The White Dragon (7 page)

“Why so long?” Kirost asked from where he stood next to the mage.

“It appears to be their custom,” the man answered. “Do you want me to dispatch the judge?”

“No,” Amora said. “The justiciars of Ulatha are another matter. They will soon find an end to their days, but before then, we must prepare to have the Highstone cut off in order for the High-Mage to complete his plans.

“As you command,” the man said, eying both Kesh warily.

“Balaria still stands with Kesh, does it not, Zokar?” Kirost said, noting the gaze that the assassin gave.

“Of course,” the man said simply.

“Is Belost ready?” Amora asked, ignoring the banter between his subordinates.

“He is,” Zokar said. “Do you have a new raid for him planned?”

“Not at the moment,” Amora continued. “The draconus has been awakened, and we only need to lead it to do our bidding. Belost and his men will be our insurance in case our plans are interrupted.”

Kirost snorted, disgust evident in his action. “That fool couldn’t interfere with our plans if he tried.”

“Quite right,” Amora said, looking past Zokar and toward the center of Moartown where the Peak Inn was located. “It is not the mercenary with whom I am concerned. The meddling historian is here.”

Kirost looked at his master intently. “He should be dead by now.”

“Should be, yet if Zokar’s report is accurate, then the man has found himself all the way out here in this backwater town where someone of his stature should not be.” Amora shifted his staff to his left hand and stroked his long grey beard with his right, never taking his eyes off the inn far in the distance.

After a few moments of silence, the assassin asked, “Do you want me to kill the historian, then?”

Amora didn’t answer right away, instead pondering the manner in which he would handle the troublesome record keeper. Still stroking his beard, he addressed the assassin. “Yes, but not yet and not here. We must wait for the man to be alone and vulnerable. He has had far too many escapes from our designs, and it is not all coincidence.”

“So then what?” Kirost asked, also looking past the Balarian at the town.

Amora finally stopped stroking his beard and then looked at the wizard. “We wait and follow.”

Zokar nodded and replaced his hood over his face. The twin sisters, Sara and Tira, were climbing into the night sky from the eastern horizon to dance their way across the heavens before fleeing the wrath of the dragon’s fire as it rose to herald the start of a new day. Seeing that the Kesh were done with him, the man turned and walked back to town.

He had news to report, and if the Kesh became aware of his true allegiance, he would face a fate worse than death.

The festivities were intense despite the poor mood of the town. Two caravans had arrived in Moartown, one from Ulatha headed north toward Rigal, the capital of the northern realm of Rigis, and another returning from the same place. The northern realm was deep in war with the northern clans that had somehow convened to attack it in force. The conflux of two large wagon trains meant that the inns and taverns were busier than normal, and many townsfolk congregated to hear stories by the travelers, which was basically a rudimentary form of news gathering by the town.

Of course, the other talk of the town that night was the status of Eric Bain and the trial against the mercenary. These were played out in the three major meeting places, and it was no different at Peak’s.

“You sure you want to be here?” Lucius asked his companion. “We need to leave early in the morning if we are going to make it to . . .”

Eric looked at the man and then to his companions sitting at the table that they occupied in a dark corner of the establishment. One of the perks to having the owner’s sense of guilt over what happened was that Frankel reserved them the best table for watching the guests of the establishment without being too overt doing so.

“Yeah,” Mary said before Eric could answer. “The last three company leaders were so rude to you.”

“News travels quickly,” Eric said, picking up his tankard of pale ale and taking a long swig of it before setting it down and wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

“Use this.” Mary offered a linen cloth from the table.

“Shouldn’t you be working or something?” Eric asked her, pushing the napkin away.

“You don’t need to be rude to me just because your old friends were rude to you,” Mary said, sounding hurt.

“They were never really friends,” Lucius said, looking around and sipping his glass of wine, preferring a finer taste for his palate.

“So how long will you sit here and mope?” Mary asked, picking up a piece of bread, and using her knife, she began to butter it, taking dainty bites as she looked over the crowded floor of her workplace.

“I’m not moping,” Eric stated. “Also, I’m sorry. That was rude of me to say, but I’m at my wits end understanding why my peers are ostracizing me. Surely they can’t believe the magistrate charges, can they?”

“I’m afraid so,” Lucius said, eying a table warily. “You’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll see if I can secure some funds for us to use.”

Lucius stood and walked over to a table near the middle of the room where a group of travelers, not so wise as to the influential people in Moartown, were engaging in a game of chance. Lucius talked to a couple of them and laughed, acting somewhat intoxicated, and then sat down as a man at the table pulled up a chair, offering it to him.

