses even. Smaller was a relative thing and it was rarely relative to Rickthicket.
I was right, he thought. Dragon business is better left to the monsters.
Now Marreth was going to die and Greelam had already been killed, assuming the dragon's words could be trusted. Of course, having found Greelam's feather meant that Greelam was almost assuredly deceased, that or he was every bit the fool the rest of the order thought he was. Being found to carry a silver feather was a death sentence under King Isaac's reign. They weren't the sort of thing one simply left around.
“I would appreciate it if your order continued their search for our missing princess. I am afraid there are not nearly so many dragons searching for her as I would like. It is no secret that many would rather her not be found, that a new royal line might start from one of the great halls. We would, of course, remember your kindness to us in this bleak hour.”
Rickthicket found little about the dragons could tip the scales of his interest, but the thought of an army of rock monsters going around made him wish for a monster or two of his own. “I will pass the information along,” he said, reasoning that there were those among the society's membership that would jump at the chance to become closer involved with the strange magic of dragons. Arthur Greelam came to mind as a shining example of one such soul. However, he was now dead, and Rickthicket felt that might discourage younger mages from accepting the assignment. He shook his head in dismay. This sort of comparison was the sort of thing that made other society members wary of entrusting younger mages to his tutelage.
“The golems have left a trail to the south. I have followed it as far as the Rilrath River, where the trail goes cold. I would never have estimated the golems might be clever enough to use the river bed to hide their path. My people are searching the banks as far north as Fendiss and three days hard march south. You will find your man Greelam on the south edge of the clearing.”
The night slayer was long gone by the time Rickthicket located the crumpled husk that had once been Arthur Greelam. Shreds of burnt cloth hung in strips over a body blanketed in ash; Rickthicket could not make out what precisely had ended him. Eventually he chalked it up to being involved in a fight between dragons and golems while being neither. “I'm sure you rushed to the dragons' aid anyway,” Rickthicket said quietly.
Tucked into the dead man's pocket, Rickthicket found a single gryphon's feather, dipped in silver. The feather was in pristine condition though most of Greelam's clothes had been burnt to ash. Though Grimlohr had found this and used it to send the letter to Marreth, he had the compassion to return it to Greelam's corpse where the virtue of its magic discouraged scavengers from his body.
Cursing his overabundance of sentimentalism, the old mouse set to work, building up a small pyre around the corpse. When it was done he removed his pointy red hat and knelt in the ashes to whisper a quiet prayer on Greelam's behalf. It was hardly a traditional burial, but it seemed appropriate to Rickthicket. Arthur Greelam had lived studying dragons, died defending them, and now his corpse would burn on a dragon's funeral pyre.
“I'm not...” Rickthicket swallowed hard and took a deep breath to steady himself. “I'm not good at this,” he said to the body.
“I didn't know you as well as I would have liked, but you carried a silver feather, and that means more to me than most things, Arthur. I wonder if you met Dakrym together. Did he welcome you as brothers? I hope he did.”
“May your flame of life burn eternal,” Rickthicket said quietly and lit the pyre ablaze. He had only been to one dragon funeral before. It was there that he'd heard a priest say those words. He wasn't sure if it was a traditional saying or not, but he had always liked the sound of it.
Rickthicket watched in solemnity until the fire was little more than embers, and all that was left of Arthur Greelam was the feather in his hand and ashes cast to the wind.
Chapter 7
Keep Us and Guide Us
Tavyn, Arcamyn
Though each of the great kingdoms boasts that the storms burn brightest in their own mages,
there is no creature in all of Ilsador's creation possessed of more magic than the dragons. Wintry nightstorms to the searing heat of emberstorms, every element of magic is present among their myriad ranks and the storms burn bright within their eyes.
An excerpt from Arthur Greelam's 'A Study of Dragons'
A hearty stew did little to restore Joshua's sense of ease. Hoggs burrowed into his without reserve, seeming as though everything was right in his world. Joshua marveled at the spectacle, that anyone could sit down and eat lunch like that, knowing that monsters had razed the fort only a few hours walk from here. Mere miles.
“Eat,” Hoggs instructed. “You'll feel better.”
“I don't think I'm hungry.”
“You are though. You're just a little green. New conscripts are always that way, first time they've seen fighting. An' you saw it twice yesterday. Eat, else you'll be shakin' and poorly by mid-afternoon. Thacker won't like that. Not a bit.”
Reluctantly Joshua dug his spoon into the stew and came up with a chunk of something that looked enough like chicken to sample. The first bite came with hesitation, the first thing he'd eaten in this strange new world. The floodgates opened soon after, his sense of hunger rising to the surface. All misgivings about the food evaporated and he had soon finished the bowl.
“Better?” Hoggs asked.
“Yes, much.”
It felt good to have something warm and of real substance in his belly, even if he didn't recognize all of the vegetables.
“Our captain got in at sun-up,” said Hoggs, munching on a biscuit. “He and Thacker’ve been talkin’. Strategy, plans, that sort of thing. Tavyn’s got walls so we’ll prolly stay here.”
“What about me?”
“Probably get you on a train up to Camden, let the mages set you right.”