Curse of the Dragon Kings

  The music of the tavern, soft and low, picked up in pace. Dylan felt sweat prick against his skin and took another draught of cooling ale.

  Thoughts of his older brother Nolan cycled through his mind.

  His mind took him back to the last time he had been practicing with the palace guard of Dunlaith. Nolan had appeared on the parapet overlooking the palace courtyard in the clear cold of a winter afternoon. Dylan was engaged in a mock-battle against the King's captain, a great warrior called Brastigus. It was Brastigus who had taught Dylan the art of swordplay, and Brastigus he always recalled with no small measure of affection, respect, and humor. It was not an easy friendship to start. On occasion, memories of the early trials of his training could draw a buried strain of laughter from Dylan.

  The laughter that afternoon had been Nolan’s. Nolan suffered from a perpetual ill humor no priest could cure. Nolan’s dry, corn-colored hair reminded Dylan of the fields east of the city.

  "Your tail is on fire, whelp!" Nolan called below, snickering derisively. His attempt was to humiliate, and it was not lost on his brother.

  Dylan whirled around. As he did, Brastigus scored a mock-fatal blow.

  But it was of little matter. Dylan’s pants were indeed ablaze!

  Dylan’s heart raced as he dropped his wooden sword and attempted to slap out the flames with his cloak.

  His cloak passed through the flames with no effort. The flames were only an illusion.

  "Your brother could learn to occupy his time better," Brastigus said. Nolan gave a low, perverse kind of laugh, exposing the cruel bent to his nature.

  Nolan shuffled further along the wall, his laughter long and protracted, like an onerous wind wailing intermittently.

  “I would not say it to another, but your father might have disciplined him better.”

  “Ah, but Nolan is very careful never to let father see anything but an illusion of perfect obedience.”

  “His magic is a rare gift. Would that he was worthy of it.” Brastigus said.

  “Come, let us not let talk of your brother waste the afternoon. Keep up your spirits, he will do it again, you can be sure. One day your father will see his beloved’s true nature.”

  "Your faith will have to do for both of us.”

  “Heaven help him the day he runs into an adversary immune to his illusions.”

  Dylan and Brastigus resumed sparring for several hours. When the sun hung low, Dylan returned to the palace for a hot bath.

  “I am pleased to see my brother no longer weeps like a milk-sop when others attempt to draw him from his surly humor.” Nolan said, appearing from behind a column. His timing cleared away any doubt that he had been skulking around the southern wall of the palace near the sparring field, waiting for Dylan to return.

  “I am in no mood for another battle.” Dylan said peaceably.

  “I said nothing to incite one.” Nolan returned, his eyes narrowed. His gaze was passively hostile, as always.

  “Then by all means let me pass. I am anxious for a quiet evening and some rest. Brastigus has been merciless this afternoon.”

  Nolan seemed to catch hold of the last few words, and they added fuel to his malice.

  “All the better. If a man has no other talent, he is always wanted on the watch.” Nolan said. “It is the best place for a man who cannot keep an eye attuned farther afield into the doings of the world.”

  “Have you developed an eye for divination as well, brother?” Dylan asked. “You see our enemies and their kingdoms massing for war against us? You will save father the expense of entreating the services of the wizard Myrddin, when he can afford them.” Dylan made a small, curt bow, more elaborate than necessary. His eyes flashed with false deference.

  The act was not lost on Nolan.

  “You flaunt your ignorance when you attempt to be clever, brother.” Nolan laughed. “But your mother was nothing more than a palace whore, and what can one expect from a peasant’s son?”

  “And where is your mother since our father married mine?” Dylan threw back.

  Nolan’s face blazed red hot.

  “You beast! I will make you squirm!”

  Before Dylan could even lay hand to his practice blade, Nolan's image multiplied tenfold.

  A small fireball hurled toward Dylan, and he quickly stepped aside to avoid it. He felt the heat in the air and knew that this one was real. It was the one skill Nolan had with real magic. Nolan could cast fire. His fire-casting ability was the backbone of a frail body and mean character that sought to belittle others by intimidation.

