Servant of the Crown

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Right now, he couldn’t even get close enough to place a gold coin beneath her body and thereby prolong her life. Still, there was no way he would sit back and do nothing. He turned and headed toward the city gate, eagerly awaiting the moment when his powers had been restored enough to allow him to return to his natural form.

  As he walked, he considered his options. A daring rescue attempt was clearly out. If he had a Cup, he could enlighten her, which might be as much cruelty as a kindness—the greater awareness enlightenment brought would enhance her suffering, but it would allow her to sustain herself more from the Fount, and buy him more time to work out a way to free her.

  In the time it took for Pharadon to walk several miles away from the city and wander off the road in preparation for his transformation, he did not manage to come up with any good options. What were the chances of there being more Cups? He remembered there being others, and was still confused by finding only one at the temple when he had expected far more. During the wars, he could remember a faction of dragonkind wanting to use the Cups as weapons, while the majority refused to allow such barbarity. Perhaps they had been used; perhaps they had been hidden to prevent that from happening. It was impossible to know—Pharadon had gone into self-imposed exile before the war had ended.

  Might Cyaxares, the high priest at the temple, have hidden some of the Cups, to keep them away from mankind? He realised he might as well spend his time searching as sit around wondering if any remained. There were some obvious places to search, but the plan felt tenuous at best. As his body morphed back into that of a dragon, he comforted himself with the thought that perhaps as he flew, he might come up with something better.

  A flight through the cool night air usually settled him and allowed his mind to focus. This night, that relief did not come. As countryside became hills became mountains, his heart felt heavy. He might be chasing a hope that was impossible; there might be nothing he could do for the goldscale. The thought made him want to cry out in despair—the idea that he was the last of his kind was too terrible to bear. More so when there was another still alive. No matter what happened, he had to spend what little time was left doing whatever he could to save her.

  Pharadon had not known Cyaxares particularly well, but he knew where the ancient dragon’s territory had been, which was as good a place to start as anywhere. The intention behind the concealment worried Pharadon. If Cyaxares had intended to hide them from dragonkind, the task might be impossible. If he had only intended to keep them out of the hands of humans, it would be far easier.

  Some sort of magical concealment would have been employed, and Pharadon hoped that the magic would have degraded over the years—it was unlikely Cyaxares would have thought the Cups would need to be hidden for more than a short time. A century or two at the most; little more than the blink of an eye for a dragon. Pharadon tried to think where he would hide something precious to narrow down the search area. The obvious answer was somewhere in his mountain’s caves, with his other valuables, as was the practice of all dragonkind. That didn’t seem likely in this instance, however. It was too obvious.

  Pharadon had no idea where Cyaxares’s mountain was, only that it would lie deep within the mountainous terrain that had once been his territory. There should have been four Cups at the temple, but there had only been one. Four was an important number to dragons. There were many legendary reasons; some said Araxion, first of the enlightened, had tasked four of his comrades to go out to enlighten others, but Pharadon had always suspected the true reason was because they had four talons on each of their forelimbs.

  Whatever the reason, four Cups had always been kept at the temple. When one was used, it was immediately replaced by the priests. That meant three remained unaccounted for. Had they been used as weapons, Pharadon suspected the skies would be filled with his kind and the lands below would have been devoid of humans. Hidden in a safe place seemed their most likely fate. The only challenge was finding them. A needle in a haystack, as humans might say, but Pharadon had a lodestone of sorts.

  As he flew, he let his mind drift onto the Fount. His consciousness floated along its ethereal waves, carried along like a vessel navigating a great ocean. Even after having been awake for some time, he was amazed at how strong the Fount had become during his slumber. It was difficult to fathom, but was a joyous thing—it spoke of life and wonder and fecundity. In any other circumstances, it would have been a great time to be alive. As it was, the threat of loneliness spoiled it.

  His senses picked up every ripple, every shallow, every depth of the Fount as his great wings carried him high above the mountains, and the miles dropped away behind him. He spotted what appeared to be a new Fount spring that had formed during his hibernation. That was a rare thing indeed, and something he would have to investigate if time ever permitted. A goldscale, a Fount spring—so many wonders, but none of his kind to revel in them. It filled his heart with a sadness.

  On and on he flew, letting the song of his kind, which perpetually drifted along with the Fount, distract him from the harsh reality he found himself in. He didn’t think he could ever grow accustomed to the mountains without so much as a trace of other dragonkind present. It felt as though something fundamental was missing, like the tops of the mountain peaks, or the snow.

  He lost track of how long he had been flying, part of his mind searching, part convinced he would never find what he was looking for, and part wondering what life he could make for himself as the last of his kind. Then he felt it. Like a dense knot in a sheet of cloth, Pharadon sensed what he was looking for.

  CHAPTER

  29

  Picking over the scene of a battle was an ugly thing, all the more so with an inexperienced victor. A disciplined force might have held ranks until they were given the order to pursue, but as soon as Boudain’s motley force caught the scent of victory, they charged. Cutting down the retreating force as they ran, men stopped only when their attention was caught by an attractive piece of plunder.

