Stone Dragon (The First Realm) (18 page)

“As for you,” she said to their fallen leader, “go back to your wife and kids!”

The human bandits gathered their wounded before retreating. They headed seaward, where longships no doubt awaited.

Meerwen stood with her hands on her hips, a sneer on her face. She watched them leave. When they had disappeared she turned to her second-in-command. “Feanaro? You’re in charge for now.”

Then she toppled backward and landed unconscious in the sand.

* * *

When she woke up, she was at an inn. Feanaro had gotten her the best room.

“Are we still in the desert?” she asked.

“On the outskirts,” he said, holding a bowl and a spoon. “Eat something, you’ll feel better.”

She waved the spoon away. “Report first. Casualties?”

“We’re down three men: Marcanon, Balanidren, and Eruinon. Except for you, everyone else got away with light wounds.” He pointed at her right hand. “The other was easy enough to mend—just torn muscles and tendons—but your right hand was
pulped
. The glove had gone completely rigid and we had to undo the enchantment to slip it off.”

“I suppose the men are ashamed that their leader fainted.”

“Actually, they were impressed that you lasted as long. That was quite the biggest human we’d ever seen. And you won! I could live on my winnings for a year.”

“I’m glad the experience has enriched you.”

The innkeeper knocked. “Just checking on our hero. You and your men can stay for free, courtesy of the townspeople.” The halfling smiled. “Those bandits had been preying on our town for months. You dealt with them decisively!”

“This is a halfling settlement, I take it?”

“Oh yes. We were defenseless against the marauders. Things had gotten so bad we sent people to the Ironore Mountains.”

“To hire a few swordsmen?”

“No, to buy guns.”

Chapter 20

Meerwen lowered her pen and considered what she’d written. They’d spent two days recuperating in town, spending the money they’d won. Halflings were good at entertaining.

“When you don’t have magic, you have to reach for every advantage you can get,” the innkeeper explained.

They left the town poorer in cash and richer in experience. They’d also left Grimalda behind. The woman had wanted to be there for her son, but Meerwen insisted she stay with her own kind.

The elf had been suspicious. Grimalda was a good rider, even for a farm girl. She’d also fought the bandits—plucking Feanaro’s sword from its scabbard and charging into battle with an eager yell. She’d cut down three barbarians and was hacking at a fourth when Meerwen engaged the bandit chief.

Grimalda was also built more like a human. She massed about as much as a male elf and her shapeless dress wasn’t enough to conceal a mighty figure. Meerwen didn’t know what she was up to, but wanted none of it.

“That halfling stays here,” Meerwen told Feanaro. “Be sure she doesn’t follow.”

“Are you certain? We’ve gotten close, she and I, and she’s really worried about her son.”

“Are you letting personal feelings cloud your judgment?”

The young knight looked at the floor and blushed. “She’s just being friendly.”

“I don’t trust her. Tell her we’ll send word as soon as we’ve rescued her son. That’s an order, Fen. That woman is dangerous.”

* * *

Thunder boomed. It was still raining but the tent kept her warm and dry. She reflected on the merits of dwarven manufacture. They really did make the best stuff.

This made her to think about the different races. Elves were not as numerous, yet they were the most magically adept, and so dominated the continent. Humans were numerous and tough, as she well knew. The alliance between elf and dwarf had always kept them in their frigid homeland, but it was a close thing.

Even caprans had their advantages. They were as strong and as hardy as the goats they were kin to—and on a good day a capran sorceress was a match for an elven mage.

The halflings, however.

She knew she shouldn’t look down on them, they were as worthy as any other group of humanoids—but it was hard not to pity them. They were so puny, so short-lived, so completely unmagical. No wondered everyone called them
halflings
. They seemed only half-alive.

Someone tapped on the tent flap. The sound made her jump. “It’s me,” said Feanaro.

“Come in.” She put away her journal and her second-in-command entered.

She looked at the man. Feanaro had silver hair and light blue skin, a common enough combination. He was handsome in an earnest way. He didn’t usually look so calculating.

“You wanted something?” she asked.

