Dragonslayer Page 3

  * * *

  “Nashira!” It was rude to enter another dragon’s cave without permission, even if she was his aerie-mate. Alpheratz called again, but there was no answer. If she were sleeping, he would apologise for waking her, but he could wait no longer. Her cave was dark and damp. She had never been the tidiest, but it was unkempt even for her.

  “Nashira!” Alpheratz said again. Still no answer.

  He continued moving deeper into the cave. Entering her sleeping chamber without invitation was insult enough to fight over. Nashira would be within her rights to kill Alpheratz for such presumptuousness. He called out one last time, then walked into her sleeping chamber.

  She was there. A wave of despair washed over him. What was left of her was there. Alpheratz coughed in anguish. Her once beautiful golden scales were gone. The metal contained within them was considered even more valuable than that mined from the ground by the menfolk. Their mages used it in their magics. Nashira’s horns and fangs had been pulled from her skull; more ingredients for human potions. Bones were all that remained of her.

  Alpheratz thought he would be sick. There were scorch marks on the ceiling, all around. Hers and theirs. She had put up a hard fight. She would have. It was her character, and part of what he loved about her so much. His heart filled with rage and grief. She was the most beautiful of spirits, the most gentle of souls, and they had killed her.

  Her character was not the only reason she would have fought so hard. Half a dozen eggs were nestled in a nook at the back of the cave—all split open. One still had the handle of an axe sticking out of it. The pain felt like it would crush Alpheratz. His rage grew until he could find no clarity of thought. The eggs were destroyed. The eggs they had created together with so much love and care. All of their brood, murdered before they had the chance to crack the shells of their eggs.

  Alpheratz stumbled outside, overcome with grief. He was flying back to his cave before he knew what he was doing. He headed toward his deepest chamber, far within the mountain. It was the place where he hatched, where he could always find comfort. He thought back to what he remembered of the wars, trying to work out what might have happened.

  The first violence had occurred far to the south. A sacred place was violated, and the dragon tasked with its custody reacted in the only way he could. He slew the men who had done it.

  The men should have understood. They had broken the agreements and deserved the consequences. Events escalated from there. Men in shining armour travelled to the mountains to earn fame by slaying dragons. There had been glory in those battles, and Alpheratz had come to respect some of those men, brave despite the impossibility of the task they had set for themselves. Some were so skilled they had even managed to kill a dragon. It was honest battle, bravely fought. Little different than when two dragons came to blows.

  Then the mages came. They changed things. They always attacked in large numbers. They drew so hard on the Fount they could completely drain it, leaving the grass brown, the plants wilted, and any dragon unfortunate enough to be close severely weakened. They brought a different type of warrior with them: men touched by magic. Men who could do things, survive things, that no ordinary man should have been able to. That was when the tide had turned against dragonkind.

  When a dragon was weakened by magic, the new warriors could corner it and kill it. This was not a battle; it was slaughter. Murder. The men had been unlucky with Alpheratz, however. His mountain was one of the sacred places. It housed one of the ancient stones, the wells, where the Fount was so strong it could be seen with the naked eye. The mages had drawn on it so hard they had extinguished its ethereal blue glow. Even now, it remained shrouded in darkness. Draining it was something Alpheratz had not thought possible, and in his moment of distraction, the men had dealt him a great blow.

  The mages and their warriors had thought he was finished, and grew overconfident. What little Fount remained had restored enough of his strength for one more act. He had allowed them near enough to touch him. One had laid his hand flat on Alpheratz’s snout and told his comrades a joke. They had not laughed however—the punch line had coincided with the brazen one being swallowed by flame, something the others experienced moments later. The memory made Alpheratz smile, but did little to quell the sorrow in his heart or the rage boiling his blood.

  * * *

  Perched on a rocky outcrop, Alpheratz watched the valley intently. He had never paid much attention to men until they started hunting and killing dragonkind. Then he had done his best to stay away from them. Fighting had never interested him much—except to win Nashira’s affections—but now he could think of nothing else. They had murdered her. Murdered his young.

