Gold Dragon Codex (4 page)

“Gallia said the room was fresh, and it’s one of our best. Nobody else was going to use it—”

“Sandon.” Vilfrand frowned. “I didn’t mean the room. I meant telling a wandering soldier the business of the barony.”

Knitting his brows, Sandon protested, “I was just being friendly! Did you see his sword? He’s probably a Knight of Solamnia, and we owe them our freedom from the army of the Dark Queen.”

“Sandon—”

“The knights are a force of good. Remember all those stories of Huma you told me? They’re heroes, and heroes show up when they’re needed most. Like here, in Hartfall.”

In a gentler tone, Vilfrand chided, “You can’t expect someone to show up and solve all your problems, Sandon. Not even a knight.” His hand squeezed Sandon’s shoulder. “And even if you could, Sandon, you can’t even be sure this man’s a knight.”

“But his sword—”

Vilfrand held up a hand. “Anyone can pick up a sword off the battlefield. Or seize it from the dead, if he’s a bandit.”

“He’s not a bandit.” Sandon stubbornly clenched his fists. “He’s a knight.”

Captain Vilfrand stopped in the middle of the hallway, hands on his hips, and fixed Sandon with a stern glare. “We don’t know anything about this man. He’s a traveler, likely a bandit, and he’s definitely a liar. You’re so fixated on that sword he’s carrying that you’re not using your head.”

“You’re acting like Father, always mistrusting everyone. Kine hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s a knight. He’s just tired from the war. Once he realizes how much we need his help, I know he’ll come around.” Sandon marched forward, toward the stairs that led down into the front hall. “I say we give Kine a chance. He’ll prove you wrong.”

“Sandon.” Something in the captain’s voice stopped him, and the boy looked back. A softness touched Vilfrand’s face, darkening his eyes. “It is a rare quality, to always assume the best about another person. Your mother had it too. It’s why my brother married her, and it’s certainly the reason Hartfall loved its baroness so
much. But you must remember—it’s also the reason she died. You can follow her good example, but be careful that you don’t imitate her failures.” Vilfrand cleared his throat and drew a pipe from his pocket, tamping down the tobacco that filled the bowl. In the silence that followed, he lit it from a lantern that sat on the hall table. The lantern cast stark, flickering shadows when he turned it up to catch the flame.

“Uncle Vilfrand?” Sandon stood with one foot on the upper stair, hand clenched at the mention of his mother. All thoughts of the wandering soldier in the guest room forgotten, he seized upon the captain’s reference. “Why doesn’t Father talk about Mother anymore?”

Vilfrand shook his head, his military stiffness returning. “That’s the baron’s business, Sandon, not mine. I’ll not interfere in his decisions on that score—and neither should you.” A puff of smoke from his pipe curled up into his thick, bushy mustache. “Baron Camiel has other problems on his mind right now.”

Sighing, Sandon answered, “Yes, sir.”

Biting on the stem of his pipe, Captain Vilfrand passed him on the stair. “Get along, now, and do your chores before dinner. Leave that blackguard soldier alone—knight or not, he’s more trouble than he’s worth. By honor and law, we have to give him three days’ rest,
nothing more. You remember that before you go making friends with him. Do you hear me? Sandon?”

Sandon said nothing, trotting down the stairs into the front hall as if he hadn’t heard the captain’s orders. After all, he thought to himself, what Uncle Vilfrand doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

he dining hall of the ancient keep had been made for seven tables, each large enough to seat thirty or more people. Two massive fireplaces, one on each side of the long room, could have held three men apiece even if they stood up and stretched their arms over their heads. The fires weren’t lit because the room wasn’t full—only one of the tables had been set, and even that had only a fraction of its places laid. Candles illuminated that corner of the room, and two torches brightened wall sconces, casting a warm amber glow over tapestries that might have been a hundred years old. The baron sat at the head of the table, Sandon and the captain to either side. A few others, townspeople and friends, filled out the other stations, but their voices were low and muffled in the massive chamber.

Sandon shifted in his seat, wishing that he was sitting closer to Kine. The baron had insisted on formal
seating, and as the heir, it was Sandon’s place to be beside his stiff, strict father. The conversation, such as it was, bored him to tears and all he could think about was how to ask Kine about his battles. Every time he brought it up, his father crushed the conversation, calling to Gallia for more water or bread. Positively frustrating.

He stared mournfully down the table, where the baronial wizard, Yattak, sat looking like a bloated red raisin. The fat old man shoved his plate away and clutched at the overly large mug of wine that Gallia slammed grudgingly down beside his food. His apprentice, a boy Sandon’s age named Umar, fluttered behind the wizard’s chair, nose wrinkled as if he feared the next demand. He twisted a napkin between his hands and looked neither to the right nor left.

Gallia brought out a single roast turkey to feed them all, and carved it into thin slices. With ten people to feed, the bird had to be stretched as far as possible. The rest of the dinner was less sparse but more humble, from boiled potatoes to steamed vegetables, a few cheeses and bread with a hard crust that cracked in Sandon’s hands. Kine sat at the far end of the table, shoveling food into his mouth with a speed that spoke of a familiarity with army grub.

Sandon watched him as he ate, ignoring the baron’s
pointed comments about running the barony. Nothing that his father was saying could be half as interesting as Kine. The soldier’s rugged face wasn’t handsome. He had a nose that had been broken too many times and thin lips. His sandy hair was shaggy, ragged around the ears and falling in clumps over his eyes. The man’s eyes really held Sandon’s attention, and he stared at them thoughtfully while he chewed another piece of tough bread. Kine’s eyes were sharp and hard, a kind of hazel-yellow that reminded Sandon of pale summer flowers on a wet brown branch. The man had worn his sword to dinner, ignoring Gallia’s less-than-subtle jibes about bringing his own dinner knife, and he refused to say more than three words in a row. Luckily, the baron didn’t seem very interested in Kine either, and kept his conversation to Guildmaster Torentine, who babbled on about fixing broken shop windows in town.

