Dragontiarna

by Jonathan Moeller

  “The assurance of victory,” said another man, speaking Latin with a thick Frankish accent. Helmut’s granddaughter had been right again – another emissary of the Dragon Cult had visited Zimri Talvus. “It is time for the men of Andomhaim to reconcile themselves to the new order of things. Duke Merovech holds half the lands of Cintarra, and before much longer, the city will fall to him.”

  “The royal army is even now marching to Rhudlan, Sir Amant,” said Zimri, trying and failing to sound firm.

  “Will the royal army be enough to overcome the power of a Dragonmaeloch?” said the Frankish man, presumably Sir Amant. “You have seen the fury a single dragon can unleash. Furthermore, the Dragon Cult is far stronger now than it was when my lord Merovech arrived here. The Mhorites of Kothluusk have allied themselves with him, and dvargir mercenaries have come to our call.”

  “Dvargir mercenaries have fought against Andomhaim before,” said another man, probably one of Zimri’s household knights.

  Moriah needed to get a better look.

  She eased herself forward, peering over the windowsill. If any of the men saw her…

  Fortunately, no one noticed her.

  Lord Zimri’s study was laid out as the classic study of a Cintarran noble – a large desk with parchment and inkwells, a fire crackling in a stone hearth, and shelves holding books and various curios. The shelves held more curios than books, and Moriah doubted that Zimri had read the ones he had. Lord Zimri himself, stout and bearded, stood near the hearth, a cup of wine in hand. A dozen other men stood near him, his friends and some of his household knights, men he trusted enough to share in his treasonous plots.

  A Frankish knight faced Zimri, clad in chain mail and a hooded cloak, the hood thrown back. Like most of the Frankish knights, he had long hair that hung to his shoulders and a beard that reached the middle of his chest. A sword hung at the knight’s belt, and around his neck, he wore an iron pendant wrought in the image of a human man with a dragon’s head.

  The sign of the Dragon Cult.

  “The dvargir mercenaries never had the aid of a Dragonmaeloch before,” said Sir Amant. “Nor did they have the power of the Dragon Cult. Every knight and lord following Merovech is a wizard, my lord Zimri, able to wield the power of magic. So can all our goblin and ogre mercenaries. Can the assembled might of Andomhaim stand against our strength?”

  Silence answered him.

  “You know it cannot,” said Amant. “Merovech will establish a kingdom in the lands of Cintarra, and this city will be his seat. You said that the Dragon Cult does not have the strength to overthrow all Andomhaim. That is quite true. But neither will High King Arandar have the power to drive us from Cintarra. It is time to accommodate yourself to reality, my lord Zimri.”

  “I would not wish to betray the High King,” said Zimri. “His son is high-handed and arrogant, true, and despoiled the lords of Cintarra of their lawful property. Getting rid of Accolon Pendragon as Regent and appointing worthier men in his place would be a welcome change.”

  Amant smiled. “And I offer you a way to do that, my lord. A way to show your true loyalty and to bring peace with my lord Merovech. If you can but bring Prince Tywall Gwyrdragon before Merovech, then my lord the Duke will become the new Regent of Cintarra. You shall regain all that you have lost, and more besides. For my lord Merovech offers the power of magic to all who follow him, and the possibility of becoming a dragon god as he is.”

  “If he is your god,” said one of the household knights, “why do you not fall down and worship him?”

  Amant laughed. “Why, all men shall be gods, sir knight! Those who have the strength to follow the Path of the Dragon, anyway. But why should the gods not have dukes and lords as men do? Merovech is a god, and I shall become a god, but he shall still be my lord and duke. You can have that power as well, my lord Zimri. Just bring Prince Tywall to Merovech, and you shall be richly rewarded.”

  “And how shall we accomplish that?” said another of the lords. “The Prince is guarded night and day.”

  Zimri took a sip of his wine and cleared his throat. “There is…a secret passage…”

  Moriah remained motionless. This had just gone from idle speculation of treason to a serious threat.

