In the Shadow of the Dragon King (24 page)

He stared at a loose thread on his bedspread. What if more lies like this existed? Trog would be screwed. But of course, that was what Master Camden and Seyekrad wanted. They had done this. Damn them. They’d planted the letters so there would be inquiries. What a convenient, devious plan. They knew Trog would be arrested, charged with sedition. Treason. They would find him guilty, and he would be hung as a conspirator against the crown. Eric could feel his blood boiling. Yes. They’d had it all planned. The kingdom would be shocked, unwilling to believe, but unable to ignore, the written evidence. And the king? Why, with Trog out of the way, King Gildore would be devastated. His friend and confidant would be dead. Wrongly accused. The mages would deem the king unfit to rule in his grief and remove him from power, then take over until they appointed a new ruler.

Einar.

Anger exploded from his throat. The papers scattered in the air and floated to the floor. He stood and paced, huffing.

Damn those conniving, predatory bastards! How dare they!

Raging heat distributed throughout his body, his mind was in a whir. He had to stop it. He had to fix it, but how? Should he show the letters to Farnsworth and the others? Should he destroy them? The wrong choice could send Trog to the gallows.

He snatched up the pages and read them again and again. After some time, Eric ambled to the fireplace. Filled with an eerie calm, he cast the parchments, along with their handwritten lies, into the flames. They curled, sputtered and turned to ash, evidence gone.

Next he shuffled down the narrow passageway connecting his suite to Trog’s. It was highly unlikely anyone would be able to plant evidence in Trog’s room, but Eric couldn’t take the chance.

Over the next hour, Eric scoured the rooms, careful to return items exactly as he’d found them. Every page of every book was turned, every mattress, every cushion searched. Twinges of guilt flared in his belly. He could almost feel Trog’s eyes on him as he snuck around like a common thief, searching through drawers and clothes, looking for signs of a conspiracy.

Finding nothing, Eric sat for a moment on the edge of the bed and let out a heavy sigh. His thoughts rambled to his encounters in the cloisters and Avaleen, then to Sestian.

“Drat you, Ses. Where did you find those letters, and why didn’t you tell me about them?”

Eric stood and picked up Trog’s chemise that had slipped from the bed to the floor. A glint of gold beneath a chest under a window caught his eye. He got on all fours and pulled a small, wooden box from its hiding place.

He’d never seen such a beautifully carved box, the lid intricately crafted with a forest scene of a maiden, her hand on the neck of a large deer. Eric pulled out a chair and set the box in his lap. With great care, he opened it and withdrew a plain silver necklace, delicate in size. A tear-shaped filigreed pendant with a single sapphire dangled from the end. Next came a pressed pink rose and a sprig of dried wisteria. On the bottom lay a folded note, slightly yellowed and creased many times over.

Carefully, Eric withdrew the page, his hands trembling ever so slightly. He rubbed his hand over his mouth, his mind debating with his conscience about whether he should read it. He muttered a plea of forgiveness as he opened it and read:

My love,

How I miss your smile, your touch, your voice. Why must you be so far away? I lie awake at night and ponder how you are, wishing somehow I could release this burden from your shoulders. How lovely it would be to run away, to never look back, to be wild and free. Damn the restrictions of our stations in life. Why must we always do what is expected of us? When will we ever be free of the demands placed upon us? Please say you will dream of such freedom, with me at your side. My dearest, I shall never forget our moment in the garden. It is etched on my soul for all eternity. I shall never love another as I love you. Please write. If I cannot hold you, at least I can caress your words and sleep with them, pressed to my heart every night. Until such time we are together again, I shall always and forever be,

Your Gwyndolyn

Eric read the letter several times, each time choking back the emotion clumping in his throat. Trog had been in love, and someone had loved him, and yet he never uttered a word about it. How typical of the man to not speak of such a personal loss, as if he was immune to such things. It was one more secret in a puzzle of many. Eric folded the note and placed it in the box with all the other treasures and returned it to its hiding place. He thought upon Trog’s solitary ventures to the fountain at night, the way he always set a rose in the water. Suddenly he understood. Trog, for all his harshness, was, as Farnsworth said, just a man, and he’d suffered a broken heart.

