The White Dragon (6 page)

“This is getting old,” Diamedes said, struggling to pull his legs free from under the huge wolf’s body. Eric did likewise, kicking the wolf over the edge of the pathway, where it slid away.

“Help,” Galen called out from nearby.

Both historian and mercenary crawled over to the edge of the trail, not bothering to stand since they were already on their backsides. Not far below the wolf that had attacked, the magistrate was making progress with its sharp claws, gaining traction and slowly approaching Galen, whose sword was implanted into the ice, holding him in place. He had stowed away his brand when they had left and had no other weapon other than a knife that he couldn’t reach in his boot.

Eric had only his bloody sword, but offered it nonetheless. “Take this.”

Galen still couldn’t reach the sword tip and looked back at the approaching wolf, which was now salivating all over itself. “A little closer,” he pleaded.

“Hold my boots,” Eric commanded to Diamedes, and the small man grabbed both boots in a most unceremonious manner. Eric leaned farther out, extending with his entire body and offering his blade to the magistrate.

Galen still had his gloves on, and with a lunge, he reached up and grabbed Eric’s blade, using his own blade to step on and finally pull himself back onto the narrow trail.

“That was close,” Galen said, shaking his gloved hand where the edge of the sword had bitten into it.

Eric waited till the wolf neared the top, and then swung his blade for a killing blow that never hit. The wolf released its claws and leaped back, sliding wildly down the steep slope, spinning willy-nilly around on splayed legs. Eric remembered all too well his own trip down the very same slope. The animal would not come to a rest for quite a ways.

With a long howl, a single wolf called his pack, and the animals broke off their attack. The sounds of snarling, yelling, screaming, and death subsided, and the soldiers reformed around the civilians. The last of the wolves disappeared from sight over the top of the mountain ridges, their snarls slowly fading away.

After some time, Galen finally spoke, having caught his breath. “There’s your dragon, Eric Bain. Nothing but wild wolves.”

Diamedes replied first. “So you’ll drop your charges, then?”

Eric looked at both men, pulling a rag from his pocket and using it to staunch the bleeding at the base of his neck. Galen shook his head. “Hardly. The accused has a whole litany of them to answer for, and I was merely commenting that there is no dragon here and that should be obvious to even you, Master Historian. The man is still a liar, if nothing else.”

“I’m surprised you are this rude considering the man saved your life,” Diamedes said.

Galen nodded. “Aye, I’m thankful for that, but helping a fellow citizen would be the duty of any Ulathan. He did what he should have done anyway, and credit for that is misguided, even if it was somewhat deserved.”

“Why, the nerve . . .” Eric didn’t finish his sentence.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to carry some of the justiciar’s troops down the mountainside.” Diamedes changed the subject.

All three men stood. Eric sheathed his sword and held the rag on his neck while Diamedes put his dagger away. Four of their soldiers lay dead, and another twice that number had injuries of one kind or another. Despite their condition, they stood guard around their charges, protecting them with their lives.

“Those are good troops the justiciar has,” Galen noted, calling for the lead officer, a man by the name of Owen, and discussing the care of their wounded and the transport of their dead. It took them nearly an hour to tend to their wounded and fallen, and then they marched down the snowy mountainside.

“They seemed to have been called off,” Eric whispered to Diamedes as they brought up the rear of the column. The bleeding had finally stopped, and Eric tossed the bloody rag away without thought.

“Or scared off,” Diamedes countered.

“They seemed anything but scared,” Eric noted.

“Perhaps,” Diamedes said. “Look at the very top of the cavern, near the first ridgeline, but be discreet when you do.”

Eric knew enough about combat tactics, spies, and scouts, so at a switchback on the trail, he kept his head down but looked up with his eyes. There, exactly where the historian said to look, was a man in a white cloak holding a thin staff. He was hard to see, as they had traversed a good several hundred yards down the mountainside, but there was no mistaking what his eyes showed him. A Kesh wizard stood watching them.

“Bloody hell,” Eric muttered under his breath.

“My sentiments exactly,” Diamedes added.

“So they have left.” The question was actually a statement.

“Yes, Amora,” Kirost said, watching the Ulathans descend the mountain. “Why did you dispel our concealment? I am sure the last two saw me.”

“They did,” Amora said, dropping his enchantment completely, and his body shimmered from out of thin air as he became visible next to his companion. “The meddling historian had been on to us days ago.”

“How is that possible?”

“I do not know, but he has the ability to see through my spells. Simply letting him see you this time, in plain sight, will confuse him with our intentions.”

“And the Ulathans?” Kirost finally took his eyes off the departing column to look at the mage.

“They are stupid and foolish and suspect nothing. Everything is going as planned,” Amora declared confidently.

“News from Kelee?” Kirost asked, referring to his fellow wizard.

“He is with our raiders and ready for our next move,” the mage answered.

“Too bad the winter wolves became aware of our presence. I did not expect them to attack the Ulathans.”

“Yes, too bad, indeed.”

“Where are they going?” Kirost looked over his shoulder and saw the last of the white wolves over a league distant already, running south.

