The Dragon's Fury (Book 1) Read online

  In time, the villagers had stopped treating him like a giant plague scab. Some started offering odd jobs in exchange for meals. One day Bildad the innkeeper came to him, wearing the smile he always wore when about to make a hefty profit. “You can come and live with us, Trist-my-lad. What’s more, there’ll be food aplenty. The Dragon’s an inn, after all, aint she? You can help the wife run the kitchens, and we’ll call it a fair trade. How does that suit ya?”

  Crack. Triston spun around, his reverie forgotten, the back of his head throbbing. Behind him, the water bucket plummeted down to the sunken depths with an echoing clamor. Before him, Winchie brandished a wooden ladle, poised for a second blow.

  “The cat’s out of the bag now, boy.” She swiped clumsily, and Triston sidestepped with ease. Her paunchy cheeks, redder than usual, huffed like a forge bellows, and her eyes—Well, her eyes always bulge like that. As ever, her charcoal hair was pulled tight in a bun, but now wispy clumps had come loose and were clinging to her sweaty face like vines on a gnarled trunk.

  “Ah, that already. Well, a real tragedy. Breaks the heart really. So undeserved and so upsetting.” As ever, he found himself staring, completely transfixed by Winchie’s ugliness. “How did you—”

  “Undeserved my wrinkled ass!’ she croaked. “You’re wearing the bloody proof for all to see.” She stared meaningfully at his sheathed sword. “A shirker, that’s what you are. Lazy. Off gallivanting with that no good bastard half-breed again, I shouldn’t wonder. And me here to deal with ‘em all on my lonesome. Well, what do ya say for yerself?”

  “So . . . OK. The sword? That’s what’s got your undies in a, er, why you’re a little mad—angry, not crazy. You’re not mad. No. Not in that way. You are in the other way. I would be too if I was you.”

  Another comically sluggish ladle swipe. Instinctively, Triston had his sword out to parry, causing the innkeeper’s wife to sever her kitchen utensil on its unforgiving edge. Triston looked with newfound admiration at the timeworn steel, then up at Winchie’s eyes, which were threatening to pop from their sockets

  She gaped from his drawn blade to her decapitated ladle, then at him. Shock, and something like respect, twitched over her features, but in an instant Triston had sheathed his weapon and the moment passed.

  “We have guests,” she intoned, her voice quivering with rage. “The High and Mighty have come to Wyrmskull, and they’re staying in this house. YOU will see to them. You will make their most idle fancy your burning desire. Do right by them and I may forgive this outrage, if never forget it.”

  Triston strode past her in silence, making for a side door.

  “Off with it, boy.” Cursing himself for neglecting to return the telltale weapon to the Fighter’s Stronghold, Triston unstrapped the sword and leaned it against the building. “The day I see you indulging such nonsense again is the day Bildad throws you back on the streets where you belong.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he said, not listening. “Winchie, these guests, who are they?”

  Winchie gave him a yellow-toothed smile. “Your betters, that’s who. Highborn folk as deserve more than the likes of you. NOW BE OFF!”

  In five minutes Triston was washed, apron-wrapped, and standing to attention in the Dragon’s Ember Room, a cozy, well-appointed nook reserved for those persons deemed too lofty for the smoke and bustle of the Fire Hall. It was the least used room in the inn.

  Nearby, three guests took their ease at a linen-draped table, where a silver platter of venison and leeks took pride-of-place above an array of lesser delicacies. Golden light glimmered down from bronze candelabra, mingling with the glow of a hearth-fire to reflect softly in the silver dishware and the radiant faces of the diners. Triston’s mouth was watering. Perhaps when he cleared up there would be a few scraps for him.

  “Quite right, my Lord Sarconius” boomed Gorbald Hammerhill, the village Chieftain, draining his goblet in a single, prolonged swig and heaving a sigh of contentment. He was a large, thick-limbed man with a protruding belly, and more hair in his grizzled beard than on his balding pate. “The village is as old as the hills,” he said, gesturing grandly with his goblet and causing Triston to spill wine as he attempted to discretely freshen the Chief’s cup from a glass carafe. “Founded by the Dragonslayer himself they say,” he went on, oblivious, “in the Days of Heroes, at the dawn of the Dominion of Man.” He finished in a husky whisper, provoking a chuckle from the man beside him.

