Quest Of The Dragon Tamer (Book 1) (17 page)

As Fraul topped the final hill overlooking the small port city, his heart jumped. The outline of Ramie’s ship could be seen in the distance, but it was already too far out to reach. Ramie had waited for him for as long as he dared. Fraul cursed, for now not only was Ramie unreachable, but his king was also steering the massive ship into the ten winds to make up for lost time.

“Damnedable cocky-ass king,” Fraul said. “Just don’t get yourself killed.”

Fraul reined in his dappled mare and watched the distant ship. He let the chill breeze cool him as he patted his mare’s side. She hadn’t protested when he had pushed her to her limits, and now that he had missed the ship she deserved some pampering. Fraul rubbed his goatee and mulled over his options. He desperately wanted to reach his king, but there was no fast solution.

If he tried to obtain passage on the next boat to Oldan it would be on a merchant ship that would make frequent stops, delaying his homecoming for over a month. If he rode on land it would take him almost as long, but he would be moving, doing something. Just the thought of sailing for weeks on end nauseated him. He was a man of action. Sitting to him meant sitting in the saddle and going somewhere. Besides, if he traveled by land he might be able to detect Ren’s trail, and if he had to bet, Ren would begin his search at the ruins of the Alcazar. The ruins of the Alcazar were near Yor.

With the decision made, Fraul turned the mare toward the small port town. He would need supplies. Patting the large bag of gold in his pocket, Fraul muttered small curses when he realized he would have to wait a degree or two of the sun before market activities commenced. Although he hadn’t slept, he was far from tired and itched to get started. A trek across country would be an adventure. Although his old bones were rickety, they weren’t buried yet.

When he reached the main road he scanned the town for any sign of life. It was a typical port city, the largest buildings being inns and bars. Most were well tended, and some were painted in bright, cheerful colors. The streets were clean and lanterns lit the area in a soft orange glow. Heavy flat stones were placed at intervals beside the shops so patrons could keep their ankles free of mud and debris on rainy days. Peddlers were beginning to set up their booths for the day’s market. A few stopped long enough to nod as he passed.

People were just beginning to emerge from the inns and outlying houses as Fraul rode down the street, stealing quick glances into the shops, mentally keeping tally of where he would return. First, he needed a tailor. Traveling clothes could be fitted to his specific measurements while he purchased other supplies. He didn’t want to travel in uniform; he wanted to be inconspicuous, and his uniform was far from that.

At the end of the street Fraul surveyed an inn and an adjoining bar called
The Crown Prince
. A few of its boards appeared recently replaced. The light pink of the new wood stood out from the old, grayish structure like two war wounds. He liked places with character, and by the look of it,
The Crown Prince
was a favorite among the rougher crowd. He chuckled. In his younger days he had seen the insides of even rougher places.

A stout whiskey suddenly sounded good to him. His mouth began to water.

Fraul dismounted and tied the mare to the railing outside, pausing to scratch the animal behind the ears in silent thanks for the quick journey. As he walked inside the smell of malt ale emanated from the floorboards. At first he didn’t see anyone in the small room, but after a few heartbeats a young woman popped up from behind the bar, washrag in hand.

Fraul inclined his head. “I’ve had a long night. Would you be able to supply me with a stout whiskey?”

The barmaid looked as run-down as the place. Some of her dull brown hair fell out of her cap and a few dirt smudges graced her left cheek. She surveyed him with a quick glance before reaching behind her for a whiskey bottle.

Fraul sat at one of the tables and stretched his legs. He had been right about the bar being raucous. Two fallen tables and a broken chair from the previous night’s fray lay in the far corner. The chair next to him had a battle-scarred arm, reattached with heavy burlap and wire. Testing the arm for strength, he was pleasantly surprised to find it sturdy if not altogether comfortable.

The barmaid set down a glass and poured the whiskey. “These days, not many people ask for a whiskey that way,” she said. Her voice was soft but slightly rough, like silk across granite. Fraul liked a coarse texture to a woman’s voice. It gave her character. He let her question linger to ingrain her voice to memory.

