In the Shadow of the Dragon King (25 page)

“I cannot stress enough the importance of staying close to me. Do not wander. Do not speak to anyone, not even a chicken. Understood?”

David sighed.
Like I would anyway
.

He and Charlotte nodded.

“Good. Let’s go.”

Agimesh led the way beneath the arched gates of Gable. They moved through a series of crowded cobblestone streets, bounded high on one side by warehouses, the other side by a series of bordellos and taverns. At the first cross street they turned left, past doorways marking the shopping district.

They continued uphill, meeting with a busy street bathed in orange lamplight. Laughter and music rang from the inns. In the center square, people gathered around a huge fire pit where a boar roasted over an open flame.

Trog’s horse cantered ahead, and he dismounted outside a three-story stone structure with jutting balconies. David slipped from the saddle and glanced up at the oblong wooden sign. The Inn of the Nesting Owls.

Trog, Agimesh and Tacarr spoke in a huddle for a few moments, after which the two shime departed, taking the horses with them.

“Where are they going?” David asked.

“They will keep watch tonight.”

“Why? Don’t they need to sleep?”

“Not like you and I do,” Trog said. “They can go days without sleep. Come.”

David and Charlotte tagged along behind Trog, entered the crummy joint, and approached the bar.

Charlotte waved her hand in front of her face. “It stinks of sweat and vomit in here.”

David nodded in agreement.

Raucous laughter rang out from a group of men sitting at a table in the middle of the grungy room. Along the walls stood groups of men in drunken stupors, weaving and laughing and falling. Crumbs of food fell from a man’s wiry red beard as he bragged of his hunting adventures. Others shoveled food into their mouths while engaging in boisterous conversations.

A bald, burly man with a beak-like nose and tufts of hair protruding from his ears, stepped behind the counter. A single bushy brow shielded two small eyes, the right of which appeared milky and devoid of sight. He leaned on one arm and said, “What do you need, fella?”

“A room, large enough for myself and two other companions, as well as food and drink for one night.”

The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed as he licked his lips. “One night, you say?”

“Aye.”

The innkeeper rubbed his chin. “That will be twelve dracots.”

Trog leaned forward. “The sign above you says five dracots. I will be more than happy to give you seven for the extra arrangements, but no more.” He pulled his knife and laid it on the counter.

The innkeeper glanced between the blade and Trog, his fingers tapping on the counter. His gaze flicked around the room as if searching for reinforcements. Not finding them, he rubbed his chin, then his nose. “Nine dracots.”

Trog pulled a small leather pouch from the satchel and deposited seven gold dracots on the counter. He wore a look that said the haggling was over. “In which room shall we rest for the night?”

The innkeeper scooped the money and barked, “Garret?”

A tall, lanky boy about David’s age emerged from a room behind the bar, his blond hair straight about his face.

“Take this man and his guests to the third floor and put them in room twelve.” He handed the boy a key.

“Thank you,” Trog said, sheathing his blade. He gathered David and Charlotte to him and followed the boy.

Room twelve was rather small, but it did have three beds, a table, and five wooden chairs. David collapsed on a mattress while Garret lit the lanterns. The boy turned to Trog. “Would you care for something to eat, sir? We have stew, pottage and pork pies.”

“Stew for all. What have you got to drink?”

“We received a batch of coconuts from the Spice Isles three days ago. Outside of that, just the normal ale, tea, and cider.”

“Bring us hot cider, please.” He tossed the boy three dracots. “For your troubles.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” The boy ran from the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

With great effort, Trog removed his boots. A painful sigh escaped his lips.

Charlotte sat on the bed in the corner of the room opposite the door, her arms folded across her stomach. She stared at the floor, rocking back and forth.

Guilt stabbed David in the chest. What had he done? He should have protected her from seeing. From hearing. He should have ferried her across the river, to the manor, anywhere so she didn’t have to witness not one, but two vicious deaths. He sat on the bed across from Trog and yanked off his boots and wool socks. His feet were covered in raw blisters, but it didn’t matter. He’d failed Charlotte. He’d failed to protect her.

I’m such an ass!

A knock sounded at the door.

“Who is it?” Trog asked.

