The Dragon Knight's Curse (The Dragon Knight Series Book 2) (3 page)

As we made our way up to the worn footpath, a figure became outlined by the red glow of the workshop’s entrance. The hammering stopped and a broader figure stepped behind the first. They each made their way down to us.

As expected from anyone in his profession, the older man was a well-built fellow, if a little stout. Despite the combustible danger it presented, a thick black beard concealed his lower face. The younger man, who also wore the blacksmith’s apron over his burly physique, looked to be about Marcela’s age. The girl child’s unblinking gawking of the young man told me that not so childish feelings were stirring within her.

“Sorry folks,” said the parched voice of the more mature blacksmith. “I’m not taking any requests right now. Maybe next week.”

Mistaking him for our leader, his words were directed at the oldest member of our group, but it was I who said, “Your sign works well enough, sir. We’re here to see Gwen Prothoro.”

“She hasn’t used that name in seventeen years. It would be Gwen Droland now. What’s this about?”

“Old acquaintances. If you please, can you inform her that Ghevont is here?”

“Ghevont? Vey’s brother?”

“You know Vey?” asked Ghevont.

“Aye. She visited a few years ago.”

“She actually visited?”

“You Ghevont?”

“Yes, uh, mister, sir.”

“Well, well, then this has been a long time coming! Peter, close down the forge for me… Did you hear me, boy?” The young man took his eyes off Marcela and ran back up the hill. “Now, if you’ll follow me, we can join Gwen and my daughter preparing our feast for the evening. My name is Cecil Droland. No need to introduce yourselves just yet. We’ll do that when everyone is gathered.”

“How is Gwen doing?” asked Ghevont.

“She’s the epitome of stalwart health and vibrant spirit. What about you? Your sister hardly mentions your state.”

“Oh, I’m well indeed. I merely lack some sun and musculature, things you’ve appeared to have gotten plenty of. Tell me, was your own father a strapping man?”

Clarissa chuckled. “Don’t mind his oddness too much, sir. He’s a scholar interested in many aspects of life, both small and large, but this has led to a lack of social poise.”

“I see.”

A dozen strides away from the house had us sniffing the boiling whiffs of chicken, sweet spices, and baking potatoes. Cecil opening the door had an almost solid cloud of this cooking wash over our faces. My stomach growled with the promise of a real meal.

“Gwen! Come meet our guests!”

From an unseen room, a high-pitched voice replied, “Guests? Is it the Warrens?”

“See for yourself!”

Hurrying out from a room to our right was a smiling woman with short brunette hair. The fine wrinkles on her fair face said she was closer to fifty than not, but besides being a little plumper than Ghevont described, she wasn’t too far off from that description. I lamented that I couldn’t see the body and face of her twenty year old self.

Her amber eyes swept over us until they spotted something familiar. She covered her open mouth with both hands, only to drop them at once. “Ghevont!?”

For the first time since knowing him, Ghevont initiated human contact. He walked up to her with spreading arms. She moved in and they met in a warm embrace.

“I knew you couldn’t stay away forever!” Gwen said in a sniveling voice. “What took you so long to come back?”

“Nothing, I suppose. Nothing but my own passiveness. I’m sorry.”

“No apology needed. Look how you’ve grown!”

Fulfilling my desire to see a younger Gwen, her daughter entered the room. She inherited some of her father’s features, such as her pronounced chin and broad shoulders, but she was otherwise a fledging version of her mother. Even the length of hair matched.

“Mother? What’s going on?”

“Melea! This is Ghevont!”

“Oh, Vey’s brother?”

“Do we have enough food to offer our guests?” Cecil asked his daughter.

She counted us and answered, “We should, as long as everyone doesn’t eat like you, Dad. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

“Excellent, then let’s move this gathering to the table.”

The rest of us introduced ourselves when Gwen’s son came in a few moments later. We next told them of the invented way we knew each other—namely, that the girls were Ghevont’s apprentices and I was their bodyguard.

“Bodyguard, eh?” said the blacksmith. “Where did you learn to fight?”

“Everywhere I’ve had to.”

“May I see your sword?”

“No sword play in the house!” remonstrated his wife.

“I only want to see its craftsmanship, dear.”

“I would wait until after dinner, Mercer. My husband is just a giant child and is bound to knock something off a shelf. Now, Ghevont, I’m glad you’re finally visiting, but is there something in particular that led you here? Are you in trouble? Is it your sister?”

