The Bringer of War

The dragon climbed out of the sea, water running like rivers from its iridescent green scales to pool in the sand. The body of a whale dangled from its massive jaws, blood spilling from its rubbery flesh. The dragon devoured it in two snaps of its maw, then turned its attention to the dense forest before it. The call beat against its mind, its very essence, demanding that it make its way with haste.

All about it, the dragon could feel the pulse of magical energy, a far more vibrant sensation than it had known across the sea. It gathered the power within its being, acting on instincts older than the world itself, and began to force a change. The long forelegs of the dragon began to extend further, thinning out as its clawed toes lengthened to an impossible span. A fleshy membrane began to seep from its scales, filling in the gaps between its now ludicrously long extremities. Soon the walking limbs were gone, replaced by humongous wings that spanned several hundred feet from tip to bony tip.

The dragon crouched, then launched itself into the air as its wings beat so fiercely it triggered a minor sandstorm on the beach. Utilizing the magical energies around it as much as the new limbs for locomotion, it began to rise inexorably towards the heavens. Once it was well over the height of the trees, it began to swoop towards the call, still beating around inside its mind like a bird against a window. Its shadow passed over farmsteads, causing those inside to shiver and draw their blankets about them, despite the evening’s warmth.

** *

Kate sipped at her wineglass and smiled sweetly at the man at arms as he crouched low to peer under her bed. Out in the hall, she could hear booted feet moving about, the insistent shouts of soldiers as they searched for her father.

“I can have a servant move it for you, if you wish,” she said politely.

“That won’t be necessary,” said the man, shaking his head “no one believes that Lord Mannix would be foolish enough to return home, assuming he survived his dive into the moat, of course.”

Kate cocked her head to the side, taken aback by the eloquent response. The soldier laughed, rising to his feet and dusting off his knees.

“I have not known many of your ilk to be so...gracious with their speech,” she said with a shrug.

“We are what we are, my lady,” said the soldier “and can be nothing more or nothing less.”

He bowed at his waist before exiting her bedchamber. Kate returned to her glass of wine, secretly pleased with herself. Despite the king’s insistence that her father had likely been killed, his body swept into the rivers surrounding Fort Drakken, the thorough search of her manor clearly indicated that many still thought he was alive. Alive, and hopefully well. Whatever became of her now, she could face it with new determination. Drakken could no longer hold her father’s lifer over her head, and that was that.

Turning her attention to her Tarot deck, she spread the cards in a rough cross shape and flipped them over. There was Moloch, a horned prince of the faerie often confused (deliberately so) with the Allfather’s Adversary. His presence did not mean good or ill on its own, but only indicated great change. She flipped the next card, revealing a nude man and woman embracing. The lovers, an augur of romance gained or lost. Her brow wrinkling with thought, she flipped the next card over. An image of a wild rose bush appeared, meaning that a thorny path lay ahead of her.

She sighed and gathered up the cards, not bothering to finish her augury. The king had sent a messenger to inform her of Mannix’s escape and likely death, offering condolences in the case of the latter. It seemed Drakken still intended to make her his bride, as he had invited her to tea at the castle. She wondered if the polite wording of the request was intended to take some of the sting out of the tumultuous search of her manor, or if the king was simply trying to take her off her guard.

A grin split her red painted lips. Of course she was not going to let her guard down, not for a moment. Drakken was as cold as a snake, and just as sneaky. She doubted that the king had not discerned her involvement in the escape, and she could very well go marching off to her own death that evening.

Still, she intended to go to him and ply him with sweet words and shocked looks of innocence. Perhaps he would even pretend to believe her, all the better to manipulate the noblewoman. A scowl crossed her features. Yes, let him try to play her feelings, let him underestimate her just as her father had, just as Quinn had, just as every man she had ever known had. The only man who had come close to treating her as an equal had been Bruno, and even he had his share of chauvinistic tendencies, having been brought up in the Templar order as he had.

She felt a bit disgusted with herself, as for a brief moment she wished she were a man. A big, powerful man, with rippling mounds of muscle and a huge sword. She briefly entertained herself with the image of hacking her way through a hundred guards to bury her blade deep in the King’s breast before shaking the silly notions out of her head. She may not have had strength of arms, but she did have strength of will. Her mind was reluctant to follow the twisting, serpentine paths of courtly politics, but she was learning to adapt. Drakken thought he was getting a tame sow, content to breed and wallow in the muck of the court. However, he would learn, too late, that she was more akin to a tusked razorback.

