Isle of Dragons

by J H G Foss

  They were waiting for Honni to make arrangements for their journey to the docks and when they were not admiring the view, they were in the central room at the low table, eating, drinking and chatting.

  As was often the case they were talking over old times.

  ‘Me and Ghene, we were in the Company eight years,’ Meggelaine was explaining to Arrin and Tankle. ‘We left at the same time. The first four years were the best though, don’t you agree Ghene?’

  ‘Yes, in some sense. We were treated like heroes by the dwarves.’

  ‘We were heroes,’ put in Broddor.

  ‘Big fish in a small pond,’ laughed Roztov. ‘Even now, Kardane numbers only about two thousand souls. It’s only dwarven tradition that dictates every fortress has a king.’

  ‘Regardless of that,’ said Broddor, ‘we were a king’s company.’

  ‘What I don’t fully understand, my lord, is why you left Styke, if you were associated with a fortress in that country,’ asked Arrin.

  ‘Well,’ mused Roztov. ‘Once the goblins were dealt with and there was peace, there wasn’t much need for us. I should clarify that, Styke is a country with a lot of problems, but none that a company of about fifty dwarves and other hangers on were suitable solutions to. There were a bit too many of us to bother with every farmer that had had his goat stolen by an Elbow Mine kobold, but not enough of us to take on the bigger problems. There is a tower south of Swallow Wood used by a necromancer cult, I think we could have cleared it out if we tried, but it’s protected by the Duke of Glayborne who is an old crony of the King. You see? It would have lead to putting Kardane into great danger, probably from the Duke himself. We were a powerful warband by that stage and while some welcomed the peace and went back to their homes again, most wanted to reach for further glory. Some had only fairly recently arrived, Floran for instance, just as the war (if you could call it that) was ending and were still thirsty for adventure. It seemed more logical to leave the country to slake that thirst.’

  ‘It wasn’t the same though,’ said Meggelaine with sadness in her voice. ‘The places we went, and the people we helped, it was worth it, but it wasn’t the same. We did good, but often we would think, and talk about, the reasons we were there. We went further and further north and east, we were so far away from home. In the end, most of us began to wonder what we were fighting for.’

  ‘Especially after the Moon Marshes,’ continued Ghene. ‘All the evil that lived up there, I sometimes wonder if we were not just stirring things up. Perhaps all those undead horrors were best left alone. And all that treasure we brought back, it was inevitable that half the company left.’

  Arrin and Tankle listened, smiled and nodded. They had heard most of this before, but so far they had not tired of the repetition of the stories.

  ‘Well, me and Ghene went to the Council a while after that,’ said Meggelaine. She poked at Roztov playfully. ‘And that’s where you should be. I’m sorry Roz, but that’s where you could do the most good. The threat from the east, no other danger compares to that. When we entered the Great Forest Council, from that day on it just looked like you and Broddor were still playing.’

  ‘I know,’ conceded Roztov. ‘It would be a big step though, and the politics would be… challenging. I’ll be a Baron of Styke, sort of, one day. I’ll own land. I’ll have people to look after. The Kingdoms of men respect the druids, but they don’t trust the Council and their agenda.’

  ‘You don’t have to live in the Great Forest,’ suggested Ghene. 'You could just fly over for the meetings or something.'

  ‘Yes, I suppose. Don’t misunderstand me, I have given it much thought. One day perhaps, but right now I’m raising a family. Well, if I survive this, that’s what I plan to get back to.’