  Dylan lunged forward, testing an illusional Nolan with the dull blade of his sword.

  He began to lose his already waning strength as he moved from one illusion to another and tested them. The images continued to multiply, reappearing in place of the ones he had ruptured. Nolan showed no signs of slowing down. Nor did his tenfold Nolan companions.

  After several moments, Dylan collapsed to the floor, his chest heaving heavily. As he fell, he caught the tail of a small fire that singed the edge of his burgundy tunic.

  The many Nolans diminished to one. Nolan stood in triumph over Dylan, ridiculing him with a long, malicious laugh.

  “As one would expect from the pathetic spawn of a palace whore." Nolan said cruelly.

  Dylan felt his cheeks stinging with wounded pride. It was surprising that defeat still hurt, even after so many times. Dylan’s sword was useless against magic. It gave Nolan the unquestionable advantage.

  Nolan stepped over his brother, retreating into the shadows until his odious laughter finally faded away.

  In the present, Dylan fingered the frayed edge of his tunic where Nolan’s fire had burned him. It was a gesture that, surprisingly, afforded him great resolve in moments of doubt.

  That evening, Dylan had left Dunlaith. Six years he had traveled western Daegoras, and he was now twenty-five years old. The years in between had not been kind.

  Culan's approach made Dylan look up. He set his ale down.

  "That horse has served you well these long years.” Culan said softly. “He’s as sound as the day we left Dunlaith.”

  “I would rather not speak further on this,” Dylan said, without admonishment.

  “Then, shall we look for lodgings for the evening? I kept enough back when I saw you heading into peril, master.”

  Dylan laughed. “You were wiser than I. But I didn’t wager everything. I could hardly tempt the old cheat with a handful of copper coins.” His shoulders at last began to sag with fatigue.

  “You haven’t had much luck, master, but that can turn around. Give it another day. I hate to see you gambling away your future in a place such as this." He passed over five gold coins.

  "Perhaps you are right. Let us go. It will be an even brighter tomorrow, I hear.”

  “We might try heading south.” Culan suggested.

  "I'm not going home." Dylan said, rising quickly.

  II: Elf?

  "At long last. I have never been so glad to see the city!" Mygdewyn the dwarf declared, surveying the horizon.

  From the summit of a large hill, he could see the city of Gyfen stretched before them, nestled comfortably in a large valley, where the rivers from the north fed into the River Gyfen.

  Mygdewyn and his companion, Ronan, whom, by a strange chance, was also called Rodruban, had traveled many long months through the southern fields and mountains of western Daegoras, one of the continents of the world of Arcaendria.

  “Well, my friend, shall we have a hot bath and a warm meal?” Ronan suggested with a laugh, clasping the stout dwarf on the shoulder. Like all dwarves, Mygdewyn was the height of a human youth, but much stockier.

  The stone walls of the city rose high above the outlying buildings that had grown around the great city.

  Ronan began to f
alter. His reserve energy was dwindling, despite his brightness of mood. When their supply of food ran out on the rolling fields of Tindor, Ronan had braved a spell of conjuring, one of the most dangerous of natural magic spells. For, to produce food from nothing but dried grass and brush drained away the life and spirit of the conjuror. Facing the certain starvation of both himself and his companion, Ronan had nonetheless cast this rare, ancient spell of the Elven priests of the Summer Isle. It was a spell that turned the grasses of the field into a rough bread.

  In desperation, Ronan was forced to cast his spell. There had been no sign of any other friendly habitation on the rolling plains, no one from whom to call for aid. Ordinarily, they would not have needed any food on the long journey; but their rations of hard bread had been stolen by a nomadic band of brigands on horse-back, who had demanded as tribute for safe passage all of their possessions. It was only luck that the brigands had no use for the dwarf’s small ax nor the elf’s walking staff.

  “We’ll see my uncle Nieli about supplies and assistance.”

  “He doesn’t much care for visitors, Mygdewyn. Perhaps we can find our own arrangements?”

  “I should hardly think Nieli would turn away his own kin. Let us pay him a visit, and then find lodgings elsewhere. We can look into some lasting work in the morning.”

