by James Duvall
“I do not fear you!” a dragon's voice declared. Khaebus could tell it was the dragon's by the way it echoed through the room. The creature's great lungs made its words sound as though they carried the force of a cannon behind them. “Let it be known to all that Venarthiss, the deceiver, allies himself with the wyrmlings of Ralia. You! Warlock! I will feel your heart's blood drain though my teeth!”
Once everyone else was inside Khaebus entered. The loud rattling of chains made it easy for him to surreptitiously lock the door behind them, just as Draggus had commanded. He did not at all like how it felt, trapping himself in the same room as a very angry dragon and one of the greatest villains of the War of Ashes. He had hoped that Charles Tamlin might not bring his sword, but he could see it on the man's belt.
“Why are there so many of your escort here?” Isaac demanded. “The church will not like it and I already have petitions from them every day about the killing of Father Harig.”
Khaebus went to Draggus's side, feeling much better to have the warlock between him and Tamlin's sword.
“It's for the security of the dragon,” Draggus was explaining in his usual, even-toned way. “Leaving one under-guarded is like leaving a candle unattended in your bedchamber. Unwise and prone to burning down the better half of the city.”
“It still has its fire?” Isaac asked, frantic words spilling out on top of each other. All at once he looked nearly as ill-at-ease as Khaebus felt, rubbing shoulders with the likes of Charles Tamlin, the Griever.
Khaebus could see the look of disapproval on Tamlin's face, the dark lines of his features etched deep as carved granite. The way his hand lingered over the hilt of his sword made him want to go running for the door. He didn't have the stomach for this, any of this. He tried to assure himself that the farce would only last a few minutes longer.
“Treasonous heart!” the dragon hissed, narrowing his eyes at Isaac. “Long have we been your loyal allies, and you would stand beside this worm who brought the betrayer into our midst. Dakrym take your wicked soul!”
The dragon did have his fire, Khaebus could see it brimming in the creature's baleful eyes. Heat radiated from the dragon like a hearth on a cold winter's night. He was like a forge with the door held shut by the magic of several gems set into the heavy metal collar hung about his neck. The gems shone brightly with power as they siphoned away the dragon's fury, lest he open his mouth and set fire to the gathering.
A shroud of heavy metal chains kept it from surging forward and crushing them all with the shear weight of his body. The gems pulsed with light as he struggled against them, trying to assume his alter so that he might slip the bonds. If he did... It sickened Khaebus to think his ashes might be mixed with those of Tamlin the Griever.
“It ends at his temper,” Draggus assured the young king. “This is Prince Garrodar. He is Lord Genjolmar's only surviving son.”
“You think you have power,” the dragon hissed, straining against his chains, “but you are no master of flame. You are a plaything of the Forgemaster. Inside of you is the weak heart of a Smoulder. I label you flameless!”
Draggus shook his head.
“I am not,” he said, and held the Firewalker's Charm up to the dragon's nose. There were places Khaebus was not willing to follow Draggus Morphial and beneath the nose of a very angry dragon was one of them. He pressed himself up against the wall, feeling the balm of cool stone against his back. He wished he knew more of magic. The heat was from the dragon, he was sure of that. Did that mean he was near to overcoming the power of the gems that bound him? If so, it could be over in the span of a second or two. Knowing that every breath could be his last, Khaebus made his peace with the Forgemaster.
“Who burned you, I wonder?” the dragon asked, haughtily. He lowered his head to look Draggus in the eye. “I should much like to finish the job. I will not make the same mistake. When my fury is spent there will be only ashes, and my dead brother will be halfway to avenged. Loose me from these bonds and face me, and we will see whose soul burns hottest!”
Garrodar hung on the word like it was a sweet wine on his tongue. There was a quiet moment when his latest outburst finished. Draggus turned to address the others. The second the warlock's back was turned, Garrodar surged against the chains, snapping them taught and bringing little bits of stone and dust down from the high dome above. Everyone but Khaebus and Draggus take a step back. Draggus because he seemed unafraid of even the fiercest of flames, and Khaebus because the only place in the room further from the dragon was to take a step out the nearby window and plummet to the cobblestone way far below.