  Roztov rose and walked over to the back door, hit by a sudden wave of homesickness he stared blankly at the compounds outer wall. Just as he had said the words raising a family he had realised how close he was to rendering his two beautiful daughters fatherless. Every day they would be getting a bit bigger, learning new things and making new memories and he wasn’t there. Their little faces would be bigger and more mature the next time he saw them, if he ever made it home. Would they even recognise him when he returned? Would they go running back to Jeb to hide behind her skirts? He took a deep breath. This was not the time for all this sort of carry on, he thought to himself, I need to keep my head together to get through all this. If I ever want to see them again. His son, Cayogen, how old was he now? He struggled to remember, he'd be thirteen now? Should he bring him up to Styke? Would Cayogen want to see his father’s lands? Roztov’s distracted mind drifted off to the last time he had seen his son, aged six, waving from the docks as Roztov and Broddor sailed out of the port of El-Joppa. It was a painful memory, but it had seems more sensible to leave him in the care of his grandparents, Styke had been so unstable back then. Then he had met Jeb and now he had two small girls to contend with... Cayogen would be fourteen he realised. Roztov could tell from his letters he was an intelligent young man. What I should do, thought Roztov, was gather all my family together and never let them go, and never leave them again.

  Meggelaine came and patted him on the leg. ‘We’ll make it home, don’t worry, man,’ she said easily guessing his thoughts. ‘Honni is back, he’s brought us a bunch of black cloaks and scarves. He’s got these funny sort of cloth face masks as well, I think we are leaving.’

  ‘They are called niqabs Meg, like they wear in El-Joppa.’

  ‘Oh right, well you’d know more about that than me.’

  Their walk into the heart of Stovologard was a journey into darkness. It was an otherwise blue-skied and clear spring afternoon, but for the clouds of black smoke that drifted down from the central tower. They followed a paved road that led from the town, through desolate ash covered fields where people dressed in heavy ragged black cloaks scratched a living from the soil.

  ‘They are thralls,’ explained Honni. ‘They are property of the dragons directly. They grow these crops to feed the people of the Stovologard.’

  ‘It looks like a harsh existence,’ said Floran.

  ‘It is considered a great honour to be so close to the dragons.’

  After an hour or so of travel they arrived in the city. Tenement blocks rose six, seven and sometimes eight stories tall. Many of them appeared empty. The gloom, the smoke and the quietness of the city gave it an eerie and surreal quality that made them keep close together. Visibility was poor, down to as little as twenty yards in the narrower streets and they all felt their lungs getting dirty. Occasionally a dragon passed overhead, casting a dark shadow. Sometimes a line of flame would light up the sky for a few seconds, and if it had been overhead then a short while later motes of soot and hot cinders would rain down on the street. Dragon fire cinders were everywhere, lying in the street or clumped together in the gutters. Floran picked one up. ‘One this size would cost a fortune in Hyadna, and here they lie in the street like horse dung,’ he remarked before putting it in his pocket.

  The light was pale and monochrome, the colour had been stripped from everything. Only occasionally could the blueness of the sky be seen, when a brief breeze blew enough of the smoke away, otherwise it was invisible under layers of smoke and mist.

  The temperature dropped too, their breath came out in clouds of steam, seeming to add to the fug.

  ‘The middle floors of the tenements,’ said Honni pointing upwards, ‘is where most people live, where the air is a little better. Not many people live in the ground floor rooms.’

  Floran nodded and translated to the others.

  ‘This place is hell,’ commented Meggelaine.

  Stovologard was a large city and it took an hour to walk through it to the harbour. They skirted around the base of the central tower, where the streets got busier, crowded with people going about the business of the dragons and the business of the city. Most were dressed in niqabs, as a form of protection from the smoke and soot, so that the crowd
s of people appeared as a mass of flowing black cloth.

  ‘Like the Coal Miner’s Guild on wash day,’ was Broddor’s muttered comment.

  There was enough bustle for them to get lost in the crowd, in the gloom with the hoods of their cloaks up they went unnoticed. Gendarmes, manhunters and even occasionally dragons walked the streets, but to them they were just another group of thralls, presumably owned by someone.

  As they neared the coast, the air quality improved a little and by the time they reached the harbour they began to feel as if they could breathe again.

  Honni laughed at them as they coughed. ‘There are some streets in the city where the air is so bad it is death to men. Only dragons can go there without being poisoned.’

  Floran translated this remark over his shoulder to the others in a low whisper.