I espied Ghevont from my corner seat, who briefly did the same to me.

“N-no, nothing in particular. Spending time with my companions here simply reminded me of past company.”

The conversation while we ate our chicken and soup was largely anecdotal. It seemed Gwen’s family believed Ghevont and Vey were related to her by way of a cousin I was sure didn’t exist. This imaginary cousin had died and so Gwen reared her children for several years before another imaginary relative took them north. Shortly after that and the children had gone their separate ways.

I kept quiet when possible, of course, but that didn’t stop Melea from taking glimpses in my direction. I conceitedly thought she was mimicking her brother’s interest in Marcela, but when I made eye contact with her, she didn’t smile or look away sheepishly. I soon realized she was smarter than the rest of her family—she was suspicious of us.

The crisscrossing dialogue went on well after dinner. At least the meal turned out to be good. The talking died down when everyone noticed a dozing Marcela. Arrangements were then made for everyone to find places to sleep. Marcela was given the lone guest room, which she would share with Clarissa. It was next agreed that Ghevont would take Peter’s room, while Peter moved in with his sister. My plan was to take the bed after Ghevont woke up, but for now, only Marcela went to sleep.

It took a half hour more for the other youths to follow her lead, so I just needed for the blacksmith to take his leave. Luckily, his arduous day of work soon wore on him.

After he could not stifle a yawn, Cecil said, “Well, there’s much to do tomorrow. I’ll have to bid you all a good night. How long will you be staying with us?”

“Not too long, I’m afraid,” said Ghevont. “A couple of days?”

“At least another night,” I said.

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” added Clarissa.

“Of course not!” said Gwen. “I wouldn’t mind if you all stayed the rest of my life.”

“I would,” I muttered below anyone’s hearing range.

The loud rabble of the house dropped significantly after Cecil left us alone with his wife. Going by the occasional twitch in her eyes and hands, she had figured out somewhere in the middle of the reunion that we must have known of Ghevont’s infamous last name. Still, I don’t think she was worried as much as she was trying to figure out the real reason for our visit.

Clarissa and I scooched closer to Gwen’s end of the table. With no one else taking the initiative, I said, “We know the real link between you and Ghevont.”

“I had a feeling. So you’re not a bodyguard, are you?”

“I’ll be whatever I need to be to find what I’m after.”

“Which is?”

“Did Riskel leave anything with you other than his children?”

“Like what?”

“Literally anything. A document? Information?”

After a half second of reminiscence, she said, “Oh! He did leave me a journal of his poetry.”

“What do you mean ‘his poetry’?”

“Just give me a moment and I’ll show you.” She left the room, returning in the promised moment. She handed me a little leather-bound book. “The only nonliving keepsake he gave me.”

Opening the journal, I asked, “He didn’t say anything about it?”

“No, only that it was something to hold me over until he came back.”

“Do you remember why he left? What he was after?”

She pressed a chubby finger on her chin. “He mentioned something about picking up an important book from somebody.”

“From Corbin Tolosa?”

“He never gave me a name.”

“Do you mind if I look over it?”

She glanced curiously at Ghevont, who nodded. “Sure, I guess.”

I was reading Riskel’s poem book a third time, so I was dangerously close to nodding off under the torchlight just outside the house. With the middle of the night being her domain, I wasn’t surprised to see Clarissa walk up and sit beside me.

“Find anything yet?”

“I’ve found that Riskel was quite sappy. He was also a terrible poet.”

“Really? So you don’t think there’s some kind of secret code you need to break? Maybe there’s a hidden rune or something.”

“No, Aranath couldn’t feel a trace of prana on any page, and while I’m uncertain of my decoding abilities, I know the staleness of these words alone would be enough to deter most from probing too deeply.”

“But doesn’t it sound strange that a man as smart as Riskel wrote so badly?”

“A little, but he could’ve been writing down to Gwen’s level.”

“So you’re saying a man known to have killed dozens of people for the sake of horrific experiments was a romantic? I don’t know if I find that funny or scary.”

“I would define ‘romance’ as a scary amount of feeling.”

“True. Hmm, I wonder whether I would have been smitten with Riskel? He seems to have been very charismatic for such a malicious man.”

“His goals were malicious, but I suppose the man himself couldn’t have been much different from Ghevont.”

“Uh, Ghevont isn’t exactly charming.”