He smirked. “I was going to ask you that.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Thanks for your concern.”

“Are you sure?” he said. He fingered the tent flap. “Remarkable thing, this dwarf-made tent. You have only to throw it to the ground and peg it down. Does this remind you of anything?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean?”

He grinned. “I was just thinking our fearless leader didn’t get to have fun back in town. I thought, maybe I could help her with that.”

She suppressed a shiver. “No, you may not. I wish you to leave my domicile now.”

“Are you sure? Nobody ever needs to know.”

“Get. Out.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going. Good night, milady.” He left.

Meerwen fastened the tent flap and sealed it with a glyph. She was shaking.

* * *

Drystone Under Siege

My aide-de-camp shook me awake. “Prince Angrod, you’re needed at the front!”

I groaned. I’d barely gotten any sleep and still ached from the last battle.

I got up anyway and checked my bandaged torso. No bleeding, which meant the stitches were holding. I would’ve preferred a few minutes with a competent healer, but water mages were in short supply. I shrugged and allowed my aide to help me into my armor.

“Where is it this time?” I asked.

“The Manufacturing Quarter. The enemy has forced a landing and is fighting in the streets.” She grimaced. “If they establish a presence there, they’ll cut the city in half.”

“And I’m the only mage on hand.” I shook my head. The war was less than a year old and we’d lost so many people.

She fastened the left greave and stepped back. “Done, sir.”

“Right.” I marched into the next room, where my bodyguard awaited. They were all elven knights except for Heronimo.

“The enemy has landed their heavy assets here,” he said, pointing to a spot on the map. “They are using them to support an infantry advance.”

“What forces do we have in place?” I asked.

“Only the city guard. They’re being pushed back.”

“I’d like to land on top of the enemy, but that might confuse the militia. We teleport among them and do a frontal assault.” I looked to my aide. “Pass the word.”

While she addressed a scrying pool, the dozen or so knights checked their weapons. Arrows were counted. Swords slid into scabbards. The men scowled as they checked the fit of their armor.

“We’ve done this before, gentlemen,” I said. “A quick strike to break their momentum and we can let the grunts mop up.”

“We’re with you, Angrod,” Heronimo said. “Say the word.”

We teleported into battle.

I don’t know what was louder, the screaming, or our enemies’ weapons. The firing was intense. The bigger guns only made it worse.

Back at the palace I’d drained the local magic field, so I had plenty of juice. First thing I did was throw an air shield over my men and the city guard. The shield was thousands of random air pockets, enough to deflect small-arms fire. I used more air magic to roar, “DEFENDERS OF DRYSTONE. FORWARD.”

As one, we climbed over the barricades and charged the cannon. BOOM. It filled the air with hardwood bullets. I poured energy into our shields and they missed us, mostly. One hit a knight square in the breastplate. It punched through the armor and exploded out the back, spattering the men behind him. Another bullet glanced past my cheek.

“Forward!”

I drew my sword and held it high. Sparks leaped as the energy gathered. With a sweep of my arm I lashed my foes with
fire
.

The first ranks screamed. They had become living torches. They thrashed and ran, but then BOOM. The men behind them fired, smashing their burning comrades to the ground. An officer stepped forward, pistol high and sword out. “For the Emperor!”

He ran to meet me. Steel met red-hot steel as we parried and struck. He fired his pistol under my chin but I turned my head. I chopped down with my sword, drew the mace from my belt, and broke his jaw.

“For Brandish!” I said. The enemy infantry had closed to bayonet range. Heronimo leaped in front of me, his longsword opening throats and hacking down gun barrels. My men ducked under the bayonets with their bucklers raised, then came up swinging. The city guard threw themselves into the brawl.

The ironclads offshore decided to focus on us. A cannonball slammed into a balcony, showering us with debris. Another turned a group of militia into bone splinters.

“What I wouldn’t give for a tame kraken,” I said.

The nearest ship fired a broadside. The cannonballs arced toward us. I raised both arms and
pushed
. The cannonballs looped in the air. They slammed into masts and exploded on deck. One smashed below the waterline and the fighting ship began to sink.