  ‘This place is the worst,’ said Broddor wiping spittle from his lips after a coughing fit. ‘And that’s a dwarf saying it. Even underground, near our ironworks and armouries, we have better air than this.’

  ‘The Tanner’s District in Millwood is bad,’ added Meggelaine, never one to forgo the opportunity to add her observations. ‘They say if the rich ladies go through there, they feint from the fumes.’

  Roztov, who was up at the front with Ghene, turned, looked out from his hood and hissed, ‘cut the chatter. There are gendarmes ahead.’

  Broddor sniggered and Meggelaine shrugged and made a gesture with her hand to suggest she was buttoning her lip.

  It was early evening and the harbour was crowded. Not so much due to any great amount of shipping, it was more that the air was cleaner than other areas of the city and people tended to linger here. They stopped at some tables and sat for a while, warming themselves at a brazier. There was a tavern close by and Honni went to get them some drinks. Fog rolled in from the sea, cleaner than the smoke, but just as smothering. The masts of the ships were invisible and only the hulls could be seen, dark shapes against the grey of the water. They had stood at the quayside and looked down at the water earlier, it was black with soot, thick with it, and all manner of junk floated on the murky surface. There was no one else sat at the other tables so it felt as if they were totally alone.

  ‘Bleak,’ said Roztov. He nodded thanks to Honni as he took a clay cup. ‘I need this. My throat is as dry as a camel drivers sock.’

  He took a swig, gagged and nearly spat it out. He then swallowed the liquid and gave the others a wary smile. ‘A unique bouquet,’ he gasped.

  Meggelaine gave her mug a careful sniff. Broddor shrugged and took three large swallows in quick succession. ‘Mushroom beer,’ he explained. ‘Like the kobold's brew.’

  The others sipped at their drinks, caught between their desires to slake their thirsts and the unpleasantness of the brew.

  Broddor drained his cup and put it down noisily on the table. ‘Right, let’s find a boat and get out of here.’

  ‘Hold your horses,’ said Roztov. ‘For now we are just looking.’

  Ghene glanced at Meggelaine then leaned in to speak quietly with the dwarf. ‘And besides, we should really look in on Dreggen. We need to find out if he or his message has made it to the ears of King Primus.’

  Broddor looked blank so Ghene leaned further in and whispered, ‘we need to find out what is going on with you-know-who.’

  ‘Oh all that?’ said Broddor rather too loudly. ‘Bloody Old Bones? Who cares? Whatever happens, it’s bound to be a bunkesamleje and none of our bloody business.’

  ‘We need to know,’ hissed the elf.

  ‘Fanden skyld,’ muttered the dwarf, who then pulled over Ghene’s untouched beer and drank it down in one long swig.

  The mist began to thin out a bit, chased away by the stiffening sea breeze. They could now see the other side of the street and the dockside moorings. Left and right they could see down the street about fifty paces. Off to their right they witnessed something that left them in stunned silence. A dragon landed on a group of people about thirty yards away and proceeded to tear them to bits. It must have killed a dozen people before lifting off into the fog above. People that had been close to the slaughter, standing motionlessly with their heads bowed, stepped forward and began to pick through the victims.

  ‘No one even screamed,’ gasped Meggelaine.

  The druids all rushed over to help, using their magic to heal the few victims that were left alive. After five minutes, Honni said something in Draconic, anxiously pulling at their capes.

  ‘He seems most distraught at your actions,’ explained Floran. ‘He is concerned we will draw the attention of the gendarmes.’

  The druids didn’t leave until they had helped everyone who needed it though. A crowd gathered to look on in amazement as people who were lying bleeding to death from fatal wounds one minute were able to stand and walk away the next. More people arrived, with old injuries and ailments, to plead with the healers for help.

  ‘I think it is time to go,’ said Floran who had been keeping an eye out.

  They pulled their cloaks and hoods tightly around their bodies and filtered into the crowds and fog.

  ‘This is the easiest city to hide in,’ remarked Roztov from under his black hood. ‘Ten paces in any direction and we are lost to all.’