  “Yes, it’s always the same in these rustic locales,” said the man in a dry baritone. “Cheap wine, cheaper women, and a mythical past.”

  Breaking Winchie’s strict orders, Triston stole a glance at the speaker, noting at once by his olive skin and aquiline nose that here was a son of world-renowned Meridia. Past middle-age yet hale in body and keen in glance, the stranger returned the Chief’s affronted gaze with sunken eyes shadowed by thick, black brows. These last features were rendered more prominent by their contrast with his close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair and matching goatee. Garbed in a crimson velvet doublet with snowy trim and white-silk sleeves, he bore himself with that inimitable assurance commonly associated with noble birth.

  “Jest as you wish, my Lord Sarconius,” chided an entrancing voice at the far end of the table. “But you know full well that at least so far as Wyrmskull is concerned, the mists of time shroud more than delusions of glory.”

  Forgetting himself completely, Triston gaped openly at this most alluring of guests, tracing a finger along the gently curving wine carafe as he stared. He had heard many times of the Seer of Luskoll, but never in his lifetime had she graced Wyrmskull with her presence. Her prowess as a sorceress was famed throughout Corellia, and the music of her voice was legendary.

  She was no longer young, but Triston was struck by her beauty nonetheless. With auburn hair, emerald eyes, and a close-fitting gown of forest green that accentuated her feminine form, she seemed to him the very embodiment of serenity and grace.

  “The fiery reign of Magog the Great,” she went on, “is remembered in nightmares from the Desert of Arcuse to the Icemoor wastes, and the praises of the hand that slew him sung more widely still.”

  “And the sword wielded by that mighty hand hangs on my wall not a furlong distant, my lord,” put in Gorbald resentfully. Sarconius seemed highly amused. “I know it well, my good man. In fact, it was in the hope of glimpsing the Dragonslayer’s sword that I begged your Seer to escort my party to this charming, er, village, as you called it. So please, pardon my rudeness. My master’s endless appetite for antiquities compels me to make so many pilgrimages and hear so many bards’ tales that I’m afraid I’ve grown rather cynical. But my master is endlessly fond of history, and of course, if the item is enchanted, well, there’s no stopping him laying his hands on it.”

  “An appetite for aqui—aquitinnities, you say?” replied Gorbald knowingly. Then, trying and failing not to sound too interested: “And just who might this master be, may I inquire?”

  “I thought you knew,” answered Sarconius with a self-satisfied smile. “I am the Lord Curator for, and I might add distant kin of, His Supreme Exaltancy, the Emperor of Meridia.”

  Freezing in the act of forking more venison into his mouth, the Chief snapped his jaws shut, opened them, mumbled several inaudible words, choked, then shut his mouth again before finally spluttering, “In—indeed, my lord! Is that so?” He stared in wonder at the man, his face reddening visibly, then managed to add, “That would have been nice to have learned when you arrived,” with a pointed look at the Seer. “Well, I ought to have known—I see His Exaltancy’s crest on your ivory knife there and all.” He gawked in open-mouthed astonishment at the golden symbol engraved on the knife, a spiked crown encircling an earthlike sphere. “Well, what an honor, sir! What. An. Honor!”

  He made to shake the man’s hand, but Sarconius had drawn the white-bone dagger from its sheath, turning it in his hand lovingly. The weapon seemed to possess an inner radiance, as if its soft glow was no mere reflecti
on from the candlelight above.

  “Oh, this is not ivory, my good Chieftain, I assure you,” he said. “This is dragonbone. Exceedingly rare. Probably worth more than your entire village. But yes, here is His Supreme Exaltancy’s crest. A gift from him, in fact, for my services. Part of a set. Only one other like it in the world.” He sheathed the blade. “Being in the emperor’s employ does have its advantages. When may I see the weapon?”

  Gorbald gaped down at the priceless dragonbone. “The . . . weapon, weapon—ah! You mean Bloodprice! Willbrand’s sword. Yes of course you may see—not for sale, o’ course. Not for any money, but o’ course you may see—on the morrow in fact.” He sat up, straightening his shoulders with a proud gleam in his eye. “There’s a small to-do, nothing formal, mind you, just a wee ceremony. My son’s to take his rightful place on the village guard. Walking in his father’s footsteps, he is.”