** *

Drakken’s face was locked in a tight grimace, his mouth slightly open as grunts of exertion escaped his throat. Sweat poured down his face, staining the collar of his golden hued doublet. He slapped his thighs into the buttocks of myrtle, bent over the armrest of his throne, dress thrown up over her head. Gasps of what may have been pleasure came from under the garment, despite the woman’s claim of being unable to feel emotion.

Spent, the king stepped back and re laced his trousers. He smoothed his garments somewhat, and then ran a hand through his thick mane of white hair. Myrtle stirred a bit, slowly rising to her feet and pulling her gown down. Her own face was drenched in sweat, rivulets running down her neck and disappearing between her modest cleavage.

“Are you finished with me, my king?” she said placidly, gray eyes implacable as stone.

“For the moment,” he said, picking up a golden goblet of warm wine and draining it in one go. “Stay a while, in case the mood should strike me for wenching again.”

“As you wish, my king,” said Myrtle, sitting down stiffly in a burgundy cushioned chair adjacent to the throne. Drakken eyed her curiously, a question forming behind his eyes.

“Your mind may be broken,” he said “but your body is not. You are most...responsive.”

“Coupling is one of two things that still make me...feel.” said Myrtle. “Not an emotion, really, but more of a reaction, like when you strike your knee against a table leg and it jumps of its own accord.”

“Fascinating,” said Drakken with sincerity. “What is the other circumstance.”

“Pain, my king,” said Myrtle without hesitation. “My body still reacts to pain like any other.”

“Really?” said Drakken, appearing lost in thought for a moment. He strode to one of the candelabras adorning the walls and took down a tapered white candle. He brought it with him, the flame dancing crazily with the movement, as he returned to her side.

Without ceremony, he grabbed her wrist in an iron grip. Myrtle did not resist as he held the candle’s flame up to the back of her hand. A grimace crossed her face, and she gasped in pain as her flesh reddened under the tiny flame’s heat. Drakken’s face was inscrutable, as if he were mixing a different kind of oats into his stew and was mildly curious about the result.

After her skin began to blister he released her. Myrtle looked at her hand, seemingly enthralled by the bubbling, angry red skin. A tear dribbled out of her eye, which Drakken caught upon his forefinger.

“Tears without sorrow,” he said, bringing the droplet to his lips and seeming to savor it. “You are a lucky woman, Myrtle. You will not have to suffer the rising and falling tides of your own heart as I do.”

A bar was rung seven times in the distance, indicating it was the seventh hour. Drakken looked up and smiled at her.

“Time to entertain my future bride,” said Drakken, moving towards the throne room door.

“Will you need me further?” said Myrtle.

“No, my dear,” said Drakken “I feel sated for the moment. But I may call for you later, should I wish to feel you writhe beneath me, whether in pleasure or pain.”

“By your leave,” said Myrtle, Drakken’s words having no apparent effect on her. The woman watched him go, then stood a bit stiffly and went in search of a physicker.

Drakken hummed to himself as he ascended the spiral staircase leading to the upper floors of the castle. He could feel his Queen approaching, sense her growing urgency as the call he had sent out grew stronger. It would not be long now, and surely the foolish rebellion would dry up quickly once they saw the fearsome might of their king’s new ally.

Once ensconced in his chambers, the king used a pull rope to summon a brace of servants who busied themselves with making him presentable. His sweat slick hair was brushed out and gently dried with cotton towels. Cosmetics were applied to his face, making his myriad lines and wrinkles diminish. They applied perfume to him, the sickly sweet smell nearly making him gag, and put a fresh shine on his boots. He cuffed them about when they were finished for taking so long and dismissed them, settling into a large stuffed chair. His seat was next to a low circular table. Across its highly polished surface was another seat of similar design. Like all the rooms within the castle, the king’s chambers were built with defense trumping luxury. His room was smaller than Kate’s own chambers, and instead of a grand window only a pair of arrow slits adorned the wall facing outward.

Efforts had been taken to make the chambers more elegant. A rich velvet tapestry hung between the arrow slits, a scene woven into it of a Templar on horseback facing down a fire breathing dragon. Jewels had been woven into the tapestry within the confines of the dragon’s gout of flame, which sparkled in the myriad candles. The bed was a four post monster which nearly took up one third of the chamber by itself. Satin sheets which smelled clean and fresh were dyed to match the colors in the tapestry. The cold stone floor had been covered with a thick red carpet with the royal seal repeated in a pattern.

Pulling on a bell rope once more, he summoned a servant and bade him bring back a Castle board and pieces. The fellow returned almost immediately, jockeying for position with another servant, this one in a bright yellow uniform that indicated he served as a greeter on the first floor. Drakken was amused by their pitiful display as each sought to conclude their business with him and leave as quickly as possible. He accepted the game board and the greeter’s message that the Lady Katherine of Mannix had arrived.