“Draggus, I demand to know the meaning of this. Why is this creature here?” Isaac said, visibly outraged. Khaebus took a deep breath. Now is when it would happen.
“I wanted you to see,” Draggus answered. He reached to his belt and removed a knife that had been hidden there. He turned back to the dragon and raised his empty hand. Some men came and pulled the chains, lifting Garrodar's head. The dragon struggled wildly, hissing his fury and lashing his tail. He surged against the chains again and again. Pebbles and bits of dust fell from the anchor points. Beside him, Khaebus heard metal sing. Charles Tamlin had drawn his sword.
“Enough of this! Put down your blade!” Tamlin bellowed.
Draggus did not stop. Three of his men swarmed over Tamlin. The first lasted only a few heartbeats. Tamlin's sword slashed through his arm, spraying blood and slicing tendon. The man's sword clattered to the ground and Tamlin planted a boot on his chest, kicking him back so that he stumbled into the others. More men abandoned the chains, joining the attack. Two more fell, one stuck in the gut and the other slashed deftly across the throat.
The dragon's jaws snapped at Draggus, teeth clicking on empty air as he lifted one of the men holding his chains up onto his toes. Draggus slipped beneath the biting muzzle and jammed his dagger up into the soft white skin beneath the dragon's jaw. He pulled hard until Garrodar's hot blood washed over him like a waterfall.
Khaebus danced away from the skirmish and Charles Tamlin was finally caught from behind. One man held him by the neck and shoulder while another advanced on him with an already bloody sword.
“Wait!” Khaebus called. “Wait. We will want to take him to Embrahl, t-t-to stand trial.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement. Isaac had retreated to the door only to find it locked. He had a ceremonial blade drawn, but the edge did not look sharp. For his credit he charged the men that held Tamlin captive, but the first lunge broke his blade and the second drew dark blood from between his ribs.
Draggus looked to be a horror from the Seven Sorrows himself, covered in dragon's blood and still holding the dagger in one hand. He lifted the Firewalker's Charm to the dying dragon's throat and let it fill with martyr's blood. For a fleeting instant Khaebus felt relief. It was over. Everything had gone according to the plan. Everything was going to be... to be...
Garrodar was looking at him. Not toward him, not glassy-eyed in the final throes of death. The dragon's eyes were fixed upon him like a lion surveying its prey. Even as the blood slowed from his mortal wound. The air shimmered as though by the desert heat, the stone columns cracked all around. To his right, the men struggling with Tamlin slowed down. Their captive shouted something, but Khaebus could not hear.
A puff of misty white appeared before him. Once, twice, three times. It was his breath. His world had grown cold as lifeless stone. The shimmering air took form; a creature so great that his tail passed through the wall into a dark void. The white dragon had covered Garrodar's eyes with his paw, even while Draggus worked in ignorance below.
“Draggus... Draggus...” Khaebus squeaked, but Draggus did not hear. The world was silent, save for the beat of Garrodar's heart, pounding like a drum. Khaebus counted them. One... Two........ Three... and then the sound stopped. Khaebus felt cold all the way to his bones, aching as though his marrow had been replaced with ice. The dragon was dead. The white dragon lifted his hand fro
m the dying dragon's eyes. He whispered something to the corpse's ear. Khaebus could hear the words as though shouted from the rooftops.
“Well done, good and faithful one. Be at peace, your fight is over.”
Then the dragon turned his gaze upon him, and his lungs seized as though his ribs were caught beneath the full weight of the white dragon's claws. It could not be so. It could not be so. This could not be the servant of Ilsador the heretics sang about. It could not.
And then the white dragon was gone.