  Sarconius frowned. “And the Dragonslayer’s heirloom?”

  “Yes, yes. I was getting there. We dust Bloodprice off every now and then, you know. For special occasions like. And the elders gave me the go-ahead to use it when I induct my boy into the Fighters. Tell you what, you can sit beside me, you and Her Grace here, and I’ll even let you hold the thing after the ceremony. That’s if you can lift it!” he ended with a spittle-strewn guffaw.

  The Seer looked puzzled. “Isn’t it customary for contestants to tourney for this honor?”

  “Ah, as to that, yes. But no one in his right mind would take on my Gorwain. You’ll understand when you see him.”

  There was a crash. All three diners looked up at Triston, who had dropped the carafe where it shattered on the floor. “I’ll just go get a broom and mop,” he muttered, hastening from the room.

  TWO

  SUMMIT SURPRISES

  Bards sing of lowly men who battle giants and win. In practice, they get flattened..

  — Margrave the Scribe, The Siege of Luskoll, 713,

  Beneath a sky of gold streaked with crimson, the eagle soared over her hunting ground, the hill called Magog’s Rise, riding waves of rising air. With a curve of her great wings, pinions fluttering in the breeze, she turned, and there came into view a little village nestled in a fold of the hill high up on its southern flank. From this height, Wyrmskull appeared no more than a child’s model, a collection of quaint cottages and shops, wreathed in wood smoke and surrounded by a rickety palisade of weathered wood. Hardly worth a second glance amid the vast wilderness of the northwest frontier.

  Torches sprang to life on the summit far below her, golden replicas of the silvery hosts twinkling into being high above. Only men made such lights. These arrow-shooters had left their wooden colony and gathered on her hilltop rabbit-patch with noise to shame a hundred mating bears. She wheeled away westward with an exasperated screech.

  “You’re not frittering away your last coppers on Dragonfire, Trolljuice or spirits of any kind! No, pumpkin, you stand with me and watch quiet-like—”

  Even in the reddish glow of the torchlight, Triston could tell Owain’s face was burning. “Bloody pisspots, woman! I’ll be sixteen after harvest! And I told you not to call me—”

  “It’ll be the willow switch for you, child!” shrieked his mother with sudden ferocity. “I’ll not have any of your sauce. Not tonight, not ever. Long as you’re under our roof . . . .”

  Triston forced his way through the crowd until her tirade was lost amid the general clamor. He edged his way along an encircling rope-fence, looking for something to take his mind off what was coming. The fence he followed ran around the great summit bowl in a circle, halfway between Magog’s Tooth in the middle and the outer brink. It was set up to create a tourney ground, a smaller circle within the larger. While the inner core was dark, silent, lost in shadow—Triston was reminded of an empty tomb—the encircling space between the rope-fence and the rim of the hill teamed with revelry.

  Here the villagers had gathered in force, the crowd especially thick at one large stand where Winchie’s mutton pies and Bildad’s golden brew brought the innkeepers a stream of silver pennies. A party mood hung thick in the air, though none could say why, for the night’s big entertainment looked to be a bust. All knew there would be no tourney.

  Somewhere nearby, a fifer struck up a lively theme, and the revelers lost no time in belting out the well-known lines.

  Young Sherry she’ll carry her sweet babe to court,

  Singing derry airy merry derry O!

  Prince Jerry she’ll harry his babe to support,

  Oh ferry Sherry to her Jerry O!

  Prince Jerry he’ll bury her fears with a kiss

  Singing derry airy merry derry O

  But nary fair Sherry he’ll marry or miss

  O ferry Sherry back from Jerry O!

  Meat sizzled over glowing coals and mead gushed like a summer storm as he passed, fostering a familiar ache in his belly. As if the family of live mice it felt like he’d swallowed wasn’t enough. For the tenth time, Triston reassured himself his borrowed sword was loose in its scabbard. The notched blade had a vexing tendency to stick.

  He paused to join a crowd watching Anyon the blacksmith juggle a brace of rabbits by the ears, and immediately regretted it.