Drakken rose from his seat a short while later when there was a clap outside his door. A smile creased his wizened face as Kate swept into the room, her face carefully neutral. She was dressed in a long gown with a sleek profile, a slit up to the hip revealing she had on opaque tights underneath. It was dyed deep purple, the bodice laced up past her cleavage with off white ribbon. A pair of velvet shoes a rich violet adorned her feet as they sunk into his carpet. Kate’s hair had been done up in an elaborate high rise style, leaving her neck bare. A ruby pendant hung on a silver chain around her throat, catching the light in a pleasing way.

“Lady Katherine,” he said, sweeping into a bow despite his higher rank “I am humbled that you accepted my invitation.”

“Anything my highness commands,” said Kate cooly, dropping into a low curtsy.

“But it was not a command,” he said, laughing gently. “Despite what your father may have told you, I remain a gentle man who is far above using crude force to achieve his ends...particularly when a beautiful lady is involved.”

“You flatter me,” said Kate, a mirthless smile freezing across her face. Her gaze went to the Castle board, which caused her to arch her eyebrows in query.

“I was hoping you might honor me with a game,” said Drakken, indicating that she should sit with a sweep of his long sleeved arm. “Quinn speaks almost daily about your prowess.”

Kate’s face flashed with anger for an instant at the mention of the hated name, but she quickly replaced it with her cool neutral expression.

“I understand that his lands have been restored to him,” said Kate as pleasantly as she could. “And he is a full Lord once more.”

Drakken sat down, gathering his long garments so they would not bunch up. He fixed her with a smile as warm as a winter wind.

“You are still angry with him,” said Drakken “and no wonder, he betrayed your father’s trust, and for what? Some silly title, a bit of land not fit for farming more than turnips?”

He leaned forward eagerly, a sinister light glinting in his eyes.

“Would it please you if he were to wind up dead?”

“Yes,” blurted Kate, who instantly regretted opening her mouth. Drakken smiled, something that struck her as akin to a cat who had just trapped a mouse beneath its paw. He rose from his seat without explanation and went to his chamber doors. Rousing the servant at the ready on the other side, he whispered in the man’s ear before returning to his chair.

“What was that about?” said Kate, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Nothing you need concern yourself with for now,” said Drakken “come, let us play a game.”

** *

Seamus gazed far below their airship, a cool breeze tickling his bald scalp. His eye focused on the ground as it spread out as a many colored cloak beneath them. He and Fennick had climbed the mountains in the east in their youth, to such dizzying heights that they gazed down upon clouds, but this view was much more spectacular. Flying was amazing, and he looked a bit enviously at Roikza as he scratched the back of her head.

Lobo, who apparently was familiar with sailing vessels of a more conventional sort, had taken to steering their vessel, swinging the sail to alter their trajectory. He looked over the dozing form of their wizard and gave him a warm smile, blue eyes shining in the sun.

“There seems to be no end of good wind up here,” said the minstrel “I can see a day coming when the sky will be dotted with hundreds of airships.”

“Bah,” said Seamus “you’re talking out of your arse.”

“No, really!” said Lobo, looking a bit hurt. “Have we not made far greater time than we would have on the sea? We were two days out from the coast of Drakken’s lands, and now with but one morning and afternoon of sky sailing, we are already many miles inland. Why would one not wish to travel so?”

Seamus had no good answer for that, so he shrugged and turned to gaze at the hazy ground below. A thick blanket of trees below them was likely the Raven Wood, which Fennick had said was haunted by faerie women who lured men back to their deaths with promises of pleasure.

The big man grinned. Most of Fennick’s stories involved rutting of one sort or another. A profound pain of guilt struck him as he realized that he had not grieved in many days. It did not seem right that he should be here while his brother’s soul was condemned to torment.

“What tales do your people tell,” he said suddenly, startling Lobo “of what comes after your time has come?”

“What do you mean?” said Lobo, blinking his liquid eyes.

“Death,” said Seamus with annoyance “I’m speaking of what happens after you die.”

“Well,” said Lobo “Allfather worship is pretty much the norm back home, so I suppose most of my folk believe that if you were a humble servant to him you will be raised to live forever at his side. However, there are still those who hold to older traditions. They place the corpse on a raft, load it with food and provisions, and then set it on fire and let it drift where it may.”

“That sounds rather silly,” said Seamus, pursing his lips. “Why set perfectly good food to flame, not to mention a sea craft?”

“It is believed,” said Lobo “that they will be consumed by the fire and transcend to another place, where they will need a ship and provisions, I suppose.”

