Erik And The Dragon ( Book 4) (13 page)

“We have made anchor,” Nerekar said dryly as he peered out a small porthole.

Gilifan moved over to take a look and saw rock wall lined with wooden pikes protruding straight out two-thirds the way up. “This is Pinkt’Hu,” Gilifan said. “Formerly an orcish stronghold, until the noble knights of the Middle Kingdom conquered it. Too bad most of the buildings were destroyed in the battle though, it was surely a much better looking city before the humans put their hands on it.”

Nerekar grunted. “I am not concerned with such things,” he said. “Will you need me to come with you?”

The necromancer shook his head. “No, I have a short meeting here. I won’t need anything from you at this time.”

“The men above are moving that large crate,” Nerekar said. “What is in it?”

Gilifan shot a sour look at the assassin. “That isn’t any concern of yours,” he warned. “Just know that it is something the master holds dear to his heart.”

Nerekar nodded that he understood and went to the cot that he had been using for the duration of the journey. He dropped onto it and slung an arm over his eyes.

Gilifan made his way up to the main deck. He stretched his left shoulder by pulling it around his back and gently tugging upward with his other hand. The waning light of the sun cast long shadows over the docks that stretched outward to the sturdy, tall buildings. He could see a lamp man walking on stilts, lighting street lamps with a hooked torch and pausing only long enough to ensure that each lamp was fully lit before moving on to the next. A few people moved along the docks, carrying boxes and crates from the other ships into large warehouses that lined the docks.

The necromancer heard soft, steady footsteps coming up behind him. He turned to see the captain. “We are ready to move the crate,” he said.

Gilifan nodded slowly. “Do exactly as I instructed you,” he warned. He wasn’t all that worried about the egg being damaged. Dragon eggs had thick, unrelenting shells that could withstand much more than one would expect. However, he did not like the idea of others discovering the precious item. He shuddered to think what might happen if word were to spread of a dragon egg in the Middle Kingdom.

The captain, sensing Gilifan’s reticence, laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “How long have you known me?” he asked.

Gilifan turned and looked the man in the eye. “You are my late sister’s husband,” he answered. “Which is the only reason I have trusted you so far.” The captain smiled and nodded contently.

“I will not fail you.”

Gilifan sniggered indifferently. “Still, if you should fail me, or allow your men to be careless, I will end your life faster than a boy kills a spider on his kitchen table. Remember that.” Gilifan turned and walked down the gangplank toward the dock, leaving the captain to contemplate his warning.

As he strolled into the city, a cold breeze came in off the sea, bringing with it the stench of salt and low tide rot. The odor mixed and swirled through the streets among the heavy wood smoke that stung the necromancer’s eyes and assaulted his nostrils.
A mangy, gray cat skittered across the cobblestone in front of him. Fast on its heels was a much larger, tabby cat growling and pouncing at the gray cat’s tail.

Thin, waist-high fog rolled in from the sea with the next wind. Gilifan gathered his
cloak about himself in an effort to keep the chill out as he strolled farther down the main thoroughfare. On either side of him merchants were packing up the last of their wares from the street and moving them into the stone and wood row houses lining the cobblestone road. They also pulled the wooden shutters in and Gilifan could hear the slight ring of metal hooks slipping into the eyelets to hold them closed.

With the sun sunken under the horizon, darkness fell upon the city quickly. The street lamps did their best to chase away the shadows, but with the fog growing thicker, it was becoming more difficult.
Luckily, as Gilifan made his way closer to the looming manor at the end of the street, the streetlamps became larger and more frequent. He also noticed more people out and about in the street, though they were almost all guards or patrolmen. Walking in pairs, the guards wore black tunics over rustling chainmail with black, shiny greaves protecting their shins and thighs. Their helmets were simple, open faced steel caps with a sheet of chainmail sloping down the back of their necks and a few inches down their shoulders. Most of them carried spears or halberds. An unnecessary show of power and strength in a city as well run and orderly as Pinkt’Hu was said to be.

Each pair that he passed watched him closely, but none of them stopped him. Even when he approached the wrought iron gate that sealed off the manor from the rest of the city, no one said anything to him. He stood for barely more than a moment before the gate was opened from the inside by a large, gray haired man.

“I will escort you inside,” he said. “Lord Finorel has been expecting you.”

Gilifan nodded and followed the large man up the gray slab walkway as it wound around a circular
pool with a pair of cherubs spouting water in the center. The necromancer hardly glanced at the bubbling fountain. He just walked past it, keeping his eye on the grand, arched mahogany double doors and the trio of guards standing before them.

When the gray haired man waved, the three door guards all scrambled to the side, well out of the way. The burly guard barreled into the doors, hardly seeming to slow as he pushed his way inside. The light from the foyer was almost blinding. A rush of warm air, scented with lavender and vanilla wafted out to greet Gilifan.

He stepped onto the tan marble floor and a servant rushed in to close the doors behind him.

“May I offer you some tea, or perhaps a brandy?” the servant asked.

Gilifan shook his head. “I would prefer mulled wine,” he said.

The servant cocked his head
to the side and bowed slightly before backing out of the large entryway to disappear into a hallway on the left.

“Mulled wine?” the gray-haired guard asked. “Interesting choice.”

“It’s cold outside,” Gilifan replied. “Besides, Lord Finorel always keeps mulled wine on hand. Has ever since I have known him.”

The guard nodded and pointed through the arched hallway before them. “I can lead you to the drawing room.”

“I can manage,” Gilifan said sourly. He strode beyond the guard, down the marble hall. He passed ivory colored pillars alternating with busts and statuettes, mostly of famed warriors past. He walked beyond the first two doors on his left and then turned to enter the third. He pushed it open and moved quickly inside to take a seat in a red, high-backed velvet chair near the hearth.