  A cluster of small buildings straddled a stream some way down the hill. Stone chimneys surrounded by golden thatch puffed smoke into the air. People had been wandering about earlier, but all seemed to be inside now. Contained. It would make what he planned all the easier.

  His muscles were still wasted and his flame glands were shrivelled. He didn’t have the strength to chase them or to blast flame about with abandon. In their tiny houses, they would be easy prey. He waited for the light to fade a little more, giving him greater advantage with his superior eyes, then stretched his wings, allowing them to bite into the air and carry him down to the village below.

  As he glided close, he squeezed his flame glands. At first, nothing happened. He worried that he had over-taxed them in the cavern. It took time for the glands to fill the bladders, but he had heard of those who had over-stressed their glands, damaging them beyond use. They had not lived long. There were only so many peaks where a dragon could dwell, and if you couldn’t defend yours, your life would be short.

  He breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the glands compress and tasted the welcome flavour of the fluids as they sprayed from his mouth and ignited on contact with the air. The thatched roofs were dry and caught quickly. In his first pass, he set light to every building in that small hamlet. The smell of the smoke and the sensation of the heat as he passed over a second time were a joy. The screams that followed were music to his ears. The screams had stopped by his third pass, but still he revelled in the flight, the flames, the fury. When finally he stopped spraying the hamlet with flame, little remained. The fire was so intense that the village burned to ash in only a few minutes.

  He landed to take a closer look at his work. It satisfied him deeply to see how easily man could be erased from the face of the land. In a single growing season, there would be nothing left to suggest people had lived here. Though it had been easier than he had expected, it had left him tired again. In his eagerness, he had reduced the animal pens to dust, and there was no nourishment to be had.

  He needed to rebuild his strength, to feed regularly. He took to the air once more, looking for food this time, rather than vengeance, though the latter was never far from his mind. Menfolk had ventured too far into dragon country. They had killed his aerie-mate and their brood. Men would ever be his enemy. They would suffer. They would burn. They would learn their place in the world and never dare to test their betters again. He would drive them back to their little island in the middle of the great sea with such prejudice that they would never dare set foot in these hallowed lands again.

  Alpheratz spotted a larger village in the distance, one with outlying farm buildings that would provide plenty to eat. He needed to be careful, though. A larger settlement might mean soldiers—perhaps magicians and their special warriors—and he was not yet ready to deal with that. He looked around again and saw a farm a distance away. Better. His target picked—a large barn that he hoped was filled with cattle or something else to sate his appetite—he swooped.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Gill was out of breath by the time he reached the farm, well behind Jacques. The boy’s father, Alain, worked a small patch of land tucked into a bend of the river that ran through the limestone valley that was the Seigneury of Villerauvais. Upstream of the village, it wa
s one of the most picturesque landholdings in Gill’s demesne, with a magnificent view of the village, the manor house, and the limestone crags, pastures, and lush green forests that surrounded them.

  Jacques’s agitation had grown as they had neared the farm, and Alain’s expression when they arrived at his small house confirmed Gill’s impression that something serious was afoot. It seemed odd that after so long undisturbed, two events coincided on the same day. The world could be an unpredictable place, he thought. Perhaps he was just unlucky?

  “Good afternoon, Alain,” Gill said.

  “Good afternoon, m’Lord.”

  Gill raised an eyebrow in surprise. Serious indeed, he thought. Other than dal Sason, he couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him “m’Lord.” “Your boy seemed rather in a state when he came to fetch me.”

  “Run on and help your mother, Jacques,” Alain said. He watched the boy run off before turning his attention back to Gill. “Something I need to show you.”