“That should keep them busy,” I said, but the infantry had rallied around
another
sword-swinging officer. He had an awesome mustache and a heavy arm.

“For the Emperor!” he said, battering at my defense.

“For Brandish!” I said, not to be outdone.

“For the Emperor!”

“For Brandish!”

“For the Emperor!”

“For the EMPRAH.”

“For Brandish—
d’oh!
”

“Haha, gotcha!” I poured energy into my sword and cut through his blade like an incandescent knife through butter. I beheaded him on the return stroke, then began swinging the electrified mace.

“How you doing, brother?” I called to Heronimo.

“Not bad,” he said. “But we should probably withdraw.”

“
Now?
But we’re having so much fun!”

Heronimo didn’t answer. A sniper had shot him in the head. The steel nail in the bullet had sent skull fragments tumbling through his brain. He was dead as he fell.

The dragons swept down and spat liquid fire.

They flew low, vomiting napalm over fortifications and troops. They screeched as they passed overhead and I wished I could summon lightning. Unfortunately I was out of power.

“Okay, Cruix, you win this time.”

* * *

The dreams had been getting worse. Cruix was gaining ground. More and more I found myself fighting a losing cause. But then, when the objective is your own life, I really didn’t have any other choice.

You can only stay awake for so long. I was running on coffee and naps, which left me feeling itchy. As if my skin didn’t quite fit. As if my eyes weren’t quite processing. Several times I thought I glimpsed Cruix laughing from the shadows—but it would take an awfully big shadow to hide a dragon.

We stayed in Zith’ra a few days to recuperate and see the sights. The king was generous with his time and we could not have had a better guide. I was struck by how much the city resembled Corinthe. The architecture was completely different (caprans tended to build rambling marble palaces, no two alike) but still I was struck by how well the different quarters lined up. It was as if I were halfway to being a resident. I asked Arawn why this was so and he said it was due to the geographical similarities between our world and his.

“This is, after all, a fine place for a city. There is the sea and there is the forest. Your elven ancestors and our centaur forebears had the same idea.”

It would have been pleasant to stay in Zith’ra until the end, but I had a need to die in my own bed. I said as much to Arawn.

“I understand,” he said. “Let me escort you to the nearest fairy ring.”

We rode to a clearing outside the city. Arawn told us to enter the circle conveniently marked by toadstools.

“It was good to meet you, Angrod, Heronimo, and Mina. As a gift, I give you the horses you now ride—finer animals have not been bred.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” I said. “I look forward to meeting you again, and to fulfilling our bargain.”

The king smiled. “May Fortuna smile upon you.”

He and his retinue rode around the fairy ring. They galloped and then disappeared. The constellations changed and we were back in our world.

* * *

In Corinthe Citadel, people had gathered to watch the show.

“Testing for First Lieutenant will commence!” bellowed a portly sergeant. “Spellcasting is allowed! Healers are on hand! You will match yourselves against Captain Dinendal, recently returned from a special mission.”

Dinendal leaned against a fence, eyes almost closed. He wore cavalry boots and a leather vest. His shirt billowed under the vest and his golden hair spilled over his shoulders. He had a pair of swords strapped to his back.

“Now, the captain might
look
like a good-for-nothing pretty boy, but make no mistake: he’s one of the finest swordsmen in Brandish. In fact, we don’t expect anyone to beat him! Just put up a fight!”

It was noon. Nearly all of the city guard was there. Some wanted to take the ranking exam, but most simply wanted to watch. To get ahead in the militia you had to be among the best, and not many were up to the challenge. There were few rules in these combat trials. Killing blows were forbidden, but accidents happened.

Dinendal didn’t move, though is head dropped a little. He seemed to be dozing.

“Come now! Is no one brave enough to step into the ring with our captain?”

A hulking elf climbed over the fence. “I’ll do it.”

Dinendal opened an eye.

The challenger was tall—he towered head and shoulders over the captain. Dinendal himself was tall, which meant the other elf was
very
tall. He had broad shoulders too, and his arms rippled with muscle.