Putting his chin on his fist, elbow on the table, Sandon stared at Kine. What was it like to be a real Knight of Solamnia fighting a brave war against evil enemies? He tried to imagine Kine riding on the back of a tremendous silver dragon, lance in hand, plume flowing from a shining helm.

Kine slurped the last of his gravy, holding up the plate and scraping food into his mouth.

Ew
.

Gallia ladled another helping of potatoes onto Sandon’s plate, deliberately ignoring the soldier’s greedy noises behind her. “You eat all of these, Sandon. You’re a growing—”

She never got to finish the sentence. At the far end of the hall, the heavy oak doors flung open, letting in a gust of cold wind and rain. The table fell silent, all eyes snapping to the far archway as two guards struggled to push the doors closed. One of them stopped, staring at something out in the darkness, his hand snapping toward the spear he’d left at his post. He gripped the hilt, prodding the end of the spear forward in a military stance.

The guard let out a shout of warning, but even as the words left his mouth, a bolt of sharply lit electricity crackled in through the doorway, catching him in the chest. His plate armor sizzled with energy and he was lifted off the ground to skitter backward across the stone floor. On the other side, the second guard managed to get his spear into place and snapped the visor of his helmet down.

“Intruder!” the second guard cried out. He had the opportunity to swing only once before a second bolt struck like a serpent through the door. It roared over him,
tossing the heavily armored guard like a rag doll across the room. He crashed into the stone wall and slumped forward, spear falling from his limp hand.

A lone figure wrapped in a long brown cloak that swung and shivered in the storm stepped into the doorway. “Your Excsssellency,” it hissed, the
s
sound oddly emphasized. “I bring … greetingsss.”

The baron was already standing, Captain Vilfrand beside him with sword ready. Yattak’s bushy gray eyebrows shot up, and his beady black eyes fixed sharply on their visitor. The merchant dinner guests looked shocked and horrified, pale beneath the torchlight. The glassblower guildmaster, Torentine, clutched his napkin to his chest as though it might save him from some horrific fate. Kine stared at the intruder from the end of the table, munching thoughtfully on a forkload of potatoes.

“You were told never to come to my home.” The baron’s voice was as hard as iron.

“Timesss are changing.” The figure strode inside. It was tall, a bit more than eight feet, and lanky enough to slither rather than tromp through the door. Its step was light and smooth like a woman’s, but the clawed hands that reached to uncoil its brown hood and wrap were anything but human. The elegant, long fingers were clawed and covered in scales that formed a horrible
silvery blue pattern. The cloth slid from the creature’s head to reveal the long muzzle of a draconian.

One of the serving girls screamed and ran into the kitchens, dropping her platter of bread. Gallia clenched her white-knuckled fingers around the serving ladle, barking a short order to the other two girls to follow the first. Sandon sat frozen in his seat, sickly hoping to be allowed to remain—but staring at the men gasping for breath, still crackling with electrical energy on the floor. Sandon was suddenly uncertain if staying was such a good idea. He’d heard of this creature before. It visited his father on occasion, carrying messages for the dragon Lazuli, but it’d never before arrived so publicly, or so violently. Sandon had never been allowed in its presence. Now, he could see why.

“What do you want, Malaise?” Baron Camiel gritted his teeth. “You aren’t welcome here.”

“Flight Marshal Malaise, of the Blue Dragonarmy. I served at the Blue Watch in Neraka, I fought at the Battle at Fangoth Field, and welcome or not”—the draconian sidled forward—“here I am.” She—Sandon wasn’t sure if draconians had different sexes, but this one’s mincing step and shifting hips certainly seemed feminine—smiled, revealing two long rows of teeth. The baron did nothing but clench his jaw even further
as Malaise walked right up to the center of the room, a few feet from their dining table. “It is so very cold in here, good Baron. You know how my people hate the cold. Allow me to make the room a bit warmer so that we can chat in comfort.”

With a gesture, fire erupted from the draconian’s clawed hand, shooting forth from her palm to land with massive impact in the left fireplace. She twisted, battle ready, and did the same to the right, launching a tremendous ball of flame that crashed and detonated within the hearth. The fires lit the room in bold, stark contrast, casting great shadows to either side and illuminating the draconian. Yattak let out a small yelp and fell sideways out of his chair, his massive bulk landing with a
thump
on the stone floor. Guildmaster Torentine shoved his plate back, shocked. Sandon saw him palm a knife, sliding the sharp implement into his lap when he thought no one was looking. He sat calmly, holding it by the hilt beneath the table.

Snarling, Malaise turned to point at the baron, and Sandon’s heart leaped into his throat. Was she going to set him on fire too? “My massster, the proud and ancient blue dragon, Lazuli of the Iron Wing, requires further tribute,” Malaise demanded, eyes glinting in the light of her magical flames.

“Further tribute? We agreed to offer it only once a month. It’s been but a week since your last visit!” Captain Vilfrand burst out, face reddening. “By Paladine, we won’t offer more!”

The baron cut him off with a hand on the captain’s wrist. He faced Malaise stiffly. “Your master has already asked for his tribute this month. We have nothing more to give him. We are already scratching at dirt to have more for the next moon. If you take what we have now, this valley will starve.”