“How do they ask for a whiskey then?” he asked, taking a sip of the liquid, relishing the trail of fire it left as it slid down his throat. It wasn’t as strong as he would have liked, but most of the rougher places watered down their whiskey in the hopes of keeping the patrons restrained for as long as possible.

“They usually just demand it.” The barmaid tucked a strand of hair back inside her cap and surveyed him again. Finding what she saw acceptable, she nodded. “Just holler if you want another. I’ll be in back.”

Fraul lifted his glass in thanks and watched the woman disappear though a back door. He was glad she didn’t want to make small talk. He felt like being alone with his thoughts. He took another sip, tallying everything he would need for the trek cross-country. The supplies would be tricky. He didn’t like the idea of venturing into another city to restock. He needed to estimate future needs to precision. Chaos was sure to break loose now that Ista had declared the training of the Collective. People would be mad to learn the Quy.

He rose, draining the last of his whiskey. Although another would be to his satisfaction, the stores were sure to be open. As he threw down a gold piece and turned to leave, a shrill scream came from the back. Fraul spun, unsheathing his sword in one swift motion, and darted toward the sound, all the while wondering how he always landed right in the middle of trouble.

As he rushed through the back door he looked around for a disturbance, but saw none. The barmaid stood before an open door that led to the outside alley, a large bag of garbage dropped at her feet. The bag, bursting at the seams, was beginning to leak a thin trail of liquid, smelling of stale ale and day-old meat. The girl put a quivering hand to her face and slowly backed away. When her dress moved out of the doorframe, Fraul’s eyes went wide.

A man, shaking and slightly damp from the morning’s mist, crouched in the doorway without garments or covering. Wavy black hair reached just below his shoulders, and his forehead rested against the hilt of a golden sword. As Fraul watched in stupefaction the man raised his head and looked at the woman. His hazel eyes, so light they appeared golden, held no malice or evil intent, much less any recollection.

Fraul’s looked from the golden eyes to the hilt of the sword. Etched on its surface was a woman, bound in shackles and bleeding from the heart: the sign of one betrayed. Without a doubt, Fraul knew what was on the other side of the hilt. A portrait of a man with a handful of money, dying as a golden blade drank the lifeblood from his heart, the very golden blade now before Fraul: the sign of the Avenger.

Fraul glanced back to the man’s eyes. There could be no mistaking their power.

The Avenger had been born again.

- - -

Lorlier glanced back toward Stardom and chewed his lower lip. “May the Maker have mercy,” he said for the thousandth time as he mounted his warhorse. When Ista had suggested everyone with the Quy remain behind, he had ordered his men to return to camp. He wasn’t about to release his soldiers, not until he had done a great deal of thinking.

After magic’s rebirth, he craved the long ride. He needed the wind in his hair, the smell of horses, solid ground, something he understood, not all of this humbuggery of magic.

But the Quy was something he had to face sooner or later. He was no fool. He knew many of his men wanted to train under the sorceress. Could he blame them? Magic was enticing.

The Quy, it was something he thought he would never have to deal with in his lifetime.

Turning, he scanned the troops for Marianne and Alise. Alise was talking to a of group high-ranking soldiers, batting her eyelashes with newfound confidence, not that she had lacked any before. Lorlier sighed. Alise was a boiling pot of trouble. Now she would be downright incorrigible. When the power had been reborn Alise’s scream had scared the holy dragon’s dung out of him, but the Maker had blessed the right child with the gift. Alise was the strongest of his children, and if he could have his pick would be the child who inherited the throne. Not even Davis matched her fire. But she was the youngest, and a daughter besides.

He scanned the throng for Marianne. As normal, Mari was off by herself, well away from the soldiers. Praise the Fates his Mari had nothing of the Quy, but even without the burden of the gift he still worried about her. Since leaving Zier a haunted look had lingered in her eyes. He had disregarded it at first, thinking it was just her nervousness about the ball. Marianne was extremely shy, like her mother Desra, and always grew nervous at such events, but now Lorlier thought her frightened look may be related to the Quy.

Lorlier heaved a sigh. Marianne was over twenty-one, past due for a husband, but he couldn’t bring himself to agree to any proposals for her hand. Marianne needed someone special, someone who loved her completely. If Marianne were Alise he would have accepted a proposal long ago, for some of Mari’s suitors held a spark in their eye when they looked at her. But he knew there was no love in those looks, only attraction. Alise would have nabbed the first attractive, powerful man she could find, but Mari shied away from everyone.