  “Agreed. We shall turn our fortunes around tomorrow.”

  * * * * *

  "Do I have to fetch water for myself?" Lilia Silversmith shrilled, her voice a hoarse crack. A show of her hot temper seemed imminent. Her eyes and nostrils flared with a dangerous fury. Then, just as she sat poised on the edge of releasing a conflagration of fire, the door of the Pegasus let in a cascade of bright sunshine. Lilia gave a little shriek and averted her eyes until the light diminished. She was momentarily blinded.

  A few of the patrons laughed. Lilia calmed down slightly as her vision returned. A tall, dark-eyed warrior was moving towards one of the nearer tables, his aged man-servant in tow.

  Gil came running from the kitchens with a pint in hand to serve the belligerent patron he could only barely hear from behind the kitchen fires.

  "Not ale, you idiot—water!" The young woman croaked.

  Gil stared at her. Her hair was a long, green-tinged black, and her eyes were a huge, luminous green. Her skin was the pale green of a lilypad. Her face was lovely, so lovely he caught himself. It seemed strange that she would have been the one with such a grating voice.

  Gil filled a mug from a pitcher obligingly, then set it down in front of her.

  Lilia grasped the water feverishly, and drank it down quickly. She wiped the sides of her mouth in relish, then put the empty vessel down on the table, inclining her chin so that he would fill it again.

  "Much better," she said after a moment, and this time her voice was clear and smooth as honey. "Thank you, boy," she said gracefully, as prideful as a princess. She tossed him two copper coins and smiled.

  "What are you?" He asked, his eyes wide.

  "I'm a Sea Elf.”

  "Then I apologize for any discomfort you had waiting. I didn’t hear you until just now," Gil said.

  “No harm done,” said the young woman, gracious now.

  “I’ve never met one of the sea folk before.” Gil said, thinking out loud.

  “I’ve never met you, before, either,” said the woman.

  “Name’s Gil.”

  “Lilia Silversmith. Pleased to meet you.” Said the woman.

  “I’ll try to keep fresh water coming for you,” Gil said amenably, remarking at her fine manners now that she was being served. “It’s just—you see we are short of servants here.” He explained. “The maids are all upstairs putting fresh linens on the beds. You… forgive me, but you picked a terrible time to visit the city. For a Sea Elf, I mean. Gyfen has been affected by a dry spell for several months now.”

  “I am beginning to agree with you,” said Lilia, “but I had little choice.” She did not elaborate.

  Gil smiled, wondering what she meant. Land-dwelling Sea Elves lived in the western coastal city of Windfall, and not for very long. Rumor had it that the Sea Elves had built a great city under water in the Bay of Windfall, and they usually ventured onto land only to sell wares. The Sea Elves on land were in general a mercantile group, and many of the rare treasures of the eastern kingdoms of the country of Daegoras originated from under the sea.

  Travelers' tales circulated regarding the goings and comings of the strange sea folk. It was told that they ate little but needed a lot of water to survive. Gil had not believed the stories before. A few years back, a Herbroath trader had told Gil that there was a settlement of land-dwelling Sea Elves far to the north, in the icy waters of the Hibernian Sea. And there they kept to themselves, mostly, trading but a little with the humans who lived further south. The Sea Elves had no troubles with extreme cold or wet.

  Their trouble came venturing too far onto dry land. Gil had heard that there was nothing worse that a Sea Elf temper when he found himself burning alive in bright sunlight or dry weather. That was why the sea folk were rarely seen in Gyfen or the kingdoms of southern Daegoras.

  Gil stared at Lilia’s raven black hair. His brows drew together for just a moment. He had an unsettling thought that there was something he should be remembering.

  Lilia caught on to his questioning gaze far quicker than she might.

  "Actually, I'm not a Sea Elf. Just half," she admitted.

  “I didn’t think there was such a thing,” said Gil.

  “Oh, there is. But I think I am the only one. Or, maybe there are a few more, I don’t know.” She bit her lip and hesitated. “You wouldn’t find a Sea Elf in Gyfen in this weather, but I can just manage it,” she laughed unhappily.