Satisfied the rooms were as he found them, Eric returned to his suite, packed Sestian’s things away, and went for a walk. Later that night, when the moon was high, he sat on the edge of the fountain and set three red rose buds he’d gathered from the queen’s garden adrift, one for each night Trog had been away.

In memory.

In hope.

David and the others reached the I’ildril Road as the sun began its descent into the west. Through the thinning trees ahead, David glimpsed sunlight shimmering off the surface of the Gop River. A wooden arrow sign bore the names of three towns. To the east, over an arched stone bridge, lay Bybrook and Stonewater. To the west, down a narrow forest road, lay their destination, Gable. Trog shifted the bag on his shoulder and glanced behind him as if making sure all his ducklings were in tow, and bore left.

“Trog, can we rest for a bit?” Charlotte tossed her rucksack to the ground and sat on a boulder. “We’ve been traveling for hours. My feet hurt. I’m hungry.”

A subtle vibration in the ground turned Trog around. Two riders, clad in studded leather armor as black as the horses they rode, thundered toward them.

The riders slowed and set their horses prancing in a circle around Trog. Eyes peered out from beneath wolf-faced helmets. One of the horsemen pulled his sword and dropped from his saddle. He removed the metal helmet from his head. “Good day,” he said, his smile devoid of any hint of warmth. “Where might you be headed this late in the eve?”

Trog’s voice remained calm. “We’re on our way home to Gable.”

“Is that right?” He grinned. “I take it you’ve traveled this road before?”

“Many times.” Trog’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

The man chuckled. “Now that is a question, isn’t it?” He scooped Charlotte’s bag from the ground.

Charlotte went to protest. David grabbed her arm.

“There is nothing of any value in there, good man,” Trog said. “We’re traveling empty but for a few coins, if it’s money you seek.”

The man plucked a cotton petticoat from the rucksack and held it up by the tip of his sword. “Well, what have we got here?”

“Put my things down!” Charlotte shouted.

David squeezed her arm. “Shh! Are you trying to get us killed?”

The man’s mouth twisted in a malevolent smile as he stepped toward her. “Ah, what a pretty lass.”

The shime snapped together, their crossbows drawn, their arrows nocked before David blinked. He nudged Charlotte further back toward the bank of the river and assessed their surroundings. He found a spot on the opposite bank of the river he could ferry if need be, but he didn’t want to use his magic if he didn’t have to. Even though he’d spent the last few hours honing his skills, much to Charlotte’s and Trog’s annoyance, they were far from perfect. He also had no idea how Charlotte would react to being shot a thousand feet in a split second. Still, the leer on the man’s face ignited anger within him he never felt before, anger so intense it could light a bonfire without a match. He balled his right hand into a fist and imagined it planted in the man’s face.

“I suggest you drop the bag and move along,” Trog said. There was a smooth, sharp edge to his voice. He stood tall and straight, his shoulders squared.

Both men laughed. The one on horseback armed a crossbow and aimed the bolt at Trog. “You do not scare us, gypsy. Hand over your gold or we take your lives and the girl as a prize.”

Charlotte’s mouth fell open, her eyes filled with horror. David closed his hand on her wrist. “I won’t let them hurt you. Do you understand?”

She nodded and gulped.

Trog looked around. “I am not inclined to fight with either of you.” He withdrew a small leather pouch from inside his coat and tossed it to the ground. The coins clinked inside. “It’s all we have, so how about you get back on your horse and ride away?”

“From where I sit, you are in no position to haggle for your freedom.” The horseman pranced his horse around Trog once more. “I shall give you to the count of three to discard your weapons and the remainder of your money.”

“Good man, I beg no trouble from you,” Trog said. “I have nothing more to give you. Let us go, take the money, and I promise not to speak a word of this to anyone.”

The man on the ground stooped and gathered the leather coin pouch. He tossed it a few times in the air. “Why, there’s hardly anything in here. Where were you planning on staying in the river town with nary enough to you buy a pint?”

“We live there,” Trog said. “We are returning from a trip to Bybrook.”

“I don’t believe you,” the mounted horseman said, “and you know what I do with those I don’t believe?”

Trog’s sword hissed as it left its scabbard. The sound snaked up David’s spine.

The man on the ground flicked Charlotte’s garment into the air and charged forward.

Two crossbows fired. Two arrows whizzed through the air, both lodging in the man’s chest. The impact pitched the man backward before he crumpled to the ground on his back.

