The Dragon Hunter and the Mage (27 page)

“You’re alive!” Clea said, wrapping her arms around Aric.

There were other displays of happiness, joy, and relief, but hers was the only one Aric heard. He had some trouble wiping the silly smile off his face after that.

Everyone else was there, which meant that he was the last one back.

“So, who’s the big winner?” Aric asked beneath a weak smile.

Please don’t be Ashur, please don’t be Ashur.

“The one-man-Company himself,” Saruk replied, placing a hand over Tharius’s shoulders. “Our volunteer was back before the second night. Truly impressive.”

Tharius turned red and Aric congratulated him. Boy, that was a relief.

“I guess you’re my new team Captain, then,” Aric told him.

“I guess so,” Tharius replied, smiling.

“Well, I’m happy that it’s you.” Aric took the Seeker pendant from his neck. “Here, instructor. I might have been the last, but I did complete the mission.”

“You tagged a Dragon?” Leth asked him.

“So did we!” Clea said.

“That means we scored two Dragons!” Leth said. “We can’t lose if we scored two Dragons.”

“Aric has to be disqualified,” Ashur interrupted. “He abandoned his team.”

“I didn’t abandon my team!” Aric replied. “I got lost in a sandstorm.”

Ashur burst out laughing.

“What sandstorm?” Clea asked.

Aric was dumbfounded. “What do you mean,
what sandstorm
? I was only a couple of hours away from where I left you guys when it hit me. There’s no way it didn’t hit you as well.”

“They must have confused it with the morning breeze,” Ashur said, and this time, Jullion and Prion joined him in his laughter. “I’m sure that happens a lot.”

“So the desert sun cooked his brain, who cares?” Leth said. “The truth is, he faced a Dragon on his own.”

“Leth is right,” Saruk said. “That does count for something.”

“What?!” Ashur demanded. “What about the rules? The last one back loses.”

“The rules said that, yes,” Saruk agreed, “but you also had to tag a Dragon.”

He turned around and looked at Nahir. The tall Cyrinian gave him a respectful nod.

“I’m sorry Nahir. Even if your man was hurt, you could have sent him back with an escort while the others continued. Your team was certainly large enough.”

“I understand, instructor,” Nahir replied. “It was a poor decision.” The Cyrinian walked over to Tharius and bowed. “It’ll be an honor to support your bid for Captain.”

“So…” Aric said, “am I still in the race?”

“You are,” Saruk replied. “And just like Tharius, you should be proud to have faced a Dragon on your own.”

“Actually,” Aric said. “I didn’t face the Dragon on my own.” He turned around and raised a finger towards a huge cat standing at the entrance to the fortress. By the look on everyone’s face, no one had noticed him yet. “I made a new friend.”

Too bad this was Aric’s only witness. If he couldn’t persuade the others about the storm, how were they going to believe the part about the creepy Witch who could tame Dragons? 

Chapter 11

Flames crackled, waking Fadan up, but he was too sleepy to open his eyes. It was one of those mornings when he felt so tired his body ached. He tried to roll to one side, but something stopped him, tugging at his wrists and feet. Opening his eyes just a tiny slit, Fadan looked at his hand and immediately woke fully.

There was a rope tied around both his wrists and ankles.

He looked around, dazed and confused. This wasn’t his room. It wasn’t even in the Palace. It was some sort of cramped, single room house with moldy, wooden walls. A man was sitting down by an open fire right next to the bed.

“Who are you?” Fadan demanded. “Untie me!”

The man stood up slowly, without a word.

“Who are you?” Fadan repeated, squirming as if he wanted to rip apart the bedposts he was tied to.

“Calm down,” the man said softly.

Instead of obeying, Fadan tugged at the ropes even harder but the man drew out a knife, freezing him. The blade shimmered with the reflection of the fire.

“I told you to calm down,” the stranger said, speaking in no more than a whisper.

Fadan’s eyes went wider as the knife came closer.

“No! Please, wait!”

The man placed the blade on Fadan’s wrist and
snap
! The rope became loose. Exhaling loudly, Fadan looked at his unharmed, and now free hand as the stranger proceeded to cut the remaining ropes.

“You were having these spasms,” the man explained, “while you were out. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself further.”

“Spasms?” Fadan asked.

“Head injuries can be messy,” the man replied, sheathing his knife. “What can you remember?”

Fadan’s eyes moved, looking for his latest recollections. “I was in the alley. Four sailors attacked me.” He sat up and pain immediately shot through his ribs, legs, and skull, making him cringe. “Then you… saved me.” He looked at the man. “Thank you.”

