The Forging of the Dragon (Wizard and Dragon Book 1) (20 page)

“I doubt, Paumer, if you’ll be doing any of the suffering, or you might feel quite differently.” Chaom said this with conviction, but without much passion. He spoke the truth! But was he also becoming persuaded of this bizarre plan’s value?

Seagryn looked back at Paumer and asked, “Just how would this dragon be made?”

“With your help,” Sheth answered, leaning over the table to catch Seagryn’s eyes. “You asked me once to teach you. Isn’t this a better way than learning through violent confrontation?”

“I — guess so —” Seagryn mumbled. Paumer’s mention of bobbing corpses had gotten to him.

“And of what, may I ask, will this dragon be made?” This was Talarath’s voice, but not the old man’s words. Seagryn realized immediately that the question did not proceed from the discussion, and that Talarath had recited rather than asked it. When he heard Paumer’s response, he understood why it had been planted — and why Elaryl’s father had smiled as he spoke.

“It will be made out of tugolith! Sheth tells me he made his miniature dragon using a pair of rodents. Think what a dragon could be made from a beast such as — this!” Paumer swept his hand toward the trees at the upper end of the meadow, and all eyes turned that way. When nothing happened, they all looked back at Paumer, whose expression had soured. “Bring it!” he commanded, and they all looked back up at the treeline. There was a crunching and snapping of breaking limbs, then an obviously frightened servant led a tugolith out of the tangle, and the assembled Conspiracy murmured appreciatively.

All seemed stunned by its size and apparent power — all save Seagryn. He was too familiar with such beasts to show any enthusiasm. And when, as the tugolith was led down the hill toward the table, Sheth mentioned, “Of course, I’ll need two of these animals to make it,” Seagryn was ready with a response.

“And I suppose I’m the other one.”

“What?” The older wizard frowned in supposed confusion.

Seagryn looked toward him. “Me. I’m to be the second tugolith.”

“Why — no,” Sheth said broadly. “In any case, that was never my intention. Of course, if you wish to volunteer —”

“I do not volunteer! I want nothing to do with this scheme!”

The tugolith had finally reached them. Paumer’s attention had been so focused upon the beast’s approach he’d heard nothing of Sheth and Seagryn’s exchange. He turned to the group and proclaimed with genuine pleasure, “I present to you all — Vilanlitha!”

The tugolith eyed the picnic. “I’m hungry,” he said.

“It talks,” Chaom gasped, backing around the table to put it between himself and the gigantic animal.

“It does indeed.” Paumer grinned.

“I’m hungry,” Vilanlitha said again, sniffing the food.

“Quit that,” Paumer instructed the beast quietly.

“I can eat this table,” the tugolith said.

Paumer snapped, “I told you to quit talking about that!”

The beast looked back at Paumer. “I could eat you.” There was no threat in his voice. Vilanlitha simply stated a fact.

Paumer’s eyes got very round, then he looked at the group, and saw some very wide eyes watching his. “He’s kidding!” he explained hopefully, reaching up to pat the beast’s forequarter. “He likes to joke!”

“What is joke?” Vilanlitha asked, and Paumer realized he was quickly losing his audience. Chaom, Ranoth, and Wilker were all drifting backward down the hill, and Talarath’s smile had frozen into a mask upon his face.

Seagryn had still barely looked at the animal. He kept his hard stare fixed upon Sheth. “Isn’t that what you meant by needing my help?” he demanded.

“Actually, no,” Sheth responded, prudently watching Paumer’s animated conversation with the single-minded beast. “I made an honest offer. I will teach you what I know, but I also need your magic. To merge two such monsters into an even more enormous dragon will take a considerable act of shaping. I need your abilities alongside my own. Then of course, there’s the other thing.”

“What other thing?” Seagryn asked, standing and stepping away from the table with Sheth as the tugolith, despite Paumer’s impassioned imprecations, began to consume it as well as the food spread on top of it.

“You’ve understood our need quite clearly. We do need another tugolith, and need you to lure one to us.”

So that was it. Now Seagryn understood it all — or thought he did. “No,” he announced, and he started down the hill. Sheth pursued him, and Talarath, who had already begun his escape, turned to meet them and fall into step beside them.

“Why not?” Sheth asked.

“Better to ask me why I should,” Seagryn snorted. “Why should I travel to — wherever these things come from — and bring one back to be slaughtered for your purposes?”