Amora allowed his eyes to follow the same path, seeing the wolf as well. “They are running to alert their mistress, the dragon.”

Kirost looked at his old mentor. “Then what?”

“Then we bring them together.” Amora returned his gaze to his former pupil. “As I said, everything is going according to plan.”

Both Kesh smiled and watched the last wolf disappear far below.

The trip back was uneventful as the group neither saw nor heard signs of the white wolves. Eric tried hard to catch a glimpse of the Kesh, but that didn’t happen either. Justiciar Corwin was upset at the loss of his troops, but resigned to the fact that the wilds were simply getting wilder in this day and age. Burial arrangements with full honors were scheduled, and the trial was postponed with the news of the ambush and findings of their expedition. Eric was to be given thirty days to prove his innocence, and time was running short.

“Don’t move, you’ll rip the stitching again,” Mary said, dabbing at the blood on Eric’s neck as he sat on a wooden chair in the middle of his room.

“It won’t do us any good,” Lucius said, pacing the room at the Peak Inn, the same one that Eric had awoken to find himself in. Old man Frankel was an honorable innkeeper, and Eric’s lodgings were paid for an entire fortnight, as well as his care, and the innkeeper insisted on delivering in full for services paid.

Mary looked at the pacing man. “You can sit still too, for a change. It’s hard enough to care for Eric without having you distracting my work. Besides, I hope you both can forgive us for what happened.”

Eric laid a free hand on Mary’s arm as she stood behind him. “Nothing to forgive. The magistrate was out of line, and I’m grateful for the lodgings and care.”

Mary smiled at Eric. “You’ll never know how upset Master Frankel was the last few days. He really felt bad at having to bear witness in your case.
A tragedy
, he called it.”

“Let him know I’m fine with it,” Eric said. “Now what are you hooting about over there?”

Lucius stopped his pacing for a moment to turn to the pair, ignoring the small historian in the corner at the fancy desk with a quill and paper. “I was saying that the reprieve won’t do us any good.”

“Why not?” Eric asked, wincing as Mary poured a small amount of alcohol in his wound, cleaning the skin and stitches.

“Because, if you don’t find this white beast of yours, then you’ll be convicted of something, if not outright treason and murder, and if you do find the dragon, then we’ll be burying an empty coffin with your name etched into a newly carved headstone. I don’t see any way around it.”

Mary finished her work and gathered her supplies from a tray that was on the floor. She moved the tray to a nearby dresser, setting it down and then moving to take a seat on the edge of the bed before she spoke up. “I’m afraid I have to agree with your associate; you’re stuck between the cheese and the cat.”

Eric chuckled, as did the other two men. The proverbial saying was an old one, with the cheese mounted on a trap and a cat waiting there were only two options for a wayward mouse, and both spelled doom.

“Well, this mouse isn’t going out without a fight.” Eric nodded, wincing again as the stitches pulled on his wound.

“I told you that you’ll need to keep your head straight for a couple of days or you’ll pull them out again,” Mary said, referring to her stitches that she had to redo for the second straight time in a single day.

“I’m afraid you can’t do this alone, fight or no fight left in you.” Lucius walked over to stand near Eric so the man didn’t have to turn his neck to see him.

Eric let the words sink in, and he looked intently at Mary, who was now sitting directly across from him. Lucius was just to his left, and within his field of vision as well. Only Diamedes was behind him over his right shoulder where the intricately hand-carved desk was located. Eric spoke loudly so the historian could hear him. “What do you say, Diamedes?”

The historian cleared his throat before answering. “I have to agree with your colleague. He seems to understand your predicament. However . . .”

There was a long pause, and Eric could see both Mary and Lucky looking past him in anticipation. “Go on.” Eric took the bait, something any sane mouse would never do.

“You only really have one option in this matter. Not vindicating yourself will leave you at the mercy of the justiciar. The man is good, but all of the duke’s lawkeepers are busy these days and he’ll be sorely pressed not to rule in the magistrate’s favor, at least on some of the charges, if not the most severe ones.”

Lucius chimed in. “The royal historian understands the situation clearly.”

“Yes,” Diamedes continued. “The consequences could be imprisonment, banishment, and exile—”

“Or death,” Lucius interrupted.

“In the extreme.” The small historian gave some context to the remark. “Either way, your future will be suspect at the least.”

“Which leads us to what other option?” Eric said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Diamedes nodded, which Eric couldn’t see, but the nodding heads of his companions was enough to relay the gesture to the mercenary. “You must prove what you said and succeed.”

“Easier said than done,” Eric said, his tone not losing a bit of the sarcasm and cynicism from his first remark.

“Quite right,” Diamedes answered. “The key to my last remark was that you must not only prove your statement but you must succeed, which means living through another encounter with your white dragon.”

Lucius snorted and shook his head, resuming his pacing. Mary sat stunned, looking from the historian to Eric and then back again. Finally Eric spoke, “I lost my entire company to that beast. Two of the best warriors this side of the Felsics—”

“Forstag was the best, not one of the best,” Lucius interrupted, a trait that seemed to not go unnoticed by the historian.