  Gill followed him along a dirt path between two small fields toward where Alain grazed his small herd of sheep. His curiosity grew with each step, and he was beginning to think that Lord Montpareil was not involved. In the centre of the pasture was a large, circular scorch mark, like the black stain left by bonfires on festival nights. Gill could see what looked like the charred remains of four, possibly five, sheep in the burnt patch.

  “A little overdone, I’d have said,” Gill said. He grimaced when Alain didn’t react to the attempt at humour, but considering half of his flock had been lost, that was not surprising.

  “Found them like that this morning,” Alain said, his eyes locked on the carcasses.

  Gill’s vassals rarely sought his help, and considering what Jeanne had said, he felt he at least had to appear to be making an effort. He knelt by the burnt patch and touched it with his fingertips.

  “Did you see anything?” Gill said.

  “Nothing.”

  The grass was burned to dust and there was little enough left of the sheep. It had been a hot fire, which would have needed lots of wood and taken some time to reach that temperature. It struck him as unlikely that Alain would not have noticed the effort required to create such a blaze. It was quiet there at night; you could hear the river and every insect. The fire could not have been built without making some noise, and that did not take into account rounding up and killing the sheep. Not to mention the fact that there didn’t seem to be any remnants of the fuel. No wood or coal.

  “Who’d do this?” Alain said.

  “Who indeed?” Guillot said. Coincidence and mystery, he thought. Montpareil, perhaps? But why? The Prince Bishop? He needed to have another chat with dal Sason.

  * * *

  Dal Sason was eating soup when Guillot walked into the tavern. Beside his bowl was a bottle of the wine Jeanne had sworn she did not have. Guillot cursed under his breath as he strode over. Dal Sason watched him approach, spoon paused mid-air, soup dripping back into the bowl.

  Guillot sat down at dal Sason’s table. “I’m having trouble with a coincidence.”

  “Really?”

  “You turn up the day after something very unusual happens on my land.”

  “What was that?” dal Sason said.

  “You tell me. Did you bring some soldiers with you? Hungry ones, perhaps? What’s going on?”

  “I came here alone,” dal Sason said. “As fast as my horse could carry me. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Guillot sat back and scrutinised him. He didn’t appear to be lying.

  “I was going to call on you again later,” dal Sason said. “I’m not one to run home a failure. The Prince Bishop was emphatic in wanting you back in the city.”

  “Why does he want me?”

  Dal Sason shrugged. “I’m only the messenger. I’m not privy to the reasoning behind my orders.”

  “You have no idea what the Prince Bishop, or the king, want of me?”

  “None.”

  Guillot swore. Jeanne humphed from behind the bar.

  “You’d be making my life a lot easier if you simply agree to come back to Mirabay with me.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I return alone, and who knows? Perhaps they’ll send a regiment to fetch you,” dal Sason said.

  “The Prince Bishop wants me to come back that badly?”

  “The king wants you to come back.”

  Guillot drummed his fingers on the table and studied dal Sason once more. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t know anything about the burned sheep.”

  Dal Sason frowned, looking confused. It was enough to be certain he had no idea what Guillot was talking about.

  “There’s no need to answer,” Guillot said. “There’s some trouble with one of my tenants, so it’s not a good time to be thinking of heading off on a jaunt. I don’t want to come back and find them all at war with one another. I’m sorry if breaking the bad news goes hard on you, but I’m not going back with you. Tell the Prince Bishop to send a regiment if he wants me that badly.”

  * * *

  Guillot woke to hammering on his door. He put on a robe and gathered up his sword. It occurred to him how quickly old habits returned as he reached the door. It was long after dawn, and the bright light hurt his eyes. He had fallen asleep on the couch, without a bottle, which was in danger of becoming the norm. Unfortunately, it felt as though he had been drinking—all the hangover, none of the fun. His head pounded and his body felt drained. All he wanted was to crawl into bed and sleep the day away. Or to lay hands on a bottle. Either would do. He opened the door, torn between feeling the need to be polite and welcoming and the desire to vent his foul humour.

