Dragon Sacrifice (The First Realm Book 3) (13 page)

“You ever seen a funnier-looking thing?” a crewman asked, and that’s when the turtle surfaced. A huge head and shell burst out of the water and belly-flopped back into the sea, throwing spray in all directions.

It was colossal, one of the great leatherbacks that roamed unchallenged in an ocean full of krakens, leviathans, and sea wyverns. This turtle seemed to wearing a hump or a pack. I squinted and saw that it was a metal canopy. Water spouted from the compartment, arcing in the air and catching the early morning light. It was like a gigantic fountain.

“Is it sinking?” I asked Mina.

She shook her head. “It’s blowing its ballast tanks and running its firefighting gear. I told you he’d make an impression.”

Serrato seemed a bit put out at being upstaged. “Mister Skinner! Why have the fireworks slackened? Did I not say use
everything?
”

“Aye, sir. Lighting the last of it.”

BOOM.

Something shook the deck.

“What—”

“Holy—!”

“What’s going on?”

BOOM.

“Oh my god.”

“Wrong way!”

“It’s—”

“We put it upside-down!”

BOOM.

The cake firework exploded again. Planks flew and tumbled into the sea.

“My ship!” Serrato pulled at his hair. “My beautiful ship!”

Cruix bent over laughing.

BOOM.

Serrato threw up his hands.
“Whyyyy?!”

“Aahh hoo hoo ha hah!” Cruix was holding his sides. “I can’t—I’m dying—I can’t—
hooo
hoo hoo hoo!”

BOOM
.

“Fire on deck!”

Someone on the turtle must have seen. The leatherback swung around, water cannons jetting, and drenched us all.

“Ab! Glub!”

Next thing I knew, Meerwen and I were holding each other. My silver arm was gripping the rail.

Meerwen’s hair was plastered all over hair face. I, too, was in need of a comb.

Serrato tiled his head into one hand, to get the water out. “Everyone here?”

“Man overboard, sir.” A crewman pointed.

Cruix was treading water. “A little help?” he sputtered.

“Get him out of there,” Serrato said. “Now. Mister Skinner. Explain yourself.”

“I followed the instructions, Captain,” the halfling said. “T’was the writing on the the box that was upside-down.”

Serrato pursed his lips. “I shall write to the manufacturer. What kind of world are we living in, when we cannot trust our stolen goods?”

I put a hand down my pants.

“Assessing the damage?” Meerwen asked.

“Sorry,” I said, and pulled out a very confused fish.

Chapter 12: Heronimo

The Northlands! Home!

I stepped off the knarr and smiled. It was a beautiful winter morning in Heorot and the streets were already full of people.
My
people. More blue-eyed blondes than I had seen in a long time. More pale skin than was common among elves. Mind, plenty of my people were also brown of eye and skin, but they were a minority. Most humans looked much as our Norse ancestors did.

Finally, a crowd where I blended in: Strong, ruddy-faced children. Thick and sturdy tradesmen. Tall, swaggering warriors, ready to take on the World Snake itself. And that was just the shieldmaidens.

The women looked upon me with favour. I was not the penniless revenge-seeker I had been. Back then I’d had no property to my name, no kills to my reputation. I’d had to work my way to Brandish as a common deckhand because I had lacked money for the journey.

Now I was a man of some substance. That was evident in the wealth that I wore: My cloak pin was solid silver, intricately worked, a reward from a merchant I’d rescued from drowning. My belt buckle was heavy gold embossed with a snarling face. It was my share from when Angrod and I beat some bandits at their own game. Finally, my scabbard was encrusted with emeralds and rubies, a prize for defeating a capran swordsman. As well, my clothes were that of a prosperous Northlander. My cloak was silk trimmed with jaguar fur and my boots were dwarven tailor-mades. They were obscenely comfortable. Even my loincloth was designer.

Women admired my finery and men admired the way I carried myself. I was not the biggest man, but years of sparring against elves had given me an enviable grace. I was lean and light on my feet. This was clear to the other freemen, who nodded as I passed.

“It’s good to be back,” I said to Cruix. “It’s such a lovely day, too.”

“It’s fucking cold,” he said. Steam blew out of his hood, which he’d pulled up to hide his elven features. “I can’t feel any of my extremities. And I do mean
any
of my extremities.”

“This is merely brisk weather for Heorot,” I said. “Did you wear enough layers?”

“If I put on any more, I’d be waddling. That would ruin the whole Dark Lord effect I’m going for here.”

“You know that your cloak is beige-ish white, right?”

“It is the average colour of the universe.”

“It’s more of a light cream. That would make you, like, a Cream Lord.”

Cruix laughed. “Heronimo, did you just crack a joke? You surprise me.”