  “A secret passage into the Prince’s apartments in the Palace,” said Zimri. “I know of it. Old Prince Cadwall entrusted me with the secret before he died. I don’t think he told his son of it, or anyone else. I kept the secret to myself in honor of Prince Cadwall…but if I can help Prince Tywall with the knowledge…”

  “You can,” said Amant. “My lord, I urge swift action. Tomorrow night, assemble your most trusted men and conceal yourselves within the Prince’s Palace. Use the secret passage to enter the Prince’s chambers, and spirit him away from the false and faithless advisors of Accolon Pendragon. You will be a hero, my lord Zimri, and Duke Merovech will reward you richly. And when Tywall comes of age as a loyal son of the Dragon Cult, he will remember you with gratitude.”

  “You are right,” said Zimri, and Moriah saw the resolution go over his face. “How shall we proceed?”

  Moriah remained below the window long enough to hear the details of the plot to kidnap the Prince of Cintarra and then left, disappearing back into the Shadow Ways.

  She had a lot of work to do and a short time in which to do it.

  ###

  As the sun rose in the east, Moriah went to the cathedral of Cintarra, her wraithcloak and armor hidden within her satchel once more.

  The cathedral was a huge building, massive square pillars rising to support the vaulted ceiling, dim light leaking through the windows between the great columns. Smaller shrines stood in the transepts, holding altars devoted to one saint or another, and votive candles flickered in the morning gloom. Moriah walked through the cavernous space in silence, joining the cluster of morning worshippers gathered near the altar.

  Caelmark Arban had been left to govern Cintarra in Accolon’s stead, but he was still the archbishop of Cintarra, and he regarded that as his first duty. Every morning, the archbishop said mass at the cathedral before he proceeded to the Prince’s Palace to judge cases and meet with the magistrates of Cintarra.

  Moriah stood motionless with the worshippers, head bowed as she listened to Caelmark’s resonant voice intone the liturgy. She did believe in God and the Dominus Christus, though her religious impulses were not particularly strong. The Dominus Christus had said that the poor were blessed, though from what Moriah had seen, it was more likely that the poor were chewed up and spat out by wealthy men like Cyprian. If God was just, then why was injustice the nature of the world? It seemed that life rewarded the wicked and punished the virtuous.

  Then again, the faith of the church of Andomhaim was preferable to the mad visions of the Drakocenti or the Dragon Cult, or the bloodthirsty religion of the Red Family of Mhor. The Dominus Christus had also said that he who lived by the sword died by the sword, and that had certainly proven true for the Red Family. And Moriah was honest enough to realize that she was not as cynical as she told herself. Else she would not now risk her life in the service of the Crown Prince of Andomhaim. For that matter, she wouldn’t have rescued Sir Rufinius from the Drakocenti or told the Shield Knight where to find the Great Eye and Prince Tywall.

  Her gazed strayed to the right, where young Prince Tywall stood near the rail, head bowed in prayer. Four of his knights stood near him, ready to deal out violence to anyone who threatened the boy. Tywall looked healthier than when Moriah had found him as a captive of Cyprian in the Shadow Ways, but Accolon and Caelmark had made sure that the boy was eating properly. She felt sorry for him – his parents had been dead for years, and he had been at the mercy of powerful and ruthless men like the Drakocenti. Tywall would have to make his own way in the world.

  Much as Moriah had.

  Though to be fair, Tywall would have a few advantages that Moriah had not.

  The mass ended, and Tywall and his knights processed out, followed by the arch
bishop and his priests. Moriah caught Caelmark’s cold blue gaze as he passed, and the archbishop inclined his head in a shallow nod.

  A short time later, Moriah stood in Caelmark’s study in the archbishop’s palace, the archbishop himself sitting behind his desk.

  Though to call it a “palace” was somewhat misleading. The palace resembled a massive scriptorium more than anything else, where scribes toiled in the great hall to handle the archbishop’s correspondence and decrees. During the worst of the food shortages caused by the sheep enclosures, Caelmark had ordered the palace’s valuables sold to feed the poor, which had helped keep famine at bay. Caelmark Arban was respected, not loved, but the respect was enormous, and he had a moral authority that few in Cintarra could match.