  In other circumstances, Gill would have done his best to stop them and reorganise, but he thought it unlikely Chabris—whom he had not seen on the field of battle—would be able to rally his fleeing army, so there was no chance of a counterattack.

  The king and his small retinue arrived, and Boudain surveyed the grisly sight of his dead cousin. The young king appeared unmoved.

  “I’ve sent some horsemen to chase down Cousin Chabris,” the king said. “I’ll put down good money that the snivelling little turd will do whatever I tell him, if he thinks it’ll save his skin.”

  “Not everyone reacts to the threat of death with courage,” Gill said.

  “Indeed, unlike you,” the king said. “I couldn’t believe what I was seeing when you ran across the tops of those shields. That’s a story that’ll be told for some time, mark me. You won the day for Mirabaya. Again.”

  Looking down, Gill shuffled his feet. He couldn’t deny how good it had felt. For a moment he had been possessed of much he had thought was gone forever—valour, speed, prowess. It was an intoxicating feeling that he wanted more of, but he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Would he become a bigheaded fool once more? Lose sight of the things that were truly important? Was there anything left in his life that was truly important?

  Before he could say anything in response, the king continued. “Unlike my father, I don’t forget good service, and yours has been beyond what could be reasonably asked. Despite that, I’m afraid there will be more calls on your great talents in the days to come.” He looked out past Gill. “Ah, here comes my darling cousin.”

  Raising his head, Gill saw the finely armoured nobleman being escorted on horseback toward them, hands bound before him. This encounter would be an interesting test of the young king’s mettle, and Gill was curious to see what would happen. What kind of man was Boudain, really, and what kind of king did he intend to be? The next few moments would give strong indications of that, and the campaign to retake Mirabay would set them in s
tone. These were interesting times. Gill had very much hoped he had seen the last of those.

  “My Lord Chabris,” the king said, when his cousin was within earshot. “Your circumstances are sadly reversed. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I, your Highness, I … Lord Aubin convinced me that you were bewitched. I can only apologise for my error in judgement and beg for your forgiveness.”

  The king let out a short laugh. “If you were convinced I was bewitched, what’s changed your opinion? Surely there is little different about me than when last we spoke?”

  “I … The gods wouldn’t have given victory to a man possessed by darkness.”

  Gill cringed. If that was the best Chabris could come up with, the king would need to be of a merciful nature indeed.

  “Guillot dal Villerauvais gave me victory,” the king said.

  Gill cringed again.

  “A good, loyal man,” the king said. “The type of man I need in my service, one that Mirabaya might be proud to call one of her own. You, though? Rebellion at the first hint of cause. Does that sound like the type of man I need in my service? A man of whom the people of Mirabaya might be proud?”

  “No, your Highness. It doesn’t.”

  “I’m glad we agree.” The king turned to his retinue. “String him up. Brand him with the word ‘traitor.’ I want everyone who sees his swinging carcass to know why he’s there and what happens to those who betray their king.”

  Two men-at-arms stepped forward and pulled the Count of Chabris from his horse. His jaw had dropped open and all the colour had drained from his face, but he remained silent until they started to drag him toward the village. He cried out for mercy, between mewling sobs that made Gill feel embarrassed for him. He was a traitor, and this was a traitor’s punishment. It was harsh, but everyone knew that. Chabris would have known the risks when he chose to side with his cousin against his king.

  Boudain showed no reaction to the cries, instead fixing his gaze on his remaining cousin, the Count of Savin. The message was clear, and Gill could see from the expression on Savin’s face that it had been received.

  “We’ll need to clear the field before rot and disease sets in,” Boudain said. “I want all recovered weapons and armour stockpiled, inventoried, and repaired where necessary. I’m granting an amnesty to any man who took up arms against me, ranked banneret or lower, so long as they agree to serve in the Royal Army until I have no more need of them. Any man of noble birth, I will review personally before deciding. Get to it.”

  There was a chorus of assent and the king’s officers set off to go about their orders. That left Boudain alone with Gill and the Count of Savin.

  “Well, gentlemen,” the king said. “We have an army to build and a usurper to topple. Shall we?” He gestured back to the village where their temporary headquarters was, and Gill knew there was no question of refusing.

  * * *

  Pharadon hovered over the peak containing the knot in the Fount. In many respects, there was nothing unusual about it—snowcapped, with jagged grey faces, it looked much the same as the others around it. However, there was a void within it, and in that void, Pharadon was certain, the Cups were waiting for him.

  His certainty was built upon the decaying magic he could sense in the peak, with the Cups at its centre, like a gem in a rotting jewellery box. Someone had cast a spell of concealment here, and time had done its work, leaving only the shadow of what it had been.

  There was something else, though. Something that stirred a memory in Pharadon, which came only slowly out of the recesses of his mind. His heart sank when he connected the reality to the reminiscence. Venori.