“I may not be as clever as you, but I’m not stupid.”

“I’ve seen you put your hands on a kettle to check if it was hot enough. Which it was.”

I blushed. “I was distracted.”

“Forget it. There are a lot of halflings here, aren’t there?”

“There are always a lot of halflings,” I said.

“But in Brandish they aren’t so poorly-dressed. Or so famished-looking.”

It was true. “But these are just thralls. Slaves. You can’t expect them to be as well-dressed or as well-fed as the people who own them.”

“Why not?”

I honestly didn’t know, and I said so.

“I am reminded of our secondary objective, to gather information,” Cruix said. “Elves know little about the Northlands.”

“Shit, they could’ve just asked me,” I said.

“There’s something to be said about gaining an outside perspective. Who better to do that than me, the eternal outsider?”

I clapped him on the back and half-hugged him. “You could’ve just said you were lonely!”

“Urrrgh!” He tried to wriggle free.

Garvel’s fortress stood on an artificial hill. It was ringed by a wooden palisade, a ditch, and an earthen wall. Though primitive by elven standards they were still formidable defences, and far from crude. They had a simple beauty. Motte, stockade, ditch, and embankment were all perfectly round. That last feature was covered in sod.

Gates stood at the four cardinal directions, their paths meeting in the centre. Inside were forty-eight longhouses, their roofs like overturned boats. There were four in a square and there were three squares in each quarter. Twelve courtyards. From above, Garvel’s compound would have looked like a grid within a circle.

We stood at the South Gate.

“Cosy-looking place,” Cruix said.

“Isn’t it?” I said. “I lived here for a while.”

“When did—” Cruix said, but then there were hoofbeats behind us. A column of riders was approaching. Hunters, from the looks of it. I recognized the leader, so I stepped into their path and held up my hand.

“Halt!”
I said, switching to Norse.
“No redheads shall pass!”

“What?!”
the leader bellowed.

“You heard me. No green-eyed freckle-faced carrots allowed in this fortress, by thunder!”

“Heronimo?”

“Ardel!”

Prince Ardel vaulted off his horse and tackled me. We rolled on the ground, laughing and wrestling.

“I never thought I would see you again!”
Ardel said, after we had finished greeted each other.

“This is amazing!”

“It is very good to see you,”
I said, helping him up.

“And who is your friend the cream lord?”

“That is Cruix, the last dragon,”
I said. “Cruix, this is Prince Ardel, King Garvel’s son.”

“Just Ardel, if you please,” said my childhood friend, falling into elvish. “I have been looking forward to the elven prince’s envoys since he sent these.” He waved a hand over their horses.

“Magnificent creatures!”

“Mina and Angrod has been planning this trip for some time,” Cruix said.

“I’m glad you like them,” I told Ardel. “My liege takes pride in his stables.”

“And I pride myself in my hospitality,” Ardel said. “Come with me to my hall. Tonight, we feast!”

Getting into the fortress would take some work. The gates were solid bronze and seriously huge.

“Each door is forty feet high, ten feet wide, and one foot thick,” Ardel said. “Together, they weigh well over twenty tons.”

“And each of the gates is the same?” Cruix asked.

“The four gates are identical, yes.”

“That’s a lot of door,” Cruix said. “Wait, why are you all dismounting?”

I stepped up to the left-hand door with Byrnjar. Eadric and Rangvald placed their hands on the right-hand door.

“The gates swing both ways,” said Orvar, Ardel’s half-brother. “But only in peacetime, of course.”

“Should we help?” Cruix asked. Orvar hadn’t dismounted.

“Eh, they can handle it,” Orvar said.

“Go!” Ardel said. His men and I threw ourselves at the doors. Together, we began to push the sons-of-bitches open.

I strained. Byrnjar was a head taller and bulky even for a human, but his face was red. Eadric and

Rangvald were up on the balls of their feet, shoulders tense and bulging.

“Come on, men, put your backs into it!” Ardel said. “Push!
Puuush!
But don’t forget to breathe!”

“Yeah, do your breathing, guys,” Orvar said. “People have fainted before.”

Shoulders shaking, back shaking, feet digging for traction, the gate finally shuddered. It inched forward. Slowly, slowly, the door began to pull apart.

“Come on!” Ardel said. “Come on!”

He stepped forward and placed a hand on each metal slab. With a grunt, he shoved the doors and they flew wide.

“How—?” Cruix asked.

Ardel laughed. “The hinges are well-constructed, despite their size. The gates are not difficult to open once you’ve gotten them moving.”

“It makes my brother feel so very strong,” Orvar said.

The guards strained at the great oaken doors of King Garvel’s hall. Four times the height of a man, they tapered to a point and were covered in carved vines, serpents, and kraken tentacles.