“Then you must gather together new resources, better warriors, and something special to combat the creature,” Diamedes said.

“Like I said, easy to say, hard to do,” Eric said, not moving his neck, but his veins started to pulse and rise quicker at the stress of their conversation.

Diamedes put his equipment down and walked over to the bed, nodding at Mary, who patted the mattress next to her. “Thank you, my dear,” the historian said, taking a seat next to her and facing Eric. “Surely you know people who can assist you?”

Lucius spoke instead. “Everyone who could be trusted and counted on was in The Hunt. That group was Eric’s life work. It is lost now, and he is lucky to be alive. There is no one else, and those who died took decades to gather under our company banner.”

“And decades to get the crowns of Agon to recognize it,” Eric said, looking down, dejected.

The four individuals in the room sat or paced in silence, pondering the issue. The clock on the wall ticked, a rhythmic sound, not a common sight, something only found in the most expensive of homes or establishments, time not being something that most individuals marked precisely.

Mary sighed, and Lucius shortened his pacing so that Eric could see him as he walked three steps, turned, three steps back, turned, repeating the obsessive habit till Eric tired of listening to his boots marking rhythm with the mystical gears of the wall apparatus.

“I think I could call on a few people I know,” Eric finally said.

Mary and Diamedes looked up hopefully, but Lucius put a damper on any hope with his next remark. “I’m the recruiter in this operation, and I’m pretty sure we tapped everyone we could think of.”

“Not everyone, just those with whom we wanted to work.” Eric shifted his body to face the left so he could see his colleague better.

Lucius stopped his pacing and faced Eric. “Exactly who do you have in mind?”

Eric fidgeted and looked down, which wasn’t exactly reassuring. “Well, there are a few people I’m thinking of . . .”

“Names,” Lucius demanded.

Eric looked up and held a hand out to prevent a protest by his colleague. “Now, Lucky, we are desperate and in a situation that we haven’t been in before, so we haven’t thought of a few people—”

“I hate when you get like this,” Lucius said, a frown creeping over his face.

“Go on,” Mary encouraged. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”

Silence.

Finally, Eric looked away from Lucius, speaking at Mary. “There is a fierce warrior who I once worked with closely, though since retired the last few years . . .”

“That sounds promising,” Mary said, nodding and looking at Lucius, who hadn’t moved and indeed, hardly appeared to breathe.

“Who is this warrior?” Lucky finally asked.

It was obvious that Eric didn’t want to name the warrior, but finally he muttered a single name. “Gabrielle.”

Lucius stammered, stuttered, and spat, trying to speak as his face turned red. “You can’t be serious, Eric.”

“Why, what?” Mary asked, and Diamedes looked at both men, taking mental notes but otherwise remaining silent and letting whatever this little melodrama was unfold without his intervening.

“She would make a fine sword—” Eric started, but Lucius cut him off.

“If she didn’t kill you first.”

Mary stood and stomped her foot on the wooden floor, getting both men’s attention. “What in Agon are you two fighting about?”

Lucius was quick to explain. “Gabrielle is Eric’s ex-wife.”

He let this sink in on the other two, Mary and Diamedes, who both sat surprised at the revelation.

“It’s not as bad as it seems,” Eric began. “You see . . .”

“You see,” Lucius took over, “the last time these two love struck individuals saw each other, she swore that she would kill him if ever she laid eyes on him again.”

Eric looked down, and silence enveloped the room again. There was a long pause before Mary asked her question. “Are we talking about a scorned woman?”

Lucius explained, “Most definitely. Eric had a few roaming expeditions of his own, and instead of facing up to his actions, he bolted, divorcing her in the process. Took the easy way out, didn’t you, Eric?”

Diamedes looked up intently at Lucius, and then, glancing over to Eric, the small historian sought clarification. “Am I sensing a personal issue here?”

Eric responded, “Of course. We’re talking about my ex-wife.”

“No,” Diamedes clarified, “I’m asking about the dynamic between you and your colleague Lucius.”

Both men looked down before Eric answered, his voice low. “Lucky is Gabrielle’s father.”

“Gods of Agon,” Mary said, making a sign of warding.

Diamedes ignored the remark, continuing. “This explains much, but actually, it’s perfect, if you ask me.”

“What?” all three said in unison, looking at each other inquisitively at the coincidence.

Diamedes explained, “I can’t think of anything more a dragon would fear than one of our scorned, angry females.”

“What news?” Amora asked the heavily cloaked man as he reached them on the outskirts of town. The pair of wizards and the approaching man were at the edge of a street where two businesses were located, though closed for the evening. All of the action in the town was now at its center where the many pubs, taverns, and inns were located.

The man brought down his hood, revealing a face worn by the weather. Creases and scars crisscrossed his face, giving the man an appearance of both danger and wisdom, most confusing for those who met the assassin. “The Ulathan judge gave the mercenary thirty days to make his case, and the rumors you asked about are true. The royal historian Diamedes is indeed here.”