  “You have news, Lady Moriah?” said Caelmark. He looked a great deal like his son Rufinius and his brother Ridmark – the same hard features, icy blue eyes, and black hair, though Caelmark’s hair had turned gray and had been tonsured besides. Yet Rufinius looked like a warrior in his prime, and Ridmark looked like a lean wolf, a veteran of many fights. Caelmark had the gauntness of an ascetic and the glittering eyes of a fanatic, and he wore a simple black cassock and leather sandals. The only concession of his rank was the heavy golden signet ring upon his left hand.

  “I do,” said Moriah. “Lord Zimri Talvus is planning to kidnap Prince Tywall, spirit him out of the city, and present him to Merovech.” She laid out the plot for Caelmark in precise detail.

  “I see,” said Caelmark when she had finished. He sighed and tapped the ends of his thin fingers together. “You urged me to move against Zimri when he met with the first emissary of the Dragon Cult. While I believed you, I would not act without proof. But perhaps I should have heeded your counsel. A weed left unchecked will not cease to choke the good seed.”

  “I have an idea,” said Moriah. “A way you can catch Zimri carrying out his crimes. And a way that will give you all the proof you need to have him arrested and charged with treason.”

  “Speak,” said Caelmark.

  Moriah laid out her plan. Caelmark listened in silence. A fanatic he might have been, but he was not a fool.

  “So be it,” said the archbishop. “If Lord Zimri wishes to condemn himself by his own hand, then we shall give him the opportunity. Come!” Caelmark rose to his feet, a dark shadow in his black robe. “We have much work to do.”

  ###

  That night, Moriah, Caelmark Arban, and twenty of the archbishop’s most trusted soldiers went into the apartments of Prince Tywall Gwyrdragon.

  The Prince, of course, was nowhere near the Palace. Earlier that evening, the Prince’s knights had smuggled him to the cathedral and the archbishop’s residence, where he would remain for the night. But Caelmark had put out the story that the Prince was feeling tired and had retired early for the evening. That was entirely true – Tywall had been tired, and he had gone to sleep as soon as he had reached his bed.

  Caelmark had just failed to mention that Tywall’s bed wouldn’t be in the Prince’s Palace.

  Moriah had searched the Prince’s apartments and found the secret passage. It opened in the Prince’s bedroom behind a false wall. The other end of the passage was in the western courtyard. Lord Zimri and some of his knights had decided to spend the night as guests of the Prince, a right the nobles could claim, and their lodgings were not far from that courtyard.

  “How long shall we wait, my lord?” said one of the soldiers. The church of Cintarra had numerous benefices along the river valley, benefices that provided militiamen, men-at-arms, and knights. As an archbishop of the church, Caelmark was supposed to remain aloof from the disputes of secular lords. But as a lord of benefices, he could command men-at-arms and knights, and he had called some of them to the city to help maintain order.

  “As long as needful,” said Caelmark. The archbishop had donned chain and plate mail. Clerics could not spill blood with the edge of the sword, so instead, a mace hung on a leather loop from Caelmark’s belt. Unsurprisingly, the armor made him look even more intimidating. “The Prince is secure. Therefore, should any malefactors wish him harm, we shall meet them here.”

  They stood in the sitting room next to Tywall’s bedroom, a large, comfortable space that had clearly been furnished by his late father. Ten of the archbishop’s soldiers waited with them. A door opened off into a small private chapel, and the other ten soldiers stood there since they could not all fit into the sitting room. Moriah was on the archbishop’s right, her armor on and the cowl of her wraithcloak pulled up. A few of the soldiers gave her nervous glances. Caelmark was the only one who knew that Moriah was the Wraith, but most of Cintarra had heard of the Wraith’s deeds. Hell, some of the soldiers had likely witnessed her humiliation of Hadrian Vindon at Cyprian’s banquet.

  “But how long shall we wait?” said the soldier. “We…”

  “Lord archbishop,” said Moriah, the mask disguising her voice and making it harsh and metallic. “I urge silence. There is no telling how far our voices will carry.”

  “Remain silent unless needful,” said Caelmark.

  The soldier fell silent, and the men waited. Moriah was used to waiting in motionless silence for long periods of time. An impatient thief quickly became a dead one. Caelmark looked as if he could have waited forever. The soldiers, however, had a harder time with it. They shifted and stretched, looking around. Moriah glared at them, which was futile because they could not see her expression behind her mask.