“What is he doing?” Diamedes asked.

“Making money,” both Mary and Eric said, having seen the scene repeated dozens of times.

“I don’t understand,” Diamedes asked, watching the scene intently.

“You don’t think they call him
Lucky
for nothing, do you?” Eric asked, picking up his tankard and repeating his drinking ritual.

“He’ll drink and act goofy and then win just enough to make him seem lucky, promising to return to gamble some more after excusing himself from the table to take care of personal business,” Mary explained.

“You seem most detailed in your analysis,” Diamedes noted. “You’ve not only seen this before, but you’ve assisted him, correct?”

Mary and Eric looked at the historian with raised eyebrows, but Mary answered truthfully. “Well, yes, I simply would interrupt when he signaled, giving a compelling reason why he was needed elsewhere.”

Eric laughed and Mary winked. Diamedes pressed on. “Reason?”

“The one they use the most is that Lucky is a doctor and a house call requires his immediate attention.” Eric reached for the cloth in a gesture to make up to Mary for his rudeness earlier.

“Ah, I see,” Diamedes said. “A truly enterprising operation you have going here.”

Mary smiled. “Well, I don’t actually get paid for my services, but Lucky tips me well for my service when I’m tending in the common room.”

“Quite right,” Diamedes said, looking past the room at the front door. “Speaking of luck, I think ours has turned a bit for the better.”

Eric and Mary followed the historian’s gaze to the front doors, and there could be no missing what they were looking at. There, at the front doors, having just entered, stood one of the largest warriors they had ever seen. The person towered over the rest of the people in the room, clad in a shiny plate mail breastplate, a huge broadsword attached to a massive belt that held all manner of weapons, pouches, and bags.

Long blonde hair flowed around the warrior’s head, looking like a sheet of golden rain. Immense gloved hands with polished silver bracers from wrist to elbow hinted at the power of the warrior’s massive arms. The white cloak was trimmed in gold tassels and indicated wealth and prestige. Indeed, several people coming and going had to take wide steps to move around the huge figure standing in the middle of the doorway, looking for something.

Diamedes stood on his chair and waved his hands, but it wasn’t needed. Most of the room’s attention was on the new arrival, who seemed to sense the small historian and looked over at them with bright blue eyes that seemed to dance and glitter in the dimmer light of the tavern. Without hesitation, the warrior walked past the many chairs and tables, and mostly everyone scurried to get out of the way.

The warrior reached their table and stood, planting both legs firmly, hands placed on hips, eyes moving across them as if sizing them up instantly. Eric had never seen such a fighter before in all of his life, and the emblem etched on the breastplate said everything he needed to know. The gold inlaid carving of a huge gauntleted fist was plainly evident.

“A Fist of Astor,” Eric said, standing and giving the holy warrior a nod.

“Not
a
Fist,” Diamedes corrected, remaining on his chair, as it brought him eye to eye with the warrior woman. “
The
Fist.” The historian smiled.

“You may address me as Alexi.” The Fist of Astor had introduced herself to the group. Eric was still trying to digest what had transpired, but all he had to do was listen to their conversation as they rode toward the town of Razor Rock.

“You still vex me, Master Diamedes,” the Fist said, riding to the historian’s side behind Eric and Lucius. Mary remained in Moartown to gather supplies and keep an eye on the town gossip in case anything of note came up, a side benefit of serving tables at a busy inn.

“How so, Fist Alexi?” Diamedes asked formally.

“Only one as impertinent as you could defy the king’s orders.” She looked at him intently.

“You said it was a request,” Diamedes answered, smiling at the tall warrior woman.

“I said that the king requested your presence immediately. The
request
was me being polite.”

“Then you should have been rude.” The historian winked at Alexi, which did little to dispel her foul mood. “One small matter to take care of here, and then I promise I’ll accompany you to Tyniria.”

“I should take you by force, if my honor allowed me to do so.”

“You could have waited for me in Moartown, or Ulan Utandra, if you didn’t want to accompany me.”

Alexi sighed. “I must have offended the Mother one time too many. You expect me to allow you to travel out here without proper escort after being charged by my order and the king himself to protect you?”

“Most kind of you, so you spend a few days on an adventure. I’m sure city life was getting boring for you.” Diamedes continued to smile. Eric and Lucius often looked back to observe the two, only occasionally getting a scowl from Alexi. This time was different, though.