Well, everyone except Korin. Lorlier sought the white-gold hair of Korin. As usual, Korin was off by himself, and every so often his tender eyes sought Mari, making sure she was out of harm’s way. Despite Korin’s quiet manner he was extremely popular among the men, and one of the first sought for fun or sport. When Korin put his all into a job it was more like ten men than one. At times Korin wouldn’t stop working until Lorlier himself ordered him away. It was as if Korin were trying to work off a debt or punish himself for some past deed.

If it was Korin’s persistence that had first caught Lorlier’s eye it wasn’t what had won his heart. Korin loved Mari with everything he had. Mari didn’t know of course, but Lorlier did. A father could always spot a man who would lay down his life for a daughter, and Lorlier was convinced Korin would lay down his life if it would save Mari a broken finger.

Although Lorlier couldn’t be certain, he thought Mari loved Korin as well. Mari was an enigma, even more so than her mother. Lorlier had never understood how one could be so shy, so scared, and be a daughter of a king, and beautiful besides. Lorlier decided to talk to Mari soon. If his daughter loved Korin she would be the first heir to marry someone without title. He glanced at Korin, an idea forming in his mind. Korin had the gift, and Lorlier may be able to create a position that would guarantee Korin even greater respect among the guard. If Korin did well Lorlier could grant him land and a knighthood. Yes, that was exactly what he would do. Korin would become a lord, a knight of Lorlier of Fest, and he would wed Mari and love her completely.

Davis rode out of the woods with some wild chickens tied to his saddle. Lorlier smiled. At least Davis still acted normal. At twenty, Davis already matched Lorlier’s size and had a mind as sharp as a double-edged sword. His dimpled chin and boyish good looks had already won every female heart in Fest. Lorlier had caught his son stealing kisses from almost every attractive maid in the keep. But how could he scold the boy when he had done the same at Davis’s age? Davis glanced his way, smiled and saluted. Lorlier laughed and saluted back.

An approaching horse caused Lorlier to turn. His captain, Gregory, rubbed his long dark beard and nodded in Davis’ direction. “Davis seems unaffected by the recent events, does he not?”

Lorlier chuckled. “Lucky for him.”

Gregory raised a thick eyebrow. “Is the great Lorlier a little shaken?”

Lorlier shook his head, smile withering. “I just don’t know what to make of it, Gregory. I want to push magic away, hoping it will leave, but I can’t do that, especially with Alise and a quarter of my men under its power.”

“I know, my lord. What are your thoughts?”

Lorlier sighed. He neither understood nor liked his thoughts. He didn’t like being indecisive and that was precisely how he felt. Lorlier spurred his horse into a canter and motioned for Gregory to follow. When they were a fair distance from the men, Lorlier stopped and looked over at his captain.

“Gregory, you saw what happened. Ren attacked Valor and all the guard went after him. Although I have a bad feeling about Ista, how could all the guard be wrong?”

Gregory cleared his throat. “Excuse me, my lord, but I didn’t see that. I saw chaos: men running to protect their prince, men running to protect their king, and men from other nations acting instinctively to save the king. I also saw many hesitate, due to the fact they believed in Ren but were loyal to the king, or because they believed in the king and feared Ren.”

“That doesn’t help me, Gregory.”

A small smile spread to Gregory’s thin lips. “No, my lord.”

They rode in silence. After a time Lorlier nodded, thinking of his plans for Korin. “I believe I’ll be neutral for now.”

Gregory’s dark eyes flashed with mild amusement. “Neutral? I don’t know if you have it in you.”

Lorlier didn’t respond. How could he tell Gregory his mind told him Ren was a power-hungry young man? After all, the prince had killed his father, used the calling power to escape justice and fled, but in his heart Lorlier felt something wasn’t quite right with that scenario. The man he had seen fighting the dragon was one of two things: being used as a scapegoat or putting on an incredibly good show.

Lorlier didn’t like being neutral, but what else could he be? Until he had more of an inclination that was all he could be.