Kind blue eyes beneath thick white eyebrows returned Fadan’s stare. The stranger nodded and walked back to the fireplace. “Good,” he said. “It’s not as bad as I thought. You should be fine.”

There was a pot boiling above the crackling flames. The man stirred it.

“You must be hungry,” he continued. He picked up a wooden bowl and poured in a generous amount of whatever was in that pot.

A smell of meat and onions flooded the room, making Fadan’s stomach come to life, roaring.

“Hum… yeah,” Fadan said, accepting the bowl from the stranger’s hand.

It was a thick, dark stew. Despite its smell, there wasn’t any meat in it, at least not that Fadan could see. In fact, there was nothing swimming in that bowl. It looked more like porridge than it did stew, but Fadan was too famished to care. He started slow, with just a taste, but ended up devouring the whole bowl in a few rushed mouthfuls.

“It’s delicious,” Fadan said, gasping for air. He had been eating so fast he had lost his breath.

“I doubt it,” the man said. “But thank you.”

The man quietly watched Fadan finish his food. He was sitting by the fire, his fingers bursting through the tips of a tired pair of gloves, searching for the heat of the flames. His clothes reminded Fadan of Aric’s patchwork quilts, except these seemed to have been used to wipe soot off a chimney.

“I’ll pay for all this,” Fadan said, scooping the last smudges of stew from the bowl. “I mean, not right now. My money was stolen.”

“Not just your money,” the man said. “They also took your jacket and your cloak. Oh, and your boots.”

Fadan looked at his black, woolen socks and cursed.

“Don’t worry,” the man said. “I have an old pair of boots you can borrow. You look to be about my size.”

“Thank you,” Fadan said. “I’ll pay for all of this, I promise.”

The man did not reply, and instead just stared at Fadan intensely. It was a bit awkward.

“I…” Fadan mumbled, avoiding the man’s stare. “I guess I should be going. I need to get home. My parents will worry.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” the stranger said as if waking up. He rushed to a worn looking chest and removed a pair of old boots. “Here.”

Fadan thanked him once again and put the boots on. They were riddled with holes and carved at his feet with the slightest movement, but it was still better than having to walk back home in his bare feet.

“I really am in your debt,” Fadan said. “I
will
be back to repay you. I promise.”

The man nodded quickly, mumbling something. He was either very shy or very distracted, Fadan couldn’t decide. One moment he was staring awkwardly at Fadan, the next he was averting his eyes like a kid that had just been caught lying.

“Alright, then…” Fadan said, not really sure how else to say goodbye to the strange man.

He headed for the door and was about to open it when the man called, “My name is Alman.” It came out like a confession.

“Oh, it was a pleasure to meet you, Alman,” Fadan said. “I am…” He hesitated. “My name is uh…”

“I know who you are,” Alman said.

Fadan smiled weakly. “I’m sure you have me confused with someone else,” he said.

“My name is Alman Larsa.” This time, it sounded like an explanation.

Larsa?
That was vaguely familiar.

“My father,” Alman continued, “was the Duke of Niveh.”

Merciful Mother…

There was a good reason Fadan had trouble remembering House Larsa. They had been wiped out, branded as traitors during the Purge for refusing to kill Niveh’s Mages. They had even gone as far as closing the gates of their city to the Legions, but their rebellion had been a short lived one.

“I… I don’t…” Fadan mumbled.

“It was your mother’s birthday the other day,” Alman said, his eyes on the ground. He was smiling as if lost in some fond memory. “Ten years ago I would actually have been invited.” His smile vanished and he shot Fadan a serious look. “I know what you were doing at the docks.”

Fadan swallowed. “I… simply got lost, that’s all.”

“No one finds himself with Durul’s gang in an alley unless they’re trying to do, or buy something illegal.” Alman stepped closer to Fadan. “You were looking for Runium, weren’t you?”

“Listen, I already told you I’ll pay for your help and everything,” Fadan said. “My business in the Docks is none of your concern.”

“You don’t understand,” Alman said. “I can help you.”

“You already did,” Fadan replied. Then, as if putting an end to the conversation, he opened the door.

“Please, wait!” Alman begged. “Do you realize what this would mean for people like me?”

Fadan did, of course. If this man was telling the truth, he had once been rich and powerful. He should have gone on to inherit his father’s Duchy. Instead, he had become a fugitive, surviving in the slums.