“I don’t mean his personality, just the fact that most people don’t look like their true persona. If Riskel actually bore a likeness to the depraved caster many portray him as, then he would have been hanged years before he left Voreen. I’m sure most of his friends, colleagues, and strangers he passed on the street never knew what went on in his head.”

She leaned back in her chair and looked up at the sky. “Kinda like how I never saw Trevon’s true nature.”

“That’s different. You saw it, you just chose not to acknowledge it.”

“You’re right, they are different. Choosing to be blind is worse than having a real reason. If I only-”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Going over your mistakes. I know them, you know them, so there’s nothing left to do but move on. I made a mistake coming here, but I won’t waste time regretting it. We move on, that’s all.”

“I don’t think it was a mistake coming here. Ghevont and Gwen are obviously very happy they got the chance to reunite after all this time. Knowing Ghevont, he would have probably realized too late that he wanted to catch up with family.”

“I guess she would count as his last living family member.”

“Not really. Isn’t Marcela like family to him by now?”

“An odd family, but yeah, I suppose so.”

Smiling, she said, “We’re all rather odd, I guess.”

I didn’t like what she was forcing me to think about.

We persisted in silence as I pretended to read the poem book for another few minutes, but I couldn’t help ultimately saying what I was thinking. “You should really stop following me.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you might die, and that possibility is bothering me more and more.”

She blinked at me for a moment, judging my disposition and thinking of a response. When she came up with one, she said, “I don’t want you to die either. It’s why I
have
to keep watch over you. If you don’t want me to follow you headlong into danger, then
you
shouldn’t head right for it, but you will, so there’s no getting rid of me just yet.”

I think she expected for me to respond with some conviction-filled declarations, but I was too tired to keep talking. I shrugged and closed the book. Standing up, I said, “I’m going to sleep. Keep watch over the place.”

“Oh, uh, sure thing.”

Ghevont and Gwen spent most of the next day together. Marcela, interested in the blacksmith’s work for more than one reason, disbursed her time between watching Peter at work and being with Ghevont. Clarissa stayed glued to her bed for the early part of the day, but came out when the damp weather weakened the sunlight to the point even a starving vampire wouldn’t be troubled by it.

I was left to my own devices, which included showing Cecil my blade. The experienced blacksmith was quick to comment on the steel’s masterful craftsmanship. By looking down its edge and flicking it with his finger he concluded that the steel had likely been forged using a lengthy antique process that required the precise involvement of a skilled caster.

“Where did you obtain such a fine blade?” he asked me while cutting the weapon through the air outside his smithy. The sword sang with every swing, though my own evaluation told me he only had a basic understanding of swordsmanship.

“I found it in an old ruin.”

“Really? Which ruin still carries treasures like this one?”

“A forgotten one. I only accidentally fell upon it, and that blade is the only reason I stand here today.”

He put the sword back in its sheath and said, “If I could forge a sword like this, I would be working for kings. Keep it close.”

“I intend to.”

That was actually the second conversation I had with Gwen’s family that day. The first occurred after I awoke to alleviate Clarissa from her night watch duty. I wandered the premises thinking I was the only person now stirring, but when I ambled to the back of the home, I saw Melea feeding grain to about fifteen chickens. I would have preferred to avoid her, but I was doing nothing to muffle my walk, so she heard my approach and turned around.

“Good morning, Mercer,” she stated with a drowsy voice she failed to hide. Some light drizzle fell from the gray skies, but nothing that could bother a butterfly in its flight, so I doubt it did much to stir her.

“It sounds as though you could have slept more of it away, Ms. Droland. I apologize if our presence has disturbed a restful night.”

“All your presence has done is made me have to sleep in the same room as my brother, something I haven’t done in ten years. That is far more disturbing than any stranger’s presence.”

“If that remains your biggest disturbance in life, then you can say you’ve lived a good one.”

“Or one that has been far too quiet… But do you think looking for the best of what life has to offer also means inevitably seeing a few disturbing things as well?”

“I believe the best and worst can come right to your door, whether one seeks them out or not.”

“I imagine being a bodyguard means having disturbing things come at you more often than not.”

“Sure.”

She went back to feeding her clucking chickens. I read this as my cue to leave, but before I took a step a full step back, she asked, with rather abrupt conviction,” Are you really a bodyguard?”

“That’s the story I’m sticking with.”

Facing me again, she said, “So you aren’t one?”

“Not officially, but I act like one sometimes.”