“I don’t know this Eric fellow you are trying to help. He looks like a mercenary.” The Fist turned her attention to Eric.

Eric slowed his mount so that he could see her better. “I am a mercenary, and I didn’t ask for your help.”

“No, but you’ll take advantage of the king’s historian.” Her scowl seemed permanent today.

“That’s not really fair. The historian came to me and offered his assistance. I didn’t ask him for help.” Eric returned the sour look.

“True,” Diamedes said, nodding and riding between the two larger fighters.

“Your sword is still welcome, if you’re willing to assist us,” Lucius said, nodding as he slowed to ride to her right, and Eric was on the far left.

“Ever the politician,” Eric said, looking at Lucius and giving his associate a smile.

“You wound me, Eric, and don’t think for one moment that I approve of you asking Gabrielle to get involved. Putting my daughter’s life in danger is not something I’m willing to do.”

“Good thing she doesn’t answer to you, then,” Eric said, his expression turning serious. “Come on, Lucius, you know what we’re up against, and she is one of the best warriors this side of the Felsics.”

“What you’re up against?” Lucius softened his tone a bit, but only a bit. “I don’t want to see you come to an ignominious end, but this is going too far.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I had any other choice,” Eric said, looking forward.

“Then what do you call her?” Lucius nodded at Alexi, who returned the look.

Eric didn’t answer, and the Fist seemed to want one. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Diamedes chimed in, feeling at least somewhat responsible for the current situation. “Fist Alexi, please, your presence is most comforting and reassuring to all of us. Don’t think of this as a fool’s errand for a senile old man. Instead, try to understand that my research has far reaching consequences, and if I can prove not only the existence of the dragons but their activity cycle, then we can alert the realms of Agon to better prepare.”

“You’re still working that angle?” Alexi asked.

“It’s not an angle. War is coming,” Diamedes said.

“War is here,” Eric said. “The north fights even now.”

“Mother help me,” Alexi said, letting a long breath of air out in exasperation. “That scuffle in the Savage Lands could hardly be called a war.”

“It’s important enough for Duke Uthor to send nearly half his army there,” Diamedes said.

Fist Alexi couldn’t impunge the reputation of the duke of Ulatha. The man was more than honorable, a fact that could not be said about half of the rulers in the central realms. The Fist let it go, and the group rode in silence until they reached a simple inn with perhaps a dozen homes around it. A waystop on the northern road to Rigis.

The group spent an uneventful night, retiring early and departing early in order to arrive well before sundown at Razor Rock. There was only one inn located there as well, and both Lucius and Eric informed the nobles that if Gabrielle was in a foul mood, there’d be no sleeping at that inn and they would have to ride back to the inn that they just stayed at.

Armed with that information, they rode hard the next day instead of riding at a normal pace, not eager to camp in the open. The road was, at times, dangerous with robbers, raiders, and thieves looking for easy marks. The heavily armed Fist, along with the competent-looking mercenary, was enough to dissuade any foolhardiness, though the group wasn’t going to look for trouble.

The horses were lathered heavily from their exertions, and they arrived at the town not long after midday. Town was rather generous, as there was a single inn, much like the one they had stayed at the night before, and several homes clustered together for safety. The group found a makeshift stable hand who offered to take their horses for care and feeding. The stable boy called for help, not expecting travelers during the middle of the day.

“See to it that they are watered first,” Alexi instructed the stable boys.

The four stood outside the inn, looking at each other. It was obvious that Eric didn’t want to go in first, but Lucius wouldn’t let him off the hook. “Go on,” he said.

“This is starting to seem like a bad idea,” Eric said.

“Yesterday you were insisting on asking my daughter for help.” Lucius put his hands on his hips and stared at his associate.

“I still intend to do so, but I thought . . .” Eric let the words die on his lips.

Lucius held up a finger and wagged it at the mercenary. “Oh no, don’t you dare pull that on me. You’re a big boy; go on in before I have the Fist do it for you.”

“What?” Alexi started, but Eric cut her off.

“He’s joking.” Eric sighed, put his hand on the comforting hilt of his dagger tucked under his belt and tunic, and walked through the swinging double doors into the inn and tavern.

“Does that say what I think it does?” Alexi asked, looking at the crude sign above the doors.

Diamedes looked at the sign, reading, “The Huntless, Eric’s Bane.”

“Married?” she asked.

“Was,” Lucius clarified.

“That doesn’t bode well,” Diamedes said, still looking at the sign.