Draggus emerged from beneath Garrodar's corpse, holding the Firewalker's Charm aloft. Good men, loyal men, cheered. Then Draggus took some of the blood and painted a rune upon the floor. Kalthiress's name, written on the stone of Penathor's Tower in the blood of a martyr of the heretic faith. The firewalkers and the flame priests would sing their praises for this, anoint them with ashes and count them among the blessed number, but Khaebus felt no peace.
Someone was asking him something. He turned to look at the man, and heard words but couldn't make sense of them. “What?”
“The Griever?” the man asked, referring to Tamlin. “Where do you want him?”
“I don't... take him to the dungeon. See to it that no harm comes to him. He must stand trial,” Khaebus said, and they did as he asked.
In the corner, Draggus was knelt over the rune drawn in blood, whispering fervent prayers to the darkness. One of the cracked columns shuddered, and the roof sagged a little to the right.
“You should go as well,” Draggus instructed, taking a moment from his prayers. He did not look up, but Khaebus could sense he was speaking to him directly. “The roof will soon collapse.”
“But you...”
“The Forgemaster will protect me in this hour of triumph,” he said. “Go and seclude yourself in the palace. Kreen will be here soon and so shall the city fall.”
The tower groaned, dust coughing from support pillars. Before his very eyes Khaebus saw a crack run along one nearest him. It happened in leaps, like thawing ice on an early spring pond.
“And Khaebus?”
“Yes?”
“Do not linger in the street,” Draggus warned evenly, still not looking up from his gruesome work.
When Khaebus got back to his room inside the palace, he could see a large chunk of St. Penathor's Tower lying in the street, and a portal of fire burned atop the broken revenant. A body hung from the tower, slashed and dripping blood down the white stone. Khaebus could not make out who it was from this distance, but he knew it to be the corpse of King Isaac of Arcamyn.
Chapter 33
This Dark Hour
Road to Tavyn, Arcamyn
I would not want to face the dark alone...
A shadow flit across Cedric's caravan, cutting across the sapphire moon and drawing eyes skyward. Few things could break a man's courage with such brutal efficiency as the rush of a dragon's wings. A rush of cold air swept in behind him, strong enough to tug at the multitude of campfires. He traversed the length of the sprawling caravan in a few short seconds, tucked his wings in tightly and vanished into the trees.
Silence fell on the camp as everyone waited with bated breath for the dragon's reappearance. A distant thud accompanied a soft flash of deep blue light, prompting many to speculate in hushed tones as to whether the beast had crashed. The night maintained a respectful silence for many minutes until the most simple of creatures reached the end of their limited spans of memory and started to chirp and buzz again.
"Tell me," Jengus said, leaning over to Kaidira. "Do dragons attack on the road often?"
Kaidira stole a glance up at Joshua, who shrugged his wings at her. "I don't know either," she said to him.
"It probably doesn't help that we have one caged," she added.
Jengus stood atop his bench and squinted into the darkness, shielding his eyes from the harshness of the campfire. Not even the faintest glow of sapphire flame remained. "The fire's out. It should have smoldered a lot longer than that."
Others seemed to have come to the same conclusion and were hurriedly shoving camping gear into their respective carts and hitching up their ponies in a ritual that traditionally only took place in the mornings and with a great deal more noise.
***
Near the head of the caravan, Grimlohr the Night Slayer stepped out of the woods and intruded into Cedric Carrowin's inner circle with all the temerity being a dragon could afford. He wore a dark cloak embroidered with silver thread and carried a sword at his hip. He stopped for just a moment to give them a reassuring smile and a nod of approval before continuing into the circle and standing before Cedric Carrowin. The armed men looked from one to another, hesitating to raise their weapons until someone remembered that this was a dragon. Every spear was then quickly raised.
"Good evening!" Grimlohr said to his audience of spears.
Cedric Carrowin began to clap. "Quite an entrance!"
Cedric had two men with him that did not look nearly so amused. One seemed appalled and the other seemed mildly disinterested, or perhaps inebriated. Grimlohr was quick to notice that while both were armed, neither had joined the half-dozen lessers in rushing to deal with his intrusion. Cedric had been the first to speak and did so lightly, he was the leader and the men that had not drawn their weapons and still stood at his side would be his lieutenants.