Garret answered. David limped to the door and admitted a girl about their age with straw-colored hair carrying a tray of drinks. Garret followed with the stew, his stare stuck on Trog. They placed the food on the table and faced the knight.

Trog stood before the girl. “What is your name, miss?”

“Gertie, sir.”

Trog handed her a handful of coins. “Give four of these to the cook. Divide the rest between you and Garret. Now, go, before you are missed.”

Gertie curtsied and deposited the coins in her apron. “Thank you, sir.”

Garret bowed, and followed the girl. David closed and locked the door behind them.

“What was that all about? Why did you give them all that money?”

“To gain their trust.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that. Didn’t you see the way they salivated over you? It was like they witnessed you parting the heavens or something.”

Trog snorted. “You have an active imagination, David. Come, let’s eat. Charlotte?”

“I’m not hungry.” She folded in on herself a bit more.

“I doubt that,” Trog said. “Come. You need to keep your strength up.”

“For what? To watch you kill more people?” Charlotte glared at Trog as if he’d grown two horns upon his head.

Trog tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it in his stew. “I did what I had to do.”

“Really?” Charlotte rose to her feet. “You had to kill them? You couldn’t have knocked them unconscious or something?”

Trog swallowed his food. “Do you believe that is what they would have done to you, my lady? Knocked us all unconscious, rummaged through our things, and tootled off with a few coins?”

“It’s not about what they would have done to us. It’s about us being better than them. You didn’t have to kill them. They may not have been good people, but they were someone’s husbands or brothers or sons. Now they’re dead because of you and those two shime murderers.”

“And you and your friend here are still breathing because of me and those two shime murderers. I took a bolt in the leg protecting the two of you, my lady, so do not lecture me on what I should or shouldn’t do to keep you both alive.” He dunked another piece of bread in his stew and popped it in his mouth.

Tears crept down Charlotte’s cheeks. “How can you be so cold? How can you kill people and then sit there and eat your dinner like nothing’s wrong? You’re a monster!” She folded in half. Her sobs ebbed out of her in waves.

“Call me what you wish, my lady, but I will not apologize for saving your life.”

David gestured for Trog to stop and took Charlotte into his arms. “Shh, it’s okay.” He glanced over her shoulder at the knight and mouthed,
It’s a long story.

David had no words to soothe her soul, so he said nothing. He simply held her until she could cry no more. Once her tears dried, he tucked stray wisps of hair behind her ear and brought her food to her. “Here.”

Charlotte blew her nose in a cloth napkin and sat across from Trog. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I know I must have come off sounding like an ungrateful brat. It’s just—my brother was killed in a war, a stupid, senseless war that wasn’t his to fight.” She turned her eyes downward. “Seeing those men die … it was too much. I saw Daniel’s face on every one of them … lying there bleeding … just empty shells. Was that what it was like for him? Was he alive one minute, and dead the next? Did he suffer? Did he know he was going to die?” Tears began anew. “I just don’t understand how someone can be alive one minute and dead the next. It just doesn’t seem possible.” She wiped her eyes and met Trog’s gaze. “Thank you for saving our lives.”

David stared at his food. “Yeah. Thank you.” He shoved a forkful in his mouth.

Charlotte stood. “Would you like me to take a look at your leg?” She let out a nervous laugh. “I’m not quite sure what to do with it, but if I’m supposed to be a healer, I might as well get started.”

Trog took Charlotte’s hands in his. A lifetime of sorrow, anguish, and understanding peered out from behind his eyes. “Death is never easy, my lady, no matter how many times it visits us in a lifetime. As many times as I’ve seen it, you would think Death and I would be great friends, but in all actuality, I try to avoid it as often as I can. You have not seen the last of Death, my lady, but I can promise you this. As long as I live and breathe, I will not allow it to take those in my care, not without a fight. Should death seek you or David again, I will not hesitate to provide it a substitute, even if the substitute is my life. Understand?”

Charlotte nodded.

Trog’s words swelled inside of David. This man who barely knew them had just sworn his life to them. The thought blew him away.

“Good.” Trog released her hand. “Now, eat.” A wide smile creased his face. “My leg won’t fall off while I’m waiting for you to fill your belly.”