A small fire crackled and popped, giving its heat to the room around and allowing Gilifan to thaw his legs and feet. He had only just relaxed into the chair when the door opened again. In walked the servant with a silver goblet. The smell of chives mixed with the aroma of warmed wine. The necromancer took the drink and offered a small nod of appreciation to the servant.

“Anything else?” the servant asked.

“I don’t suppose Lord Finorel has any roast duck around?” Gilifan asked.

“I’m afraid not, milord,” the servant said. “Duck has been rather scarce this season.”

“I see,” Gilifan said as he took another sip of his drink.

“I can offer mutton, or perhaps a cut of veal.”

Gilifan shook his head and waved the servant out.

His wine was nearly gone by the time the door opened again and Lord Finorel walked into the room. The man was dressed as regally as ever. Black leather boots polished to a high sheen, laced with golden silk cords and topped with a pair of tassels. Billowing red pants swept out to the side, exaggerating the man’s girth. A thick brown leather belt held the ridiculous pants up around Finorel’s wide waist with a silver buckle prominently displayed over the man’s bulbous belly. A maroon shirt fitted with two vertical rows of gold buttons clung tightly around him, straining to hold itself together. The sleeves puffed out like the legs of his pants, making his arms look as though they were fancily wrapped stuffed sausages. A high, ruffled white collar emerged from the shirt’s opening to hide the man’s thick, flabby neck and double-chin. Whatever wasn’t covered with the collar was discretely buried under a reddish-brown beard which was always oiled and impeccably neat.

“I apologize for the delay,” Lord Finorel said in his rough, husky voice. “There was some business which needed tending to.”

“Pirates?” Gilifan asked nonchalantly.

Finorel closed the door and stomped over to the drawing table. “Heavens no,” he said with a laugh. “Trade matters. We lost our main supply of iron ore last week to a cave in accident. I had put out the word that we were looking for new suppliers. For the last three days I have been negotiating with the four biggest mine operators in these parts. Just finished the deal a few moments ago.”

“Who did you choose?” Gilifan asked as he rose to his feet and joined Finorel at the drawing table. He didn’t actually care which mine Finorel got his ore from, but he had always found that the small talk helped make Finorel more agreeable when it came to discussing his own business.

“I went with Mackelrow. His mine is the closest, and he was able to cut me the best discount. Even said I could station a few of my guards at his mine.”

Gilifan cocked his head to the side. “Didn’t you have some of your men at your former supplier’s mine?” the necromancer asked.

Finorel smirked and raised a thick finger up before his face. “It wasn’t like that,” he said. “It was a natural cave in, and I had no problems with my former supplier whatsoever.”

The necromancer offered only a disbelieving gaze.

Lord Finorel chuckled to himself. “It isn’t that I am not capable of such things, but really I had no problem with the former supplier. He was always on time, delivered good product, and charged fair prices. No reason for me to interfere there. The shaft simply collapsed. Killed the operator and thirty or so of his workers. It was a tragedy.”

“As you say,” Gilifan said. He then looked down to the map on the table. “What about our business?” he asked.

Finorel leaned over the map and pulled a monocle out from his right pocket. He held it up to his right eye and squinted down at the map. “Here,” he said as he jabbed his fat left index finger onto the map. “This point here is an old orcish fortress. It is all but forgotten now. The entrance is half-buried and the bulk of the remains actually run into the side of the mountain. One way in, one way out.”

“Temperature?” Gilifan asked.

Finorel nodded. “It stays hot and humid year round, just like you wanted. There are natural hot springs inside the fortress that prevent the winter’s cold from coming in.”

“That is good,” Gilifan said. “It will be likely another year before the egg is ready. It will need to be kept warm through the winter.”

“No worries,” Finorel assured him.

“How do you propose to protect it?” Gilifan asked.

“You already met Bergarax, the gray-haired guard.”

Gilifan nodded.

Finorel moved his left hand up to his beard and gave it a slight tug.
“He is my half-brother. More importantly, he has taken the oath to join with us. He has a group of mercenaries under his command that are securing the fortress as we speak.”

“Mercenaries?” Gilifan questioned. “Do you think that is wise?”

“They are good men,” Finorel said with a sharp nod. “Besides, they only guard the entrance. My personal guard will protect the interior of the fortress, and only Bergarax knows what is inside the crate.”

“What do the others believe it is?”

“Weapons, gold, the usual contraband, but no matter what they believe, they are my men, and they will not bother the egg.”

Gilifan nodded. “How far is this from the city?”

“It is roughly a half day’s journey from here,” Finorel said. “I will have Bergarax pick up the item tonight, and he will march it out to the fortress before the sun rises.”

“Is there still a curfew in effect?” Gilifan asked.

“Did you see any on the streets after sundown?” Finorel scoffed.

“It’s astounding what the people let you do.”

“The people don’t
let
me do anything,” Finorel retorted. “But, if I tell them that a curfew keeps them safe and helps me crack down on burglars and thieves in the city, they will go along with it. Fear is a powerful motivator, but you have to know how to employ it properly.”

Gilifan nodded. “I would agree with that.” He sighed deeply and then extended his hand across the table. “
If all goes well, then Tu’luh shall be back for the egg next spring.”

Lord Finorel took the necromancer’s hand in his own and gave it a hearty shake. “You haven’t mentioned what has become of Master B’dargen, how is he?”

Gilifan did his best to keep an expressionless face. “He has died, in the service of our master.”

Finorel frowned. “That saddens me. I had hoped to see him again, when the war had been won.”

“Worry not,” Gilifan said. “He died well, and I am sure he will be justly rewarded when the master has conquered all.”