“Were you looking for Runium?” Alman asked, his eyes watery. “Please, I need to know.”

Fadan sighed and closed the door. “Yes,” he said after an overlong pause.

Alman covered his eyes and made a sound that was something between a giggle and a sob. Taking a deep breath, he returned his gaze to Fadan.

“I knew it,” Alman said. There was wonder in his eyes. “The moment I recognized you, I knew it. I mean, if someone had told me I would have never believed it but… Do you have any idea what this means? For people like me? For everyone who survived the Purge?”

“No one can know about this,” Fadan said abruptly.

“Oh, I understand,” Alman assured him. “I completely understand, your majesty. But that’s exactly why you need my help. You can’t just roam around the Docks asking for Runium, it’s too dangerous. But I can get you all the Runium you need.”

“So… You’re a Mage?”

Alman shook his head. “No,” he said. “I was never blessed with the Talent.”

Or cursed…
Fadan thought.
Although in your case it didn’t seem to make a difference.

“But I work for a ship-owner,” Alman continued. “I know exactly who to talk to about these things. I will need some silver, of course…” He looked around. “Runium is expensive and, as you can see my… financial situation isn’t ‘ideal’.”

“Silver will not be a problem,” Fadan said. “All I ask is discretion. If my father ever found ou
t‒
”

“Of course,” Alman said, nodding. “You have nothing to worry about.” He paused, looking excited. “Oh, this is incredible! You have no idea.” The man looked so happy he seemed to be about to break into a dance. It was so contagious it made Fadan chuckle. “Could I ask a question?”

“Sure,” Fadan replied.

“How did you find out? About your talent, I mean.”

Fadan shrugged. “Not much to tell. To be honest, I never planned on finding out. The only reason I did was because my brother is as stubborn as an ox.”

Alman laughed. “I see,” he said. “So who is training you? I wonder if it’s someone I know.”

“No one,” Fadan replied. “I’ve just been experimenting with Runium and this book I found, that’s all.”

“You don’t have one?” Alman asked. “Your majesty, Runium is a
very
dangerous substance. You shouldn’t be experimenting on your own.”

“Trust me, I know,” Fadan said. “But how am I going to find a Mage?”

Alman smiled gleefully. “Well, you probably can’t, but I can.”

Fadan frowned. “You know Mages?”

“Do I know Mages? Your majesty, my brother
is
one.”

Becoming High Marshal had always been Intila’s dream, but it had quickly turned into a nightmare. A long, thoroughly documented and properly filed, nightmare. Everything always felt to be on the verge of collapse unless he read, signed in triplicate, formally submitted a reply, and then wrote down a report on the matter. Producing parchment, he felt, had to be the most lucrative job in Arkhemia.

He missed the field. Leading a campaign as soon as the snows melted, chasing the enemy across the hills until the time was right to do battle, crafting a victory out of the worst possible odds.
That
was a worthy life.

Not that there was ever any shortage of conflict in the Citadel, but it was a very different kind of warfare. One of whispers and words not said. War had raged inside the gleaming hallways of the Core Palace for as long as it had been built.

This past week, however, had been far bloodier than usual. Far too bloody for Intila’s taste, in fact. This level of violence, he felt, should be reserved to the battlefield.

“What is the point of an execution if the prisoners are killed beforehand?” Intila asked.

Chancellor Vigild stood beside him, flowing black robes over his tall, lean body. He shrugged. “The emperor ordered them tortured for twelve hours a day. What else did you expect?”

“I expected your people to pace themselves,” Intila replied. “Look at them.” He waved at the bloodied bodies in front of them. The pair dangled from the ceiling like old ragdolls. “The execution has been rescinded. They’re to be kept alive.”

The Chancellor tilted his head, examining the hanging victims. “So this is the famous Doric. All this mess over…
him
?”

“Will they survive the night?” Intila asked.

Vigild shrugged. “They might. My guess is the Emperor won’t care, so long as he can’t be blamed.”

“The Emperor
will
care,” Intila assured. “I have been told tha
t‒
”

“High Marshal,” Vigild interrupted. “Do not presume to know what goes on inside the Emperor’s head. You would also do well not to show such concern for the throne’s enemies.”

“What did you just say?” Intila asked.

If the Chancellor was at all intimidated by Intila’s tone, he did not show it. “The Empress’ concern for these traitors derives from emotional and personal attachment, and thus is easily understood. Yours is not.”

For a moment, Intila actually considered drawing his sword and slashing Vigild’s throat.