The minstrel chuckled a bit, then playfully bit the end of his finger and fixed Seamus with a coy look.

“Why so interested?” he said. “You’re not planning to hurl yourself overboard to your death, are you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Seamus “I have the dragon to slay, after all.”

“So that is what gives your life meaning,” said Lobo with a nod “slaying dragons.”

“What rubbish are you going on about now?” said Seamus, turning his head from the magnificent panoramic view below to stare at the effete minstrel.

“Everyone needs a reason for being,” said Lobo with a smile “something beyond turning food into shit to fill their lives with.”

He indicated the slumbering mage with a nod of his curly haired head.

“Take Mistress Pendragon, for example,” he said “her purpose is to please her father, beyond all else.”

“Her father is dead, you dolt,” said Seamus with a growl.

“And that makes it all the more tragic,” said Lobo with a sad smile.

“And your own purpose?” said Seamus, grudgingly going along with the game.

“Why, to be happy is my purpose,” said Lobo “if I can achieve that by playing music, then so be it. It seems to be working well enough, and I get to meet interesting people like yourself.”

Seamus grunted.

“I suppose Fennick and I had no real purpose,” he said “other than swindling country folk out of their coin.”

“Things have changed, however,” said Lobo.

“Things have changed,” said Seamus with a sigh. He cast his eyes down at the ground once more, but the beautiful image did not seem to cheer his heart any longer. “My folk believe in a multitude of gods, and they all have a differing opinion on what happens when we die. They all agree on one thing, though; A body without a final resting place, without a grave, will doom the soul to eternal wandering.”

His face screwed up in anger, fists clenched at his sides.

“The dragon left not a trace of him,” said Seamus “not a trace. What kind of uncaring, capricious gods would do that to him? Why didn’t they protect him?”

“Ah, yes,” said Lobo “the age old litany of the atheist; Why do bad things happen to good people?”

Seamus laughed, tension flowing from his face.

“I don’t know that my brother was a ‘good’ man,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye “but he was far from the worst I’ve seen.”

“What do you believe in,” said Lobo, moving to stand next to him “if not the gods?”

“Well,” said Seamus, his eyes growing distant. “Well...”

With a hollow, sinking feeling, he realized that he did not have an answer. The feathered serpent on his shoulder nestled against him, being no fan of the cool air in the higher altitudes.

“I suppose I believe in Roikza,” he said with a half hearted laugh.

“Because she loves you,” said Lobo, his blue eyes shining “and you love her. So it seems that you are a romantic at heart, Seamus....Seamus of...”

Lobo scratched his hairless chin (Seamus could not remember ever having seen him shave; His own face was stubbled with gray brown hair after days at sea.)

“You know,” said the minstrel “I just realized that I have no idea of what your surname is.”

“Don’t rightly have one,” said Seamus “Fennick and I were orphans. When we came of age he hared with some noble to be his errand boy, and I fell in with mercenaries.”

“Mercenaries?” said Lobo, eyes lighting up “there is a story there, I am sure of it.”

“Not so much,” said Seamus “they treated me well enough, but we spent three years on garrison duty during peacetime. Not much excitement, I’m afraid.”

“So you have but one name,” said Lobo.

“Perhaps you could lend me one of yours,” said Seamus with a grin “you have so many!”

“Most folk from my lands do,” said Lobo, though he chuckled as well.

“I suppose it’s Seamus the Scarred, now,” said Seamus “or Seamus One Eye.”

“I have a better notion,” said Lobo triumphantly “Seamus the Brave! Or Seamus Dragonkin....no, wait!”

Lobo spread his hands palms out, as if he were spreading out a tapestry between them. His eyes were shining as he spoke.

“Seamus the Mighty,” he said proudly “Slayer of Dragons and Sailor of Ships in the Sky!”

“That’s a bit of a mouthful,” said Seamus, though he was smiling now too.

“Why is it so bright?” came a rasping, dry voice from behind them. They turned to see Stella sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

“Because it is the sun,” said Lobo with a wicked grin.

“Not that, cretin!” hissed Stella, rubbing her temples. “It’s the ley lines...they’re shining so bright I almost can’t see! This land is teeming with magic energy.”

“Well,” said Lobo “that seems rather illogical, seeing as magic is strictly forbidden in Drakken’s lands.”

“It is?” said Stella, her jaw dropping.

“Yes,” said Seamus with a nod “you had best hide your profession, especially if their Tempo Knights are about.”

“That’s Templar,” said Lobo.

“That’s what I said,” said Seamus with a frown.

“So,” said Stella, her eyes shining with avarice “a whole, magic rich land without a single, solitary mage to gobble up the ley line energy? Ha