  At first he was sure he must have been mistaken, but as he hovered there, the trace of them grew more distinct, and he came to accept that dragonkind were not the only ancient creatures to have returned to the world. Of all things, why did it have to be the Venori? The last of them was thought to have been killed when Pharadon had still been a young dragon. The last of a ferocious, and some would say evil, race that had warred against dragonkind since the beginning of remembered time.

  The extermination of the Venori had created a stain on the collective conscience of dragonkind and had inspired much of their approach to dealing with humans—engage with them, show them the way to enlightenment, never again wipe a race of creatures from existence. And here they were again, while dragonkind teetered on the balance, most likely to slide into oblivion.

  Pharadon wondered how the Venori had found their way to this place, then realised all that mattered was they were here. If he could sense them through all that rock, and from so great a height, they were likely to be many. He had been too young to fight them himself, but had listened long to tales of the battles between his kind and theirs.

  They were said to live in groups. Some of the tales he had heard involved dragons being drained of their store of Fount and killed. He would need to be careful, but he was powerful, and he didn’t intend to allow a few Venori to stand in his way. He might even be able to get in and retrieve the Cups without alerting them.

  He spiralled down to get a closer look, gliding silently as he scanned the rocky peak for a way in. With dragons as large as they were, the cave would need a big entrance, or at least somewhere a dragon could set down and transform into a smaller creature. It didn’t take him long to find it, or at least where it had been. Once there had been a large cave in the side of the mountain, but the mouth had collapsed at some point in the distant past.

  It took but a moment to determine that magic had caused the cave-in—and done a thorough job of it. The effort of getting through the rubble would be substantial, and would certainly earn the attention of the Venori. It bothered him that the Cups and the Venori found themselves in such proximity. Had the magic drawn them? The Venori fed on the Fount—preferably that freshly drawn from a living creature.

  Dragons provided the flavour they liked best, the main reason the two species had found themselves at odds with one another. Ironically, human beings had proved the Venori’s second choice—it seemed to have something to do with the taste intelligence imparted. Their appetite and lack of compassion had made them the antithesis of the world enlightened dragonkind had envisaged. Who were the dragons, to have decided how the world should be shaped? Pharadon liked to think that were it not for the fact that the Venori sought to feed on his people any chance they got, they would have been left as nature intended.

  He spotted a ledge and a small gap in the rubble. Pharadon landed and inspected the opening. There was no way he could get in while enjoying his natural form. It was big enough for him to enter as a man. However, his magical power would be so severely curtailed that facing down the Venori would be a foolish thing to do. He could feel them down there, lurking in the darkness. Worse, he could sense that they had already reacted to his presence.

  The Fount might have grown strong enough to wake them, strong enough to sustain them indefinitely, but he could tell they hungered for that which was within him. They were working their way toward him through the passages hidden within the mountain, but if the stories were true, they wouldn’t dare venture out in daylight. It was hard to put much faith in the stories when they also spoke of Venori draining all the life energies out of dragons, leaving them withered husks. As with all beings of magic, the creatures were vulnerable to Telastrian steel, but Pharadon didn’t have any. In human form, there was no way he could go down there. Not on his own, at least.

  * * *

  The smith’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when a cart carrying a dozen Telastrian steel swords had turned up at the makeshift foundry beside the new dragon enclosure. Ysabeau thought he was going to throw up when she told him what she wanted done with them.

  The swords themselves had been donated by noblemen now residing in the dungeons beneath the citadel on the Isle. There were a number of places an unfortunate could be incarcerated in Mirabay, but the citadel’s dungeons were by far the worst. Unlikely
though it was for a prisoner to emerge alive from any of the others, the citadel was a confirmed death sentence, a place of forgetting.

  Stripped of noble rank, neither they nor their children would have need for the heirloom blades. The weapons would now serve a greater purpose—to contain the greatest spectacle in the land.

  The smith and his team set to smelting the blades and reforging the steel into long wires that could be welded to the metal bands of the cage. The process was well under way when one of the workmen sent for Ysabeau.

  The workers were all terrified of the Prince Bishop—perhaps rightly so—and every request that came to her was flavoured with hesitation. On this occasion, there was none of that, something that instantly caused Ysabeau alarm. She knew only too well what the stakes were. If something happened to the beast, or it escaped … She didn’t want to consider the consequences, even if she wouldn’t be around to see them—everyone here would lose their lives. There was no question of that.

  “What is it?” Ysabeau said. She could see that the men had downed tools, and were vacillating between their fear of the Prince Bishop, and their fear of what lay in the still-incomplete cage.

  One of the men turned to face her, and scratched at his scraggy black beard. “It moved, my Lady.”

  Ysabeau felt a chill run across her skin.

  The dragon was curled up in much the same position in which it had been placed when they first lowered it into the old arena by crane. Its head rested on its foreclaws in an eerily similar fashion to a dog. Its nostrils flared gently and rhythmically as it breathed—there was nothing unusual about that. Ysabeau’s gaze was fixed elsewhere, and her jaw had dropped.