Charlotte wailed.

David clutched her to his chest, his thoughts, his body, numb. Frozen.

Death.

Destruction.

Blood.

The horseman raised his crossbow and fired.

Trog barked as the bolt lodged in his leg. He came around, slicing his blade through the rider’s leg.

Agimesh nocked another arrow.

Whoosh!

The horseman flailed back, an arrow to his heart. He teetered for a moment before he fell to the ground, his body still.

Trog bent over, his palms on his knees. Sweat dripped from his forehead. He grabbed the bolt in his leg, pinched his eyes shut, and wrenched it from muscle and flesh. There was a brief moan followed by a few curse words. He hung there for a moment before limping forward and collecting both horses.

“Agimesh. Tacarr, do something with this trash while I unload their belongings. David, gather both bags, and you and Charlotte come here.” He gimped back to his sword and wiped as much blood as he could from the blade with his shirt before sheathing it.

Agimesh holstered his bow and withdrew Charlotte from David’s arms. He led her to the fringe of the road, shielding her eyes from the carnage. Tacarr secured both the coin pouch and Charlotte’s bag and held them out for David to take. He tried not to look at the man sprawled on the ground as he collected his things, but the man’s empty eyes made him ill.

Tacarr carried the dead man to the edge of the river and tossed him in. A life, only vibrant moments before, was gone. He glanced at Trog and the two creatures, hoping to find some remorse, sadness in their eyes, but there was nothing. How can one kill and feel nothing? How were Trog, Agimesh, and Tacarr any different from the nameless men who had tried to rob them? The thought perplexed him and rooted him to his spot.

A splash sounded behind him. Another dead body discarded, left to rot in the murky waters.

David’s insides jumped as Agimesh placed his hand on David’s back. Warmth, serenity engulfed him, soothing the tattered edges of his mind. “Come,” Agimesh said. “It is time to leave.”

David met up with Charlotte as Trog hobbled from across the road in a new set of clothes, a tourniquet wrapped around his leg.

“That looks pretty bad,” David said. “Maybe you should help him.”

Charlotte snatched her things from David’s hands and shot him a look that could curl a lead pipe. “I don’t think so.”

“But you’re a healer now, Char. You need to practice.”

“No, I don’t.”

“But he saved our butts. It’s the least—”

“Shut up, David.” Her eyes were a conflagration of anger, and sadness, so much so, it was difficult to tell which burned brighter. “It’s not happening,” she finished.

Trog shoved his soiled clothes in his rucksack and tied it to the saddle of one of the horses.

“David, you will ride with me. Charlotte will ride with Tacarr. Agimesh, if you don’t mind, scout ahead. Make sure there are no surprises waiting for us.”

David nodded, his voice taken from his throat. Death had a funny way of doing that, transfiguring spirited creatures into muted, tongueless souls.

They ventured onto the road bathed in twilight. A light evening breeze skipped through the leaves. Nightbirds echoed from some distance away. The horses snorted as they made their way toward Gable.

The road passed under the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves. In time, the road opened to fields and farms. Yellow light filled the windows of small cottages. The Gop River edged its widening mouth closer to the road. Cogs, bathed in torchlight and filled with raucous music and laughter, floated up and down the water.

“How much further, Trog?” David asked, his eyes on Charlotte, who had said little since the attack.

“Not far now.” Fatigue adhered to Trog’s voice.

Was the man made of stone? David yawned and scratched the mark on his chest, now itching from the inside out.

A horse-drawn wagon, weighted with a full load of what looked like wine or ale barrels, bumped and swayed toward them along the riveted road. The driver, cloaked from top to bottom, pulled the cowl so far forward no part of him showed. Though he could not see them, David was certain the driver’s eyes locked on him as they passed. A shiver wiggled out of him. What had Trog gotten them into now?

The putrid smell of beer, rotten fish and sewage wrinkled David’s nose before they topped the small hill, and A-frame buildings came into view behind a massive and sprawling stone wall. Light spilled in a rich orange cream from wide windows. The smell of meat roasting on open fires triggered a grumble in his stomach. Music and bawdy laughter saturated every molecule of air. Through the trees, warehouses and docks crowded along the water’s edge and ships moored between spongy jetties. Two guards clad in leather and chain mail stood guard at the gates, pikes in their hands. Trog pulled up alongside Tacarr.