“It won’t be slaughtered!” Sheth smiled earnestly. “In fact, it will live forever! Or at least much longer than you or I can ever hope to live ...”

“Well ... to be tortured, then!”

“It won’t be tortured either!” Sheth grabbed Seagryn by the shoulders to stop him and tried to turn him toward Talarath. Seagryn shook himself free and glowered at this wizard who had caused him so much fear and pain.

“Don’t you ever grab me like that again!” he shouted.

Sheth raised his hands apologetically and said, “Fine, fine. I just wanted you to hear what Talarath has to tell you.” Then he stepped away and nodded at the elder, who now received the full force of Seagryn’s glare.

The old man cleared his throat. This was evidently something difficult for him to say. “We — Ranoth — Ranoth and I have agreed that this will ultimately prove a good thing for Lamath. Even Dark says as much, and you can’t deny the boy can see the future. So — do this for the Grand Council, Seagryn, and you will be received back into the full fellowship of the Lamathian clergy. Perhaps more importantly, you can be wedded to Elaryl the day you return from the north with another one of these monstrous creatures.”

“Elaryl? I can marry Elaryl?” Until this moment Seagryn had assumed only the worst. After all, hadn’t Dark told him this request would not be in his best interests? It took only the mention of his dear lady’s name for him to realize that this definitely was in his interests! “All right,” he said quietly, struggling to stifle his shouts of joy. “I’ll do it.”

Chapter Eighteen

ARLIAN JUSTICE

IT took two weeks for the long column of war boats to row upriver from the Rangsfield Sluice to Arl Lake. Moving the flotilla out of the water and around the Tunyial Falls consumed a full day of that time, and demanded Jarnel’s constant attention. With no captives to do the carrying, the Arlian warriors had to lift and port their boats themselves. They’d done that willingly on their way to war, but that had been different. They’d just bid their wives and sweethearts good-bye and were off to make fortunes by looting Haranamous. Instead, they returned home losers. Poor morale made for sloppy effort, and tempers rubbed raw by weeks of warfare sought any excuse to flare. Jarnel reasserted true command over his army that day with a mixture of enraged bellowing, instant discipline, and a surprisingly quick wit. Screaming commands one minute, he was cracking jokes the next, with the net result that his soldiers did what they were told when and where they were supposed to, and the column moved almost magically around the obstacle. Of course his warriors grumbled throughout the ordeal — these were fighting men, after all, who believed complaining was a basic right of every soldier. But they were led once again by a true leader, and they appreciated the fact. Any mention of Merritt’s name now drew a chorus of contemptuous snorts.

Hard as the day was, Jarnel enjoyed it. For afterward, when the war boats were again in the water and rowing hard for home, he had nothing to distract his thoughts from the distasteful chore ahead. It would fall to him to report their defeat. And how would he explain this failure to his pyralu of a king?

Despite his high position in government, Jarnel didn’t know his ruler well. He wondered if anyone did, for even those advisors who spent their days in the king’s presence seemed tentative when attempting to explain the man’s policies or report his wishes. That was understandable, for their ruler was a mercurial man who could change position on an issue a dozen times a day and never realize his own inconsistency. That mattered little to the common Arlian; with his single-minded dogmatism and his personal charm, the king could take the most crazed of notions and weave it into a plausible position. Nor did the populace seem bothered when, a week later, the poised king vehemently endorsed the opposite view.

Was the king insane? Jarnel would have appreciated being able to take that view. But he’d seen too much — had himself reported too much — to believe it. And that left only one other option — the man was evil. Whether that evil proceeded out of a terrible childhood or a magical spell or — as the clerics of La-math contended — some truly malevolent personal force that struggled against some balancing good to manipulate the human will, it made little difference to Jarnel. That much evil with this much political control could not be allowed to grow.

But what could he do? He’d tried his best. He thought it ironic how well he’d served the hopes of his co-conspirators by losing this army to Merritt. Arl had been prevented from striking down its neighbors one more year. But would that stop the king? Of course not. His paranoia was so great he would certainly try again next year and the next and the next. For the moment, he would have to satisfy himself with cutting Jarnel’s body into pieces. And in the long view, what did it matter? If the Grand Council had truly become the organization Sheth described it to be, that would certainly prove no better option. “Better,” Jarnel mumbled to himself as the boats came in sight of the mouth of Arl Lake, “to spend my last few minutes with my grandchildren.”