  Honni was anxious though, and he led them away from the docks, back towards the tower and eventually to an abandoned tenement block.

  He pushed open the rotten old front door then took them up to the top floor apartment. It looked like it had been used as a hideout before, the floor was littered with the rotten remains of leftover food and there was a bedroll in the corner. The windows were covered with black curtains.

  Roztov pulled one aside to look out, just as dragon flame lit up the sky nearby. Honni yelped and pulled the curtain shut then told off Roztov in his language.

  ‘He says not to open the curtain,’ said Floran.

  ‘I gathered that,’ grunted the druid.

  Honni went to check out the rest of the building. Meggelaine found a broom and began to tidy up their room. The others sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, the only light filtering in from behind the curtain. Floran placed a small ball of magical flame in the hearth so Meggelaine had enough light to work by.

  ‘This place is a whole other world compared to the towns we were in before,’ sighed Roztov as he leaned his head back on the wall.

  ‘And yet ten times more people live here compared to outside the city. The closer to the dragon tower, the higher the honour, or so says our friend Honni,’ remarked Ghene.

  ‘They all must be dying of black lung. And what we saw when the dragon attacked... What did he say about that, Tup?’

  Floran sat down beside his friend, neatly folding his robes. ‘This city functions in service of the dragons only. Honni told me there are any number of reasons why a dragon may kill the people, or no reason at all. The most common though, is a dragon killing its own thralls as it no longer has a use for them, or has too many to feed.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ said Meggelaine as she swept past, killing her fear with housework.

  ‘None of this makes any sense,’ put in Broddor. ‘The people in the city consider it an honour to be here? Where is the honour in being treated like cattle?’

  ‘I’m not sure he’s telling the truth,’ agreed Ghene.‘These people are in rags. They act like slaves. How is this honour?’

  ‘I’m not even sure I could make it back to the docks. I get all turned around in this smog. How about you, Ghene?’

  ‘I think I could probably find my way back, if we needed to go there by ourselves.’

  A few minutes later Honni returned and explained that he was leaving them for the night. He had a few things to arrange, but assured them that he would take them back to the harbour in the morning.

  After half an hour, despite Honni’s dire warnings they were all wandering up and down the floors of the tenement and looking out all the windows.

  ‘We are camped on the sixth floor?’ asked
Roztov.

  ‘I think so,’ replied Ghene. ‘Honni said this building is condemned, marked for demolition and no one lives here, but I wonder why.’

  Meggelaine was stood on tiptoes, looking out of one of the windows. ‘Look, half of these buildings are empty. We are close to the central tower here. I only see a few lights.’

  It was a grim view, from where they were, of the tall narrow buildings of the city rising out of the grey smoke. The cobbles below were hardly visible and even the windows on the other side of the street were no more than dark smudges. Not far away the central tower of Stovologard rose up before them. This close it was like a black wall, blotting out most of the sky. Every so often a flicker of distant dragon fire lit it up, giving it brief outline against the sky.

  ‘What a place,’ said Floran in awe. ‘I could never have imagined a place such as this.’

  Later that evening, Floran provided them with a larger magical fire to keep them warm in the room they had settled in for the night. They used their black cloaks as bedding and ate food and drank beer from their supplies, recently stocked up from their inn visits.

  Broddor, hunting for more drink, started sifting through some of the bags.

  ‘What the hell is all this stuff?’ he asked pulling out leaves, twigs, and odd shaped stones.

  ‘That’s all mine, Broddor dear,’ said Meggelaine. ‘Just leave it.’

  ‘I might have known,’ he grumbled. ‘Souvenirs. I’ve been carrying all this junk around. What is this?’

  The little fressle looked over. ‘A pine cone from Moletown.’

  ‘Fanden skyld,’ muttered the dwarf. ‘And this?’

  ‘It’s part of the roof from our hut in Vine Street.’

  ‘No, Meg. It is a stick. It is a stick like any other stick. And you have made me carry it all the way across this bloody... on no, look a beach pebble. Don’t tell me that’s come all the way from the ship wreck with us?’