  “Ah! If it isn’t young Slendrake,” shouted Elder Attric with surprising vigor above Anyon’s cheering spectators. Missing a lunge, the blacksmith had saved the situation by deftly booting the furry morsel into the crowd. The cheer turned to a groan, however, when a growling mutt escaped from the press with the prize dangling morosely from its jaws.

  “Twice ten years now, I’d say, maybe more, since the great duel. ‘Spose you wish you was there, eh?” He jabbed Triston’s chest with his cane, laughing wheezily.

  “I . . . no. I don’t.” Triston made to keep moving, but the elder shuffled over to block his way.

  “Ah, now. Don’t let what came after poison what came before. Your father was the toast of the town the day he bested young Gorbald for the Fighters. Deserved every bit of it, too. ‘Course, ‘twas them that sang the loudest praise as had the darkest words later on, as I recall. Isn’t that the way of things? Be chief now, Trinian would, if matters had played out different. Ah, but the Fates will have it their way in the end.”

  “They will indeed, sir. Now, I really need to—”

  “Me? I’ve naught but good to say of him. Black magic, they says. Rot for brains, all of ‘em, that’s what I says. Your dad now, he fought the moss off those nasty tree-dwellers what attacked us in those days.” Hunched over his cane, the old man cocked a dark eye down the far-side of Magog’s Rise, where the brooding sentinels of the Wildwood covered the hill’s western slopes under a mantel of deepest night. “Curse the Farthians,” he spat.

  Suddenly his keen glance was on Triston. “Often I’ve wondered what would become of Trinian’s son.” His gaze took in Triston’s worn and patched tunic, his ill-fitting trousers and the torn toes of his boots. “Ah well. Time will tell. Good evening to you, young Slendrake.”

  He shuffled off, leaving Triston feeling vaguely irritated. At that moment, away to his left, the long, clear call of a ram’s horn burst over the merrymaking and echoed down the hillside. Triston’s family of mice began doing somersaults. A cheer rose from the crowd as twelve men wearing sable jerkins and silver swords marched single-file through the rope-fence into the inner arena, each bearing a torch aloft in his left hand. The twelve Wyrmskull Fighters took their places at even intervals around the standing stone, turning to face the spectators with eyes agleam under upraised torches.

  “Trist! Scarlet Harlot. You’ve got to try some!” Owain was smacking his lips in his ear. “I think . . . wild strawberries and Dragonfire. Here!”

  A hot mug pressed against his hand, but Triston was scarcely aware of it. His eyes were intent in the direction of the ram’s horn, where Gorbald was standing on a wooden platform, motioning for silence. Seated beside him was the Seer, resplendent in blue silk which gleamed like sapphires under a gray shawl
, and Lord Sarconius, his back straight as a poker, his eyes fixed on the Chief. A group of burly men in gleaming suits of armor stood ill-at-ease behind the platform. Some bore the figure of a golden harp gilded on the right breast of their steel hauberks. Guardians of the High Fane in Luskoll, Triston knew, the Seer’s personal champions.

  Gorbald’s voice was booming, but even so Triston had trouble distinguishing the words over the buzz and bustle. “ . . . announced at the Feast of the Dragonslayer . . . plans to retire . . . honor old Door-shield for long years of —eh? What’s that? Ah, yes . . . Grimborn! . . . his proper name. Told myself not to forget that . . . Grimborn’s replacement . . . Fighter’s Tourney . . . my son Gorwain here stands ready to . . . open to all challengers as the rules state . . . grave peril for . . . venture all for glory . . . honor to serve as our next Wyrmskull Fighter!”

  The polite clap which followed these words faded into an awed hush as a mountain of a man strode through a gap in the fence. A shade over seven feet, Gorwain Hammerhill was half a head higher than the next tallest man in the village, and half-again wider than the next biggest. He wore a thigh-length jerkin fashioned from iron-studded leather plates, sewn into place like roof shingles, and gathered at the waste by an iron belt. On his head was wedged a steel cap like an inverted bucket, the face open to the world. By his bristled beard and receded hairline, he looked no younger than thirty, but in truth he was nineteen, and still growing. A spiked mace was his weapon of choice. This he now swung back and forth with an audible whoosh, apparently bored, as he halted just inside the Fighters’ torchlight and turned to face his father.