“No, it doesn’t,” Fist Alexi said. “We best be getting in there before—”

“Too late,” Lucius said, cringing at the noise coming from within the building.

The sounds of wooden furniture being overturned and pottery being smashed against something hard assaulted their ears. Without hesitation, they ran in, expecting the worst. That was about right.

Eric was ducking as ceramic mugs and pitchers were hurled at him by a middle-aged woman, small in stature but with lightning-quick reflexes. “I warned you never to come here again,” she all but yelled at him.

With a speed that belied her age, she grabbed a long, heavy wooden club that she appeared proficient at using, and jumped over the bar, running at Eric, closing the gap between them in a second. Eric did the only thing his instincts would allow him to do; he drew his sword and parried her first blow, retreating as he fought.

“One moment, please, Gabby.” Eric made his second mistake, the first being to step foot into her establishment.

Gabrielle paused for a moment, shock, surprise, and anger crossing her face. “You dare to Gabby me!” Another series of blows had Eric backpedaling until he was almost back at the front door, and that was when a huge broadsword took over, stopping a club blow up high before it could land on Eric.

“You dare?” Gabrielle addressed Alexi as her anger was redirected.

“Honey, please, put your weapon down,” Lucius pleaded.

“Father?” Gabrielle asked, looking past the two tall fighters and seeing him for the first time. “What in the name of the Nine are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story. Can’t we discuss this in a more civilized manner?” Lucius asked.

Gabrielle narrowed her eyes and then focused her attention back on the huge Fist of Astor that had interrupted her attack. Pulling her club back, she jabbed it quickly into Alexi’s breastplate, knocking the air out of the holy warrior, and the broadsword came swinging down to whack the club when the smaller female pulled it back lightning fast, redirecting it at Alexi’s head.

The club tapped the Fist on the ear, and Gabrielle shouted in triumph. “Ha! You’d be dead if this were an actual blade, warrior woman.”

Alexi didn’t seem accustomed to being treated in such a manner, and with a huge swing, she brought the broadsword down on the offending club. Gabrielle was quick, but not enough, and the sword hacked the club in half. So forceful was the swing that the tip dug into the floor of the tavern and required the Fist to use her boot to free it from the wood. “Blade, indeed.”

“Hey,” Gabrielle said, offended at the stroke. “That was my best club you just destroyed.”

“Next time choose wiser when deciding against whom to wield it,” Alexi shot back.

“Please.” Diamedes stepped in between the two women, resulting in his desired effect. The small old man always seemed non-threatening, and his intervention often brought about a sort of truce between fighting parties. “May we visit for a moment, Lady Gabrielle?”

Gabby eyed the man warily and huffed at the Fist while throwing the handle of her club on the floor, no longer useful to her. After a few seconds of silence, Gabby motioned to a large table in the middle of the room.

There was no discussion as the group went to the table and seated themselves. The common room was empty, and it was early yet for travelers or visitors. Gabrielle started to mutter to herself and disappeared in the back, letting her hair down in the process and wiping her hands on a rag, which she threw in their direction when she had finished.

“Well, that could have gone better,” Diamedes said, taking a deep breath and smoothing his clothing from the long, fast ride.

“Actually, it went better than I had thought,” Lucius said, looking warily at the kitchen door. A couple of servants ducked back when they saw that they had been spotted.

“You were married to . . . her?” Alexi asked, also looking in the direction of the kitchen.

“Yes,” Eric said, not looking at the door despite the fact that all four of them sat on the side opposite the kitchen. No one wanted to put their back toward the innkeeper.

“That’s my daughter you’re talking about.” Lucius sounded hurt.

“She didn’t seem too . . . affectionate,” Diamedes pointed out as diplomatically as he could.

Lucius nodded, understanding the historian’s reasoning. “She blames me for taking Eric’s side.”

“Ah, I see,” Diamedes said.

Lucius felt he had to clarify while Eric pulled smashed pottery from his hair. “After the breakup, I still had a living to make and a business to run. I kept my position as the administrator of our mercenary group, and, well, she has never really forgiven me for that.”

Alexi had sheathed her sword. Eric had not. His sword leaned against the table in close range of his fighting hand. The Fist leaned in close, whispering, “So she blames you for maintaining ties with the mercenary?”

“My name is Eric.”

“Yes,” Lucius said, continuing to tap his fingers on the table.

“I sense we are missing something else,” Diamedes remarked.

Both Eric and Lucius looked at the historian, a faint hint of surprise crossing their faces. “You’re very observant, Master Diamedes.”