“Then who are you? And why the lies?”

I remained silent, my eyes boring into her own.

When she finally flinched, she said, “What are you doing?”

“You’ve been wary of us since learning Ghevont was Vey’s brother, yet you aren’t afraid of me. I can even guess you haven’t told your brother anything of your suspicions, have you?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Because it tells me you’re upset with your mother, not worried about danger. Do you believe Ghevont and Vey are your half-siblings?”

Forgetting herself, she said her “No!” louder than she wanted to. She collected herself, smoothed her apron, and continued by saying, “You presume too much.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps. I can only assure you that Ghevont is not a long lost sibling. If you want to be eased further, I can also tell you that you no longer have to worry about Vey ever returning.”

“You mean Vey is-”

“I wouldn’t tell this to Gwen. Despite the woman Vey turned out to be, your mother would only remember her as a loving child she helped raise.”

“I did not want more secrets, Mr. Bodyguard.”

“Sometimes we’re lucky if that’s all we get. I wouldn’t concern myself with your mother’s past. It appears she has largely moved on from it.”

“All the more reason to share it with me or father.”

“That’s what deathbeds are for.”

“Is it really as bad as that?”

“No, but it might make you think less of your mother, something a mother might wish to avoid.”

“All you’re doing is increasing my need for answers.”

“So speak with your mother about it. I’m only saying it would be unnecessary. It’s certainly something that can’t wait until I’m days away from here. Besides, I have no doubt you’ll someday have your own secrets to keep from your parents and children.”

“Did you get whatever secret you were looking for?”

I bowed. “I’ll keep that to myself.”

The ultimate goal of Dranall was over three thousand miles away, so I was eager to restart my journey. I set that restart time for noon the next day. Everyone appeared sadder at the impending separation, which I expected between Gwen and Ghevont, but for even Marcela to display genuine regret surprised me. It reminded me that I was just as ignorant about the formation of human connections as the scholar was.

I expended much of my time looking over maps, making sure we traveled on routes clear of human congestion. My group enjoyed another supper and breakfast with the family before getting ready to leave. Gwen, using the soggy weather as her excuse, wanted us to stay longer, but I assured her that only a tempest would dampen my purpose. Not long after they supplied us with good foodstuff and wishes of luck, we were off.

The loquacious scholar kept in contemplative silence for the rest of the day, but his usual mood returned after our first night’s rest in the wilderness. For my part, the words that came out of me were often related to battle preparation—whether that came in the form of Advent, trolls, an army of drunk pirates, or a petulant child. I specifically needed Ghevont to use his variety of spells with a warrior’s fortitude and instinct, especially in ambush situations. More than anything, I wanted him and Clarissa to work well together.

The basic plan was to always have Ghevont fight defensively with his array of ward spells and distractive techniques while Clarissa made certain no one reached him or Marcela, who was to always stay right behind her friend. I would, of course, act as the main offensive pawn, moving about as I saw fit in a fluctuating battlefield.

In addition to practicing strategy, there was practicing our individual casting ability. Clarissa focused on strengthening her water spell. She accomplished this by trying to douse my dragon fire as quickly as possible, which I manipulated to last as long as possible. With Ghevont’s guidance, the vampire was also training to turn her water into ice and steam. In anticipation of living with the Warriors Guild, Marcela also joined our training regimens. She did not yet have the endurance to train for extended periods, so much of her time was spent getting her stamina up with the fundamentals. Ghevont and the girls mostly trained among themselves, but I occasionally provided input when I saw something not to my liking.

With a pair of people not acclimated to lengthy travel, combined with tiring combat drills, I was more inclined to pay for a carriage ride. It was on one of these rides that the chance to test our battle capacity presented itself one muggy evening. My quiet quartet was on a small cart being pulled by a large horse and its gaunt, dark-skinned rider. The bumpy road we traversed was a solitary one, with tall trees making it darker than it already was.

The first sign that something was not so tranquil about this leg of the journey was the far off neighing of several stressed horses, neighing that closed in from behind us. Stamping hooves and excited shouts from humans followed an instant later. All this sounded quite familiar to me.

We were at the bottom of a hill, so I hoped we could avoid what was coming by remaining incognito. “Get us into the forest as soon as you can,” I told the rider.

“Why?” asked Marcela. “What’s going on?”

“Sounds like incoming bandits, but they’ll hopefully pass us by if we hide well enough.”

