The Chronicles of Dragon Collection (Series 1 Omnibus, Books 1-10) (4 page)

CHAPTER 7

There was music, hollering, and tale telling inside, and I liked that. Mostly men of questionable pedigrees, long gazes, and hard faces. The smell of roasted pheasant filled the air, and I was ready to eat. Brenwar pushed his way past me and saddled up to the bar.

“Ye got dwarven ale?” he asked a tall, bald man wearing a black apron.

I took a seat alongside him, paying no attention to the stares glaring on my back. This city was used to travelers of all sorts coming and going all times of the night, but this place was one of those that kept close to its own.

“The same for me and two full pheasants, not charred, either.” The two coins that I plunked on the table widened the barkeep's restless eyes. “And your undivided attention when I ask.”

The barkeep slipped away, a small woman appearing moments later with two tankards of frothing ale as big as her head. Brenwar gulped his down in several large swallows, let out a tremendous belch, and looked at me.

“You can have mine,” I said, turning my attention away from the bar and toward all the people inside.

Two men, one a bald giant, another part orc, each laden in muscle, arm wrestled over the wiles of a dainty girl with a look of trouble in her eye. A coarse group of men and women sat at a long table near the stone fireplace in the back, the adventuring sort, somewhat like me, some of them casting nervous glances over their shoulders.

An elven man wearing light-purple garb and long, pale-green hair sulked in the corner and played a black lute of many strings for a small group of swooning women. His music was wonderful and strong. All in all, the tavern, a roomy little hole, was nothing compared to so many other taverns that tended to be much larger and more occupied. Still, it offered what I’d been looking for: trouble.

Three orcs sat in the back, beady eyes glancing my way and back. Another man, long and gaunt, sat huddled in the corner fingering a blade, his tongue licking his lips as he gazed at me like some kind of meal.

At one end of the bar was a fair-haired woman, a long sword strapped on her full hips, her tongue as coarse as that of the hulking man she accompanied, the one who had sneered at me earlier. I wasn’t so sure they presented the kind of trouble I was looking for, but they were trouble. The kind that conspire and thieve. Rob graveyards, fight fiends and ghouls for gold. Kidnap women, sell children, and don’t look back on their deeds with regret. Of course, my father would tell me not to be so judgmental, but I could detect evil, and it hung as heavy as a wet blanket in here. But did they trifle with dragons? That was what I was here to find out.

Brenwar’s elbow rocked me in the ribs.

“Time to eat,” he said.

Two steaming pheasants greeted my senses with a delightful aroma. One thing you could say about these rundown taverns of disreputable ilk: they tended to have tasty food. My stomach rumbled, and my mouth watered. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I started eating, tearing off big hunks at a time. Brenwar grunted and almost smiled, trying to keep the juicy bird meat out of his beard.

“Say,” I said to the barkeep, shoving a gold coin his way, “I’m in need of some
dragon
accessories.”

The man glared at me and said, “I don’t know a thing about that, and it’s best you take such business elsewhere.” He shoved the coin back

I shoved it back saying, “Beg your pardon, sir. Then a bottle of wine will do.”

He hesitated, took the coin, and pulled a bottle down from the top shelf, setting it down and pointing to the door. “Once it’s gone—you’re gone.” His eyes grazed the pommel of my sword on my back. “No dragon talk in my place.” He turned and left.

“Cripes!” Brenwar said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Why don’t you just scare off every dragon poacher in town? Why don’t you go ask for some orc accessories as well?” He glared at the orcs, still huddled in the corner, grunting with dissatisfaction over something.

I slapped him on the shoulder and said, “You eat and drink; I’ll do the rest.”

As we sat and gorged ourselves on bird meat and wine, I felt the tone in the room shifting. The patrons that sat near us began to fade away elsewhere. Many of the patrons seemed to stiffen, some leaving and more notorious sorts arriving. The men began to bristle and brag, their comments about their exploits designed to catch my ear. Like most bad people, it seemed they didn’t like me. Despite my rugged armor and attempt to blend in, I looked more than formidable. So far as I could tell, I was the tallest man in the room, my shoulders, arms, and chest as knotted and broad as the rest. What they hadn’t noticed about me before, they had noticed now. But I didn’t come here looking for a fight. Or did I?

I tapped the big brute at the end of the bar on the shoulder.

“Do that again, and I’ll cut off your hand,” he warned.

“No doubt you would try,” I said, smiling over at the fair-haired woman with the curious and inviting eyes. “I’m in need of dragon accessories.”

“Get out of here!” He shoved me away.

Dragon accessories were a profitable business. A single scale was almost worth a piece of gold. Dragon teeth, scales, skin, claws, and horns, whether they contained magic or not, were highly prized possessions that adorned many wealthy citizens. It was a practice that made me sick, seeing my kind displayed for fashion. Dragons were the same as the other races but treated like something different. Of course, not all dragons were good, but most people viewed them all as bad.