"Hardly a laughing matter, Cedric," William Hartley said, then turned his attention to Grimlohr. "What is it you want?"
"To begin, I would like these spears removed. I do not expect that we should have to stand on ceremony in times as these, but it does not do," Grimlohr said, and gave one a little push. The man bearing it took a reciprocal step back and seemed about ready to lose his nerve and run.
“Good instincts," Grimlohr lauded with a devilish grin. The man began to shake. "They're rather inhospitable. I am simply here to negotiate in good faith and am certain we can come to an amicable resolution."
William's scowl deepened. "How do we know we can trust you?"
Grimlohr thought it over and said, "you have my word as a gentleman," and bowed stiffly. The spearmen took a unified step back, as though expecting the bow to end with Grimlohr turning back into a dragon and lunging upon them en masse. “Besides, if you could not, I imagine I would have simply strafed your caravan and carried off whatever I should find appealing.”
"Are you, a gentleman?" William asked.
Grimlohr took a look down at his clothes and then with measured impatience remarked, "for the moment."
"He looks fine to me," Glenn Watters chimed in. He hadn't bothered to look up at Grimlohr since the initial bout of activity, and instead took turns between idly prodding at the fire and turning a spit with a roasting quail on it.
"Everyone looks 'fine' to you," William sneered. Glenn just shrugged.
"Oh come off it, William," Cedric remonstrated. "It's too late in the evening for your attitude. Now I think our guest could use some breathing room, so why don't you boys put the spears aside and go tell everyone to stop breaking camp, there'll be no dragon attacks tonight. Isn't that right?"
Grimlohr held out open palms. “I see no reason we cannot come to amicable terms.”
The spearmen did not wait for William Hartley's protests, and hurried off, eager to carry out Cedric's instructions.
"Highwaymen and all," Cedric explained after the young men had gone. "Can never be too careful. That is, when you can't turn into a dragon."
"I assure you," Grimlohr said, taking a fireside seat. "I am more careful than most."
"I don't think we've caught your name," William said pointedly.
"I am Grimlohr of Hal'Durrath, one of the great dragon halls," Grimlohr said, extending his hand. William shook it begrudgingly. Cedric followed in far more enthusiastic manner.
Glenn took a moment from his duties to look Grimlohr up and down. He took a swig from his canteen and turned his attention back to his work, turning the spit with the utmost care of an artist at work on what was su
re to be his newest masterpiece. "So you're really a dragon then?" he asked.
"I am," Grimlohr said. "I am called a night slayer. As you might have surmised, I have an interest in the well-being of your captive night seeker."
Cedric rubbed his chin and reached for his ledger book. He ran his thumb down one side and flicked it open, turning the pages in search of the dragon's expenses. "I should hope so," he mumbled indirectly.
"Brother of yours?" William asked, filling the silence. Grimlohr pegged him as the sort of man that needed a reason for things, and most of those reasons involved the ledger book his colleague was stroking through in a painfully slow manner.
Biding his time, Grimlohr surmised. Every now and then he would catch Cedric peering over the top of the book at him, trying to work out the puzzle that was Grimlohr of Hal'Durrath. Grimlohr smiled back, knowingly. Cedric probably felt himself a shrewd businessman, and Grimlohr was certain that he was, but when it came to negotiating Grimlohr stood in a class above that a man like Cedric had yet to comprehend.
The merchant's face broke into a subtle grin, as though privately entertaining a humorous thought. Even Grimlohr's keen observations could not discern a man's private thoughts. Perhaps he had realized that the dragon had already outmatched him? Or perhaps in his searching for a bargaining point he had simply wandered into a more amusing memory.
"Is he your brother?" Cedric asked, having noticed that William's question had gone unanswered.
"He is counted among my number, and that is enough for me."