  But fortunately, they did not have to wait long. After about an hour and a half, Moriah heard a loud click and the rasp of stone on stone. The soldiers tensed, lifting their weapons. Caelmark gestured in command, and two of the men-at-arms lifted shuttered lanterns.

  Moriah eased forward a step and peered through the bedroom door. The Prince’s bedroom was opulent, with an enormous canopied bed and a thick carpet, the wooden furniture gleaming with polish. The hidden door in the wall had opened, and men emerged in silence, gathering around the bed. Moriah reached into her mind and grasped the mental link to her wraithcloak, preparing to call on its power.

  She watched as Zimri’s men gathered around the Prince’s bed, pulling back the curtains and yanking back the blankets only to find it empty.

  “Now!” thundered Caelmark.

  The soldiers with the lanterns threw them open, flooding the bedroom with sudden light. Men-at-arms rushed into the bedroom, and Moriah saw Zimri Talvus and his friends, all of them blinking in surprise. Sir Amant started to take a step towards the hidden door, but three of Caelmark’s men interposed themselves, swords drawn.

  “What…what is this?” sputtered Zimri.

  “Lord Zimri Talvus,” said Caelmark, “you are charged with treason and plotting to aid an enemy of Andomhaim. I urge you to surrender now. If…”

  “Fool,” sneered Amant. Fire blazed to life around his fingers as he began summoning magic. “You shall see the power of the Dragon Cult!”

  But Moriah was already moving. She reached for the power of her wraithcloak even as she leaped forward. She became immaterial, and she shot through the archbishop’s soldiers and Lord Zimri’s knights. Amant glanced at her in surprise, and Moriah flowed through him and returned to solidity.

  Her sword was in hand, and she plunged the blade into Sir Amant’s back. The Frankish knight was not wearing armor, no doubt to make stealth easier, and Moriah’s blade found his heart. Amant stiffened, the fire around his hands vanishing, and Moriah wrenched her sword free and lifted it in guard as the knight collapsed, preparing herself to defend or to become immaterial again.

  “Surrender!” said Caelmark. “This is your last chance.”

  But as it happened, Zimri and his friends ignored that chance. Shouting, they rushed for the secret door in a panic or tried to charge into the sitting room. The archbishop’s soldiers might not have been good at waiting, but they knew their business, and they methodically cut down Zimri Talvus and his knights.

  It was over a few moments l
ater.

  Just as well, Moriah thought, that Prince Tywall had spent the night at the archbishop’s palace. It would take a while for the servants to get the smell of blood out of the bedroom, and the poor boy had seen enough horrors already.

  ###

  The next day, Caelmark summoned Moriah to his study once again.

  Moriah was tired and bleary-eyed, but she forced herself to wakefulness. After the deaths of Lord Zimri and his conspirators, she had sent word to Helmut, telling him that Zimri’s domus was ripe for the picking. Knowing Helmut’s customary efficiency, Moriah doubted that there was a single coin or gemstone left in Zimri’s house. She had managed to get a few hours of sleep, but Elena had awakened her with the summons. Moriah had donned her nobleman’s disguise again and set off for the cathedral.

  To her surprise, a half-dozen knights waited in the anteroom outside the archbishop’s study, watching for threats. When she entered the study proper, Moriah saw the reason why. Prince Tywall stood before Caelmark’s desk, and he offered a timid smile to Moriah. She stopped and gave him a deep bow.

  “Lord Prince,” said Moriah.

  “My lady Moriah,” said Tywall. “The lord archbishop says you have helped me once again.” He was very articulate for a boy of his age. “Thank you again. You helped me at the Great Eye, you and Sir Rufinius and the Shield Knight, and again today.”

  “I was pleased I could help, lord Prince,” said Moriah. She felt a deep wave of sympathy for him. Her own childhood had hardly been easy. No one much cared what happened to the bastard daughter of a very minor noble, which was why she had turned to thieving. But a lot of people very much cared what would happen to the Prince of Cintarra…which was why Cyprian had kidnapped him, and Zimri Talvus had attempted to abduct him.

  She hoped that his childhood experiences did not cause him to become an evil man.

  To her surprise, his smile widened. “The archbishop says it is always good to thank those who help you.”