I shoved him back.

“You touch me again, you’ll be the one to lose your hands.” No one shoves me around.

The fair-haired woman forced her way between us, pushing her angry friend back with both hands, saying, “No blood here tonight.” Then she whirled on me, poking her finger in my chest. “Go and sit down. I don’t know what game you're playing, but I’ll not stand for any talk of dragons. We fight for gold, not poach.”

“I can see that now. But I pay well. Pardon me,” I said with a slight bow, retaking my seat.
That ought to get them going,
I thought.

The man and woman warriors grumbled with each another, then departed, but she gave me one long look over her shoulder as they went. Now Brenwar and I sat and waited. The barkeep continued to glower at me, but he didn’t throw me out as long as we kept paying, and Brenwar was still eating and drinking. So I sat, noted all the scowls, and waited and waited and waited. I was a dragon, so waiting wasn’t such a bad thing for me. But words travel faster than the wind sometimes. That’s when two lizard men wandered in, both taller than me, crocodile green, dressed like men, and armored like soldiers. Their yellow eyes attached themselves to me first as they ripped their daggers out and charged.

CHAPTER 8

Lizard men. Big, strong, and fast like me, except not nearly as smart, but that didn’t really matter when all they wanted to do was kill you.

I slung my barstool into one, cracking it into timbers over its head.

“Blasted reptile! Ye spilled my drink,” Brenwar bellowed, clubbing another on its head with his tankard.

Slowed but not stunned, the lizard sprang on top of me, driving me hard to the floor. I locked my fingers on its wrists as it tried to drive its dagger into my throat. Its red lizard tongue licked out as it hissed, angry and fateful. The lizard men weren’t many in the world, usually pawns to greater evil but effective pawns nonetheless. I drove my knee up into its stomach with little effect as its blade strained inches above my neck.

“Dieeeesss, dragonssss!” it said with a heave.

It felt like the veins were going to burst in my arms when I shoved back with all my strength. Over the sound of the blood rushing behind my ears, I could hear a rising clamor and more hissing voices. Not good. Yet Brenwar’s bellows were clear.

“NO!” I yelled back. In a blink, I freed one hand and punched its long nose, rocking back its head.

Whap! Whap! Whap!

The lizard man jerked away from my stinging blows, but my hands felt like they were punching a wall. Still, lizard men hate getting hit in the nose; so do most lizards, for that matter. My blood was running hot now, the warrior in me suddenly alive as I jumped on its back and smashed its face into the floor. The dagger clattered from its grasp, and I snatched it up and rolled back to my feet.

Brenwar had the other one on the ground in a choke hold.

Crack!

And now it was dead, but the first two weren’t the last. Three more were charging my way, not with daggers but with heavy broadswords this time. I can’t imagine what I had said to draw so much attention.

Shing!

There was an audible gasp in the room as I whipped Fang’s glowing blade through the air. Every eye was wide and wary, and I had to remember I had no friends here except Brenwar. The lizard men stopped for a moment, but they were well-trained soldiers ordered to move forward.

The first lizard man charged past Brenwar, sword arcing downward and clashing hard into mine, juttering my arms.

Bap!

I punched its nose, rammed my knee in its gut, and jammed my sword into the thigh of the one behind it, drawing a pain-filled hiss from its lizard lips. Two more were down, and the third had an angry dwarven man latched on its back. I raised my sword to deliver a lethal blow. I know, I know. My father warned me that killing is only a last resort, but I don’t care what anyone says: lizard men and orcs don’t count.

“Stop!” The barkeep screamed. “STOP!”

No one moved, not even the lizard men.

Crack!

Well, that was one lizard man that wasn’t going to move again for sure as Brenwar rode its dead body down to the floor.

“YOU, with the magic sword, get out of my TAVERN!”

“Me? But they attacked me!"

My longsword Fang hummed in my hand, its blade glimmering with a radiant light like the first crack of dawn. I brought the tip of its edge toward the barkeep's nose. I wasn’t in any mood to be accused of something I didn’t do.

He held his hands up but tipped his chin up toward the folks behind me. I had a bad feeling as I turned to look. The two arm wrestlers stood now, each with a short sword in hand, eyes narrowed and ready to jump. The orcs, once three and now six, had drifted closer. The adventurers at the long table now stood. A staff glowed in one's hand, and a sword glimmered in another. One warrior, grim faced and wearing chain mail, had a crossbow pointed at my chest. One woman, small and slender, stood poised on a chair, a handful of throwing knives bared. There were more, too, each focused on me, ready to fight or kill if need be.