The cobbled streets of the City of Arl climbed the hills that ringed the eastern edge of the lake like the stairway of some giant or like the even rows of some titanic amphitheater. Decent, hardworking people lived along these orderly avenues — shopkeepers and traders, mostly, sharp-minded businessmen who knew how to take the hides and carcasses of the herdsmen to the north and trade them for the grains and fibers of the fanners to the east and end up with most of the profits from the exchange. They were a proud people, meticulously clean in both their laundry and their ledgers. They were Jarnel’s people, and he loved them; it hurt him to think how disappointed they would be with the news of defeat.

When the first boats curled out from the river onto the lake and made the big turn into the docks, a cry of triumph rose up from those houses that lined the hills. Arlians rushed into the streets or out onto their roofs to watch the aquatic procession and cheer. Jarnel quickly picked out his own tiled rooftop. In spite of his despair, a smile twitched across his lips when he made out the tiny figures of Cleroklan and his little brother clinging to the chimney and waving madly. This was home. He had at least brought most of his warriors home.

He’d already made his decision. He would go home first, greet his wife and children, and spend the rest of the afternoon — or until they came to fetch him — down on his knees between the two lads, playing the game of their choice. But as his boat glided into its berth, he saw it wasn’t to be. Karmelad, a pinched-faced advisor to the king, awaited him on the pier. Sighing bitterly, Jarnel climbed out of the craft and nodded to Karmelad and the welcoming party. “I’m afraid I have bad news to report —” he began, but Karmelad cut him off with a quick jerk of his hand.

“Sheth’s already been here,” the advisor said quietly. “Just pretend you won, and come with me quickly.” The man turned and scurried off the landing platform, and the surprised Jarnel followed him. Sheth had appeared here to admit his failure? That was
most
unexpected.

Karmelad led him into a fishing shed guarded by a squad of warriors who all wore smaller versions of Jarnel’s own ceremonial headgear. These were the king’s own guards — was the king himself waiting inside? He was known to do stranger things —

No. There was only a small table, still wet with fish blood. There were two rough chairs, one of which Karmelad already occupied. Jarnel sat. “Now,” the advisor demanded, “explain why you refused to wait for Sheth to arrive and cover you? Do you suddenly see yourself as a wizard?”

Jarnel nodded. This was more understandable. “First of all, Sheth was there, and the opposing wizard outshaped him.”

Karmelad’s expression didn’t change. “You mean, of course, Nebalath.”

“I mean the opposing wizard. Our intelligence sources told us Nebalath no longer was protecting Haranamous, and certainly this wizard did not shape in any style I found recognizable.”

“Are you saying the failure was Sheth’s and not yours?”

“Sheth’s and Merritt’s.” Jarnel nodded.

Karmelad frowned. “What’s Merritt got to do with it?”

Jarnel stared. “Did you not get Merritt’s message?”

“What message?”

“And did Sheth say nothing of Merritt’s —”

“Sheth appeared to the king in private, delivered his diatribe against your failure, and disappeared. I know nothing more than that — nor do I want to know,” Karmelad added quickly, preventing Jarnel from interrupting. “You say Sheth is lying, and of course we thought so. Now listen! Go home, Jarnel, and speak to no one. We will come for you if we need you.” The advisor jumped up from the table, rubbing his hands on his gown to cleanse them of the sticky blood. “Remember — I said no one. We’ve not yet decided whether we won this war or lost it. Don’t give your opinion to
anyone
.” Karmelad stepped out, and a moment later Jarnel felt the whole pier shake as the armed guard tramped off it.

“Home,” he muttered to himself. The word made his heart dance with excitement. He bolted out of the shack and started up the nearest street. Would the little one be able to say his name yet? In the face of such inherently important questions, affairs of the Arlian state seemed trivial indeed.

*

They all heard the characteristic tramping first. Then came the knock upon the door — quite polite, really — followed by the ritual summons. “Jarnel of Arl, your king has need.”

He kissed his wife, and they exchanged the silent look of good-bye they’d perfected through his long years of warfare. “They did at least give you the afternoon,” she said sadly. He loved her strength, but felt genuinely sorrowful in that moment that his life had forced her to develop it. He kissed her again and went outside. A contingent of the palace guard awaited him, their heads covered by those glossy black pyralu masks that shielded their identities while terrifying anyone foolish enough to be watching. These could all be very good friends from years past — in fact, probably several were. But their king had needs, and one of those needs was secrecy. Jarnel shrugged it off. After all, in battle he wore the same disgusting headgear.