  Gil scratched behind his left ear.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Fresh fruit if you've got any, and if not, bread and cheese. I can tolerate a little.”

  Gil hurried away, returning with a platter from the kitchen and another pitcher of water.

  All at once, Marnat stormed in the front of the inn.

  “Gil!” he shouted. “Where are you, boy?”

  Gil’s whole body tensed where he was serving Lilia. His smile vanished.

  Lilia’s eyes narrowed on the florid Innkeeper, who had just caught sight of Gil.

  “Get out there and clean those stables. We have important guests tonight—a train of nobles from Rostend.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gil said quickly, hurrying so fast to comply that his flight to the door seemed clumsy.

  Watching, Lilia’s eyes narrowed on the Innkeeper.

  * * * * *

  “You boy Sal sweet on Wattle’s daughter, Old Niel?” said Ferias the Blacksmith with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Gil had finished his evening chore. Darkness had settled over the city by the time he finished lining the stalls with fresh hay. A large group of local craftsmen had gathered in the Pegasus to enjoy the cool evening in pleasant company.

  “I hadn’t heard about it,” said Niel, the local carpenter. “Why?” Niel took a long, appreciative drink of ale. After a long moment, he brought down his mug hard against the wooden bar with an audible thud. Niel was strong from years of carpentry, and far less careful than he was in his shop. Drops of ale glistened on his red mustache. Ferias waited, a sly smile on his lips.

  “Cause yer lad’s been seen with young Viola, I hear.”

  Niel spewed some ale while the company made sounds of interest. “Well I never! The rascal never told me a word,” Niel exclaimed in surprise and puffed up with a father’s pride at a moment’s notice.

  “He is a fine-looking lad.” Said Ferias generously.

  “Takes after his father.” Nodded Niel proudly. “When did you hear such things, there, eh Ferias?”

  “At Wattle’s yesterday, trying to
see if he’ll sell some of my work in his shop,” replied Ferias.

  “You won’t get him to take your old iron in all that finery, Ferias!” one of the local tailors teased.

  “And I say I will!” he returned. “Anyway, I heard young Viola’s been raked over the coals for staying out late a few evenings.”

  “Them two ain’t been getting into any trouble, there—” Niel began in concern, but hesitant to speak on the subject of wooing and young people’s misadventures in love.

  “No, but you won’t hear the old merchant singing Sal’s praises, to be sure.” Ferias said. “Fancies himself a cut above the likes of us. I reckon they’ll be keeping Viola indoors as much as they can from now on.”

  "Say there, Niel, how long yer boy been apprenticed?” Asked Harfen the trader.

  “Oh, well nigh on six years. Round at old Pemble’s. Saved him from a life of building houses I did!”

  "What they teachin’ him now, Niel?” one of the local farmers asked.

  “Lord if I know!” Niel laughed. “’Bout herbs and weeds mostly. Lore of the land and what have you.” He added. “It’s a rare thing to be blessed with true magic.”

  "And a good thing, too, or he’d be in a fair heap of trouble.” Ferias said.

  “Who says he won’t be if he keeps sweet-talking merchant’s daughters!” one of the weavers exclaimed.

  “Another round, Gil!" Ferias called cheerfully to Gil, catching sight of him near the tap.

  Gil leaned in to whisper to Niel, drawing one hand over his face. “How many has he had?” he asked in good spirits.

  “It’s all right, there Gil. I’m looking after him.” Returned Niel pleasantly.

  “A pint of the best, then.” Gil went to the best tap and returned with a pint brimming over.

  “Ah, thank you there, Gil lad. Aye, you are a good lad, aren’t you, boy? Take a copper for yerself,” said Niel kindly. “And don’t you be telling old Marnat I gave you any.”

  “No sir,” said Gil earnestly. “Where is Marnat?” he whispered in a low voice.

  “In the kitchens, haggling with some elf from the south by the looks of him. Keeping company with a dwarf, stranger and stranger. We didn’t ask no questions. They’re from away.”