Eric met Slavandria on the outskirts of Hammershire at twilight. Keeping to the shadows, they slipped into the clothier’s shop. Glass, soot, and ash lay settled upon the floor. An emaciated cat in a windowsill offered up a scratchy guttural protest and darted off. Eric opened a door at the rear of the shop.

Slavandria stepped through into a tunnel lit by sputtering torches. “Thank you, Eric. I’m glad to see your wounds are healing well.”

Eric closed and locked the door behind them. “Yes, Your Grace. I don’t know what I would have done if you and Mangus hadn’t shown up.” He plucked a torch from the wall. “I hope you don’t mind traveling underground to Gyllen. Sir Farnsworth said to make you as inconspicuous as possible.”

“This is perfect. No magic, no traces.”

They walked quickly, and in time, reached a set of stone steps rising into the darkness. At the top, Eric manipulated a series of stones until the door opened inward. If only it had opened so easily when they were trying to get the king and queen out of the castle. As they stepped into the courtyard, Slavandria paused, her eyes trained on a dozen men rooting through the wreckage of what remained of Festival Hall. She closed her eyes. A light breeze pushed against them. “They’re still alive,” she said. “All of them.” She swept her palm above the ground. Her lips moved, but Eric couldn’t hear the words. The earth grumbled ever so slightly beneath their feet. Slavandria cast a slight smile in Eric’s direction. “Living is much easier when freedom is unobstructed, don’t you think?”

“Y-yes, it is. W-what did you do?”

“I gave them hope, Eric. Everyone needs hope.”

“And your father?” Eric guided Slavandria toward the castle. “Would he agree?”

“My father is a perplexing contradiction. Sometimes I wonder if even he knows what he wants or believes.”

The warmth in her eyes made Eric smile. “That must be difficult to live with.”

Slavandria laughed. “It has its moments.”

They climbed the steps and made their way to the fourth-floor drawing room. Farnsworth greeted her as they entered. Eric closed the door.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. He gestured to his friends in the room. “You remember Sirs Crohn and Gowran.”

Slavandria nodded. “Yes, indeed.”

Everyone exchanged pleasantries and sat in upholstered chairs placed around a table.

Farnsworth motioned to Eric. “Have a seat, lad.”

Slavandria glanced at the knight, her eyes wide with surprise. “Eric’s staying?”

Farnsworth nodded. “Yes. Is this a problem?”

“It has the potential to be problematic.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

Eric sat beside Farnsworth. Sestian’s voice crept into his head.

Well, well. What a tantalizing puzzle piece. How can your presence be problematic? Interesting. You know, for a group of folks who pride themselves on honesty, they sure do keep a lot of secrets. And have you noticed they all seem to center around you?

Eric closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Go away, Ses.

“Are you all right, Eric?” Slavandria asked. “You seemed irritated, upset by something.”

“No. It’s nothing.”
Nothing but my best friend taunting me from the grave

Eric squirmed beneath the weight of her stare.
Does she know? Can she hear him?

She steepled her fingers and turned to Farnsworth. “I suppose we should start this meeting with why you asked me to come, other than the obvious reasons.”

Farnsworth propped his elbows on the arms of the chair, his hands clasped before him. “We need your help, Your Grace. Our borders are open to whatever Einar wishes to throw at us. We have it on good authority there is a coup in place with members of the High Council leading the way, including Lord Seyekrad. We need someone on our side, someone to intercede as well as reinstate the defenses that were in place before Einar’s attack.”

Slavandria’s expression darkened. “I am confused. What information do you have of Lord Seyekrad?”

Farnsworth relayed the information given to him by Eric.

She took a deep breath and laughed. Relief washed over her face. “Dear Eric, what a fright he must have given you. Please accept my apology for his behavior. Sometimes he gets carried away in the parts he plays.”

“What are you talking about?” Eric said with a scowl. “He held a knife to my throat and threatened to kill my father and me.”

“Seyekrad is working for my father. Do you not think Jared hears rumors? Do you not think he senses treachery? Lord Seyekrad has deliberately put himself in this situation to gain the favor of those willing to see Gildore removed from the throne. It’s all show.”