He turned with the troop and they marched as a unit twenty paces down the street before Jarnel’s suspicions were confirmed. Someone threw a bag over his head, and his hands were bound behind him. “Yes,” Jarnel thought to himself, “the king does have needs ...”

He was guided down one of the steep cross streets that ran from the lakeshore to the crest of the hill, then back to his left along one of the long, curving avenues identical to his own. He didn’t bother with trying to guess where he was being taken. It didn’t matter. Without a sound, the guards all suddenly stopped marching, and Jarnel ran into the two ahead of him. He was grabbed by both arms and ushered through a door — into a cobbler shop he guessed, by sniffing the rich smells of leather and tanning solutions. That didn’t surprise him. Most activities of the king’s guards were concealed behind some kind of shop. He had, however, expected to be taken into a butcher’s shop instead, and the thought that he might be skinned rather than slaughtered outright caused an involuntary shudder to rustle through his body.

He was propelled through the shop, felt curtains brushing his shoulders, then was set down. After a momentary pause, the covering was pulled off his head. He blinked his eyes against the torchlight, then looked up at his interrogator. That nose, so thin it suggested the man had worn a vice on it throughout his formative years, certainly fit the rest of the squinting face that frowned back. “Karmelad.” Jarnel nodded. “You do get around —”

“I’ve seen the king,” the advisor announced flatly, making it appear their conversation had not been interrupted by a full afternoon. “He has decided that you’ve won. An official King’s Account of your stirring victory will be reported in the public square each midday for the next ten days. Your lieutenants are being informed of this decision, and the same general warning is being issued to all — disputing the King’s Account shall be considered a treasonous activity and will be dealt with appropriately.”

Jarnel heard all of this quietly. “Then I’m a hero,” he muttered when Karmelad finished.

“You should be very glad the king chose to make you one,” the advisor said, “since you failed to make one of yourself.”

“I am. When do I see him to give him the true report?”

“You will not see him. I’m empowered to carry to him any account you wish to give, but before you speak, I wonder if such is really necessary?”

“Surely he would want to know the —”

“There is a second reason why you’re here, Jarnel. Would you be so kind as to be silent and let me tell it to you?”

Jarnel didn’t mean to stare, but this was such a startling shift in policy he couldn’t help it. Always in the past the king had hungered to hear every detail of every battle from Jarnel’s own mouth. What had happened?

Karmelad nodded appreciatively at his silence. “Good. The situation is this — the king has discovered that Sheth is a member of the legendary Conspiracy that is sworn to topple all rightful rulers and place merchant puppets in their places. Sheth has made an attempt to assassinate the king —”

“What?” Jarnel frowned.

“When he appeared in the king’s bedchamber, Sheth attempted to murder your ruler. As a result the king is now in hiding, and doubtless will remain so until the threat —”

“If Sheth really intended to kill the king then certainly he —”

“You need no details!” Karmelad snapped, his eyes flashing. Then he calmed, and his voice resumed its droning, official tone. “Despite how you’ve failed him, the king considers you the only man qualified to hunt down this treasonous power-shaper and put him to death. Your warriors are being selected for you. You will depart immediately. Your wife will be informed that your skills were needed elsewhere and will represent you at the victory ceremonies. She will also receive a hero’s reward from her grateful sovereign. And if you have no questions, I have one to ask of you —”

Karmelad’s expression made it quite clear — Jarnel was not to ask questions, but to answer them. “Yes?” the general grunted.

“Why did you mention Merritt’s name today?”

Jarnel absorbed the question slowly, turning it carefully in his mind. It appeared they knew nothing of his absence from the army and of Merritt’s mutiny. Of course, they might know the whole story, and were just interested in learning what part of it he might be willing to tell them. Or Merritt could conceivably have been reporting directly to Karmelad — he could have been the advisor’s plant, perhaps, in the Arlian Army, completely unknown to the king. While he’d played it well, this game of confidences and assumptions had always revolted Jarnel, and suddenly the relative freedom of leading a pack of bear hunters through the Marwilds sounded enormously appealing. So — how to answer it? Simply, he decided. “Oh. He drowned during our glorious victory at the Rangsfield Sluice.”