  “I’m sorry for disturbing you so early, m’Lord,” the woman at the door said.

  Her name was Celeste, a farmer’s wife, although he struggled to remember exactly where their farm was. Somewhere down the valley? he thought. Guillot did a double take at once again being called “m’Lord.” Was it the sword?

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Philipe, my husband, sent me to fetch you. Our herd was attacked during the night.” If the farm was down the valley as he thought, it was as far from Alain’s as you could get while remaining on Guillot’s land.

  “Give me a moment,” he said. “I’ll come and take a look.”

  He went to his room and dressed quickly, then joined her. They walked side by side in uncomfortable silence, she no doubt unsure of how to make small talk with a nobleman, while he had no idea of how to make small talk with one of his vassals. They had not gone far before sweat beaded on his forehead, though it was not a hot day. His head throbbed and his stomach complained with all the characteristics of a hangover.

  They passed through the village and along the lane that led to the farms farther down the valley. Philipe waited for them by a large scorch mark in his pasture that looked very similar to the one in Alain’s. At its centre were the carcasses of two cows.

  Guillot’s stomach turned over, an odd feeling considering the air was filled with the delicious smell of freshly roasted beef. What had happened was not an isolated incident, and it stood to reason that it might happen again. Unless someone stopped it. That someone would have to be him. The thought made the throbbing in his head escalate to pounding. It was not proving to be a good day for sobriety.

  “Do you have any idea what happened?” Guillot said, not hopeful of getting anything useful from the farmer or his wife, who stood behind him.

  “I … I … I don’t know,” Philipe said.

  “Tell him,” Celeste said between her teeth.

  Guillot raised an eyebrow.

  “I was out in the yard last night taking a p—” His wife backhanded him across the arm. “I was out last night … doing my business,” Philipe said, “when there was this whistling noise. Not too loud, mind, just like a gust of wind. Then this great big ball of fire appears and smashes down into the pasture.”

  The local g
rapes might produce more bad bottles than the average, but that didn’t stop anyone from drinking it, least of all Guillot; so he was in no position to criticise, but his initial reaction was that Philipe had been in his cups the night before. There must have been something very wrong with Philipe’s bottle to cause that kind of hallucination, however.

  “You’re certain?” Guillot said. “A ball of fire?”

  Philipe nodded hesitantly.

  “That’s not all,” Celeste said. She nudged her husband.

  “After the fireball hit the ground, and my cattle, there was something else. A shadow. A great, dark shadow came down from the sky. It ate them.”

  Guillot frowned and turned back to the burnt remains. There was barely any meat left on the bones, as had been the case with Alain’s sheep, but Guillot had assumed there that the flesh had been burned away and hadn’t investigated further. He walked up to these remains and gave them a proper look. Here and there he could see white, rather than burnt black, bone. The pale patches looked as though they had been hit with a large, heavy blade. An axe, or a great sword, perhaps. The rapier strapped to his waist could not have caused marks like them. What kind of animal could leave a mark like that?

  He shook his head. The answer had to be far simpler: the Prince Bishop was toying with him. He must already have men in the area, and soldiers needed to be fed. He had sent men to wreak havoc on Guillot’s demesne to convince him to agree to whatever he wanted from Guillot. It was infuriating, but there was little Guillot could do. The further he had fallen, the higher the Prince Bishop had risen. Guillot could raise his levies and patrol the farms at night, but they would need weeks of training to stand a chance against soldiers, and like as not his force would only arrive after an attack had occurred.

  The Prince Bishop knew all that, of course. It was galling to know the man could still reach out from Mirabay and play with Guillot’s life. Perhaps Guillot was being too sensitive—after all, it had been many years since he had left Mirabay and he had not spoken with the old king since the day he’d left, nor the new one. He had no influence, no career, no fame. What did he have that might make the Prince Bishop jealous? Could the man’s old hatred still burn so deeply?