“You can all try to take me if you want, but you won’t all survive. Is your life worth the risk or not?” I glared back at the barkeep. “Your patrons can’t pay if they’re dead.”

It was a bluff. I wouldn’t have killed any of them except the orcs. I swear they don’t count. Neither do the lizard men, three of which had begun crawling back out the way they came. Lizard men didn’t get along with me. We went way back. Well, I didn’t mention it before, but I’ve been around awhile, and when you live a long time and do what I do, you tend to make enemies. I had plenty to go around. Chances were that one of my enemies knew I was here and had sent in a squadron of goons to kill me.

“Just go,” the bartender pleaded, his eyes nervous now.

I looked at the two dead lizard men on the floor and asked, “What about them?”

“I’ll take care of them. The lizards don’t hold any worth with the authorities.”

Brenwar had resumed his eating, his blocky, mailed shoulder hunched back over his pheasant. I was still itching for a fight. The tension in the air had not slackened. My legs were still ready to spring. That’s when the man in the corner stood up and walked toward the center of the room. Long and gaunt, hooded in a dark cloak, he seemed more of a ghost than a man. All eyes now fell on the man that held a hefty sack in one hand and dropped it on the table to the sound of clinking coins.

Slowly, he pulled his hood back, revealing a shaven head that was tattooed with symbols and signs I knew all too well. He was a Cleric of Barnabus, a cult of men obsessed with the dragons. Meddlers in a dark and ancient magic. I hadn't expected to come across one so soon. His voice was loud and raspy as he pointed at me and said:

“This bag of gold to the one that brings me his head!”

Clatch-Zip!

A crossbow bolt darted toward my ducking head and caught the barkeep full in the shoulder.

“What!” Brenwar roared, readying his dwarven war hammer, sharp at one end, like an anvil on the other.

“Don’t let that cleric escape, Brenwar!” I said, smacking the muscled goons' blades with Fang. I clipped one in the leg and took a rock-hard shot in the jaw from the other. He gloated. I retaliated, cracking him upside his skull with the flat of my blade.

“Agh!” I cried out in pain. A row of small knives was imbedded in my arm, courtesy of the little rogue woman. I’d have to deal with her later. I had to get the cleric, who was scurrying away toward the door. Brenwar was a barricade at the door, a host of orcs swarming at him.

“Let’s dance, you smelly beasts!” he yelled, hitting one so hard it toppled the others.

He could handle himself, and I had bigger problems: the party of adventurers had surrounded me. Well, mercenaries seemed to be more likely the term for them. I leapt back as the lanky fighter with the brilliant sword tried to cut me in half. He was a young man, confident in his skills.

Clang! Clang! Clatter!

He lacked my power or speed as I tore his sword free from his grasp.

Slice!

I clipped muscle from his sword arm and sent him spinning to the floor.

Then everything went wrong.

The little woman jammed a dagger in my back. The wizard fired a handful of missiles into my chest, and the crossbowman, now wielding a hammer, slung it into my chest. That’s why I wear armor, forged by the dwarves at that. My breastplate had saved me from dying more than a dozen times, but I’d gotten careless. I should have negotiated with this hardy brood, but I wanted to fight instead. I was mad. I was Nath Dragon, the greatest hero in the land, as far as I was concerned. It was time they saw that.

I banged the tip of my sword on the hard oaken floor. The metal hummed and vibrated with power.

THAAAAROOOOONG!!!

Glass shattered. Men and women fell to the floor, covering their ears, all except me and Brenwar, who stood on top of a pile of what looked to be dead orcs. I could see him yelling at me, but I could not hear. His lips mouthed the words, “Shut that sword off!”

I sheathed my singing blade, and the sound stopped immediately. The entire tavern looked like it had been turned upside down. Everyone living was moaning or wailing. The loudest among them? The Cleric of Barnabus. Huddled up in a fetal position, shivering like a leaf.

Fang’s power was pretty helpful when it came to ending a fight with no one dying, but it didn’t work on every race, or most of the time, for that matter. Fang only did what it wanted to do. My father said the sword had a mind of its own, and I was pretty sure that was true. I grabbed the cleric by the collar of his robe and dragged him over the bar. Brenwar had the cleric's bag of gold in his hand when he came off and plopped it on the bar. The barkeep, grimacing in pain from the crossbow bolt in his shoulder that had been meant for me, smiled as the dwarf filled his hands with the gold and spilled coins on the bar. “Fer the damages. The rest I’ll be keeping.”

“So long,” I said, tying and gagging the cleric and hoisting him over my shoulder. “And thanks. This man will have just what I’m looking for.”

The remaining patrons, still dazed and confused, holding their heads and stomachs, paid no mind at all as I left. They should have learned a lesson today: never pick a fight with an opponent you don’t know anything about; it just might be a dragon.