“Hide? Shouldn’t a mighty dra-” My hand covered her mouth and I used the other to point at the stranger in our midst. She pushed my hand away and said, “Whatever! Be a coward.”

The cart found cover behind some bristly bushes just before the first pair of centaur-like figures appeared over the hill. Behind them was a thundering stagecoach pulled by four horses. The overwrought beasts were being whipped to their limit by their human director. The top of the stagecoach also held two archers, who did their best to keep the bandits at bay with a flurry of arrows. One arrow found its mark in a brigand, knocking him off his horse, but his companion nearly knocked an archer off the carriage when a fireball exploded at the carriage’s roof.

Three more hollering horsemen arose behind the stagecoach.

“Mercer,” whispered Clarissa, though we were still far away enough to speak normally without the aggressors hearing us. “Shouldn’t we help them?”

“An unnecessary risk. We’ll let them pass and go around wherever they end up.”

Clarissa’s eyes narrowed to the point I believed she was capable of acting out her vampiric nature on me. In lieu of piercing my skin with her fangs, she leapt out of the cart. I groaned as I followed after her. I firmly ordered Marcela to stay with the cart and motioned for Ghevont to trail Clarissa. The stagecoach had reached the hill’s nethermost by the time my squad reached the edge of the road, meaning the vampire’s targets were less than forty yards away. I held back Clarissa’s impromptu body with an arm and pulled out my distractions.

“Just knock them off their horses,” I ordered Clarissa. “I’ll handle the rest. Keep any spell from hitting her, scholar.”

When the inbound party was a second closer, I stepped out from the forest and stood in the center of the road. Before anyone of them reacted to my presence, I chucked three explosive stones over the head of the nearest bandit. The flash-bang made the bandit’s horse rear up high enough to drop its passenger. The stagecoach horses responded by swerving sharply away from the unpleasant effect. Their panicked hooves trampled over the fallen bandit and shoved their fellow beast aside before slowing to a stop at the road’s edge.

At the same second the stagecoach horses were stomping his comrade to death, the second bandit saw one of two versions of me rushing at him. This fleeting illusionary diversion was all that was needed for Clarissa to propel the grunting second bandit off his steed by a jet of water. The archers, seeing whose side we were on, trained their few remaining projectiles on the three other attackers. The bandit Clarissa swatted to the ground had no time to get his bearings before Aranath introduced himself to his neck. Both archers displayed the same amount of mercy.

With the odds flipped against them, sword, spell, and arrow made short work of the now reticent robbers. The last bandit almost galloped behind the shelter of the trees, his glassy ward spell strong enough to deflect the bitter bolts, but the gray haired archer nocked his arrow and told his younger compatriot to “Wait until he’s on the ground.” His keen eyes trailed the escaping horsemen for a moment before letting his arrow fly. The projectile struck the horse’s foreleg, making it tumble. An arrow from the younger archer flew next, an electrical light enveloping its broadhead.

“I got him.”

“Go make certain, and end the horse’s misery as well.”

They each hopped off the stagecoach to inspect the damage. As it turned out, the only passenger was an old man, an old man who believed the newcomers were just as apt to rob and murder him as the bandits. The rider and archers were more grateful for the aid, but offered no material thanks beyond a few spare coins. Clarissa only took the coin so she could give it to our own driver.

“I hope you’re not angry with me,” said Clarissa when we were back on our moving cart.

“I’m not angry.”

“Really?”

“Well, I’m annoyed, but you still have some leeway with me, especially after I didn’t tell you about Aranath. Just be aware that this flexibility can only stretch so far. Choose wisely which fights you throw us in.”

“I don’t
want
to throw us in any fights, but I can’t just let bad things happen right in front of me.”

“Bad things are sometimes done by good people. Yes, the bandits we helped execute would have killed those on the stagecoach, but do you know who those on the carriage were?”

“Just some rich old guy and his bodyguards.”

“Why would a rich old man be on a lonely road with only a pair of archers defending him?”

“That does sound odd,” said Marcela. “You’d think he’d hire more guys.”

Concurring with her, I said, “You can also imagine an ordinary old man unused to danger would be more appreciative of our efforts. No, the real owner of that stagecoach would have been surrounded by a large escort on a road such as this. A well-to-do merchant or sariff farmer would also never wear the leather armor I saw under his cloak. Most people with coin never admit to themselves that attackers could reach them and so don’t wear protective gear.”