Stone Dragon (The First Realm) (3 page)

There had been a revolution. Not a terribly violent one, but the king had been executed. Power had devolved to the governors of every city, and that’s how it’s been for nearly a millennium.

Galdor had been a decent king, but the council of governors had also done quite well. I’m not saying the government was any less corrupt, but at least we never elected leaders like King Myrdal the Mad, who had squandered the treasury on wars, and also drooled all the time.

“I don’t see how they could be better,” I said. “We’ve got peace, security, and brisk trade with the human kingdoms.”

“Ugh,” Valandil said, shaking his head. “A pack of starving dogs. If it weren’t for the royal guard they’d have invaded long ago. That’s right, the
royal
guard.”

He began to lecture on all the things that used to be better when we had an off-with-his-head kind of leader. Humans and dwarves had looked up to elves, he said. They took our word seriously on every subject. No corner of the earth was ignorant of our flag. The way Valandil put it, elves had been covered in glory once, though to me that glory looked suspiciously like blood.

By this time I’d filled my own glass (Elrond was right, it
was
convenient) and settled in the other chair. I was into my second drink before he finally slowed down.

“… and another thing, the days used to be longer,” he said, breathing hard.

I frowned. “I’m sure that’s not something anybody can control. Not even a king.”

“We shall soon see,” he said. “Before long, Brandish shall once again be a kingdom.”

“Impossible,” I said. Errol Lissesul, the crown prince, had been abroad when his father died. He rushed home but died in a shipwreck. Having no children, siblings, or even cousins, this meant the royal line died with him.

“I’ve always wondered why Prince Errol came from a long line of only sons,” I said. “Is it just me, or was House Lissesul terribly infertile? Even by elf standards it wasn’t a big family.”

“The Kings of Brandish have always allied themselves with queens of the highest breeding,” Valandil said.

“So, inbred.”

“I prefer the term
rarefied blood
.”

“Rare is right. Not a drop is to be found these days.”

“That’s where you’re wrong! For you see, my apprentice, I have reason to believe there are several quarts of it
in this very cave
.”

I looked into my wine glass. Then I glanced around the chamber and settled back on Valandil. “A secret heir, in this place?” I said. “What’s he been doing all this time?”

“Well, right now he’s sipping mulberry wine.”

I did a spit-take. “
You’re
the heir to the throne?”

“No,
you
are, Angrod. I’ve searched a long time, and I believe it’s you.”

I wiped my mouth. “Very funny, sir. I know some masters like to play pranks on their apprentices, but I never imagined you’d be the type.” I took a breath. “I’m House Veneanar! Strictly minor aristocracy! Ours is an ancient line, but our claim to the throne is no stronger than any other family’s. By what complicated manner did I suddenly gain royal status?”

“If you’ll let me finish,” he said, “I will tell you.”

* * *

If you can believe Valandil, the chambermaid did it.

They say you never really know anyone until you’ve been friends a couple of decades. I’m starting to believe this is true—I had no idea my mentor was a part-time genealogist.

Although there hadn’t been a royal sex scandal since King Lavin the Loverboy (not as famous as King Fingol the Finger…biter) Valandil reasoned every prince
had
to have an affair or two, because who wouldn’t?

I had to agree. If you have money, power, and a title, all you need to get women are working genitalia. Sometimes you don’t even need those—witness King Cameron the Straperon.

Valandil interviewed every associate of Prince Errol’s, hoping to uncover some secret assignation or drunken encounter. He sent letters to consuls, base commanders, and even former squires. Nothing. Errol had been no Prince Charming.

“No women in his life? How about men, then?”

Valandil grimaced. “If only. There is precedent for transferring title to the heirs of a same-sex lover—recall Princess Iminye—but the Crown Prince had no lovers of any kind.”

My mentor then decided to look at the elder Lissesul, who presumably had more time for close encounters of the sexy kind. It took decades, but Valandil finally tracked down everyone who’d ever spent time in the royal palace. In the end, he
did
find something: Queen Orlinde, Galdor’s wife, had once sent a chambermaid to the dungeons for stealing silverware.”

“That sounds like something a queen would do, back in the good old days.”

“Actually, such a small offense would warrant a flogging at most. And stealing silverware? That’s something a scullery maid would do. How could a chambermaid manage it, when she’s strictly an upstairs maid?”

“How am I to know what goes upstairs and downstairs? I’m just a country gentleman.”

“A chambermaid takes care of bedrooms.”

“Ah,” I said, leaning back.

It seems Rosemary the Chambermaid had been very pretty and very young (only sixty-four.) What’s more, she had the sort of body you didn’t often see on elves—we’re talking dangerous curves. She was an orphan rumored to be part-halfling. She was certainly wild enough.

“She was willing, attractive, and had access to the king’s bedchamber,” Valandil said. “The fact that the queen sent her to the dungeons indicates
something
happened.”

“And what happened to her?” I asked, leaning forward.

“She was branded a thief and thrown out of the palace.”

I grimaced. “Branded on the
face?
”

“The queen was certainly mad about something. A stigma like that would bar Rosemary from any decent work. My guess is she became a camp follower, and when the royal army passed through Corinthe she stayed there as a prostitute. This was fifteen hundred years ago.”

“Sad story,” I said. “When does my family enter the picture?”

“That’s the interesting part. Your great-grandfather Dermethor brought home a baby at around the same time and acknowledged the infant as his son. His
only
son. I understand the wife wasn’t pleased.”

“Great-Grandma never warmed up to Grandpa Feanaro, but there wasn’t much she could do since he was her husband’s official heir. Hey, is that why he died at just nine hundred and twenty? Because he was a quarter halfling? And—hold it—does this make
me
part halfling?”

“Only one-sixteenth. It shouldn’t be a problem when you take the throne.”

“No wonder I hate elves,” I said. It was a beat before I realized—

“Damn, you’ve convinced me!”

Valandil stroked his mustache and smiled. “The evidence is persuasive. As the last of your line—your parents being dead—you are automatically the crown prince.”

“But what if I don’t want to be king?”

“What you want doesn’t matter! Finally, after almost a thousand wretched years, Brandish can once again be a kingdom. It doesn’t even matter that you’re descended from a half-breed whore—not if we mate you to a queen of the most exalted blood.”

“After a few generations, nobody will be able to tell the difference, eh?”

“Exactly. The point is to maintain continuity!” Valandil now paced excitedly about. “It won’t even be difficult to get you on the throne. I have powerful allies, and when you fulfill the prophecy our position will be rock-solid.”

“Wait, the prophecy?”

Everyone knew that weird old poem. It had supposedly come to the best seers of the age, who had all written it down in exactly the same way.

“You do mix with the other races, don’t you?” Valandil asked.

“I consider myself fairly cosmopolitan,” I said. “But I don’t have a silver hand, and I
certainly
don’t know any dragons.”

“Not yet, anyway.”

* * *

I should’ve run screaming, because it’s never a good sign when somebody starts waving around prophecies. The best you can hope for is that it’s some kind of swindle, which means you’re only going to lose your shirt. The worst you can hope for (because you’re some kind of masochist) is that it’s some kind of cult, which means you’re about to become their virgin sacrifice.

Prophecies are never simple. They’re always right, but you never understand them until they happen. Did you hear it properly? Is it in plain language, or is it in godawful verse? Can you try to prevent it, or will doing so actually
fulfill
the prophecy?

If the prophecy is about you, you’re screwed. It sucks being The Chosen One. Your life isn’t your own anymore.

“Any chance someone else fits the description? Maybe a long-lost sister or something?” I asked.

Valandil said nothing, only continued walking ahead of me. We were going deeper underground. I’d said something about dragons being extinct (nobody had seen one for a century) and he’d picked up the lantern and motioned me to follow.

I remembered what I’d said back in the alehouse, about the dragons having help dying out. “Master, are there no more dragons because of this prophecy?”

I thought quickly. It was possible that some of the same people who had supported the revolution had also reacted badly to the prophecy. They wouldn’t be eager to see another king overturning their hard-earned status quo, so they’d… Wipe out an entire race to invalidate a prophecy?

Mind you, a dragon was a fifty-foot-long armored death machine. It flew, it spewed fire, and it
ate
people. Not because it didn’t know better (it could talk!) but because it
liked
how we tasted.

A single dragon would be a tough objective for an army, let alone a few self-appointed dragon hunters. The great scaly beasts were very hard to kill, all the books agreed on that. Yet the books also agreed that they had somehow disappeared over the last few centuries. From a stable population of several thousand, down to a handful, and down to nothing.

Suddenly I knew what it felt like to have true enemies.

“Master, are you trying to get me killed?” I said, and then stumbled on a rock.

“Get up, boy,” Valandil said. He crouched and hauled me to my feet. Frail as he looked, my boots nearly left the floor—I remembered how strong earth mages could be.

“Don’t you understand?” he said. “I am trying to restore this kingdom as well as your birthright. Brandish
needs
a king, whether or not you like it.”

He put me down and picked up the lantern. “Anyway, if I’m right about this you’ll have the best bodyguard in the world.”

We continued down the tunnel. Dammit, how do I get myself into these situations? The passage widened into another chamber. It was a huge space, but the thing it contained was nearly as large. The massive shape crouched in the darkness until my master raised his lantern.

“Behold,” he said, and I beheld a dragon.

Chapter 4

Findecano Elanesse, Lord Governor of Drystone, could do nothing as the soldiers attacked his daughter.

There were four of them. Each was fully-armored and carried his weapon of choice. There was a saber, a longsword, and two spears. Against this Meerwen fought barehanded, and all the boiled leather couldn’t hide the fact that she looked small and frail.

Findecano gritted his teeth—the urge to throw a fireball was overpowering.

Being soldiers, they tried to surround her, but she kept backing away. They tried to move with her, but then she kicked the nearest man in the leg and he fell. She jumped over him, punched him in the head, and jumped away. The other spearman went in, short jabs going for her head and neck, but she dodged and ducked until she got a hand on the spear. Then she swung her other arm and snapped the spear.

“Ha!”

The two swordsmen were old friends: the longsworder went high and the saberman went low. She stood and let them rain blows on her arms and shoulders, trusting in her leathers and her spell-hardened skin. Steel flashed and rang, but she held her ground.

She saw an opening—she darted forward and laid a fist on the saberman’s cheek, then an uppercut to his midsection and chin. He fell with a dent in his breastplate.

The longsworder slashed at her face, forcing her to retreat. The second spearman joined him with their comrade’s spear and they cut and sliced the air. Meerwen kicked at the longsworder and grabbed the spear in one hand. She pulled the spear, burying the head in the dirt, then caught the spearman and threw him at the longsword. The first spearman came up from behind and wrapped her in a bear hug. “We’ve got her now!”

The other two rushed her, and only a flurry of kicks kept them back. Meerwen jerked her head back, smashing into the grappler’s face. She stomped on his toes, sank down, elbowed him in the gut, and threw him to the ground. Then she spun and kicked him in the ribs.

She snarled, and when the two swordsmen came at her she grabbed the longsword and started punching the wielder, punching and punching until he fell. A kick to the head and he was out.

It was just her and the saberman now, and they both pulled out the flashy stuff. For long seconds it was punch and counter punch, slash and spinning slash. The saberman danced and whirled his sword arm in deadly arcs. She kept her hands in contact with the steel, brushing the blade with her gloves. He cut low and she jumped, he cut low again and she lifted one foot and rammed it into his crotch. She stepped close, twisted the saber from his hands, and head-butted him into unconsciousness.

The audience erupted into applause.

“Meerwen Elanesse wins!” said the Master of Ceremonies. “She has proven her mettle in honest battle!”

The leaders of the royal guard looked uneasy—women in the army were almost unheard of. So Findecano clapped and said, “My generals, is she not worthy of a commission?”

Under his gaze they could only nod.

Unaware of this, Meerwen beamed and bowed to the crowd as the medics rushed onto the field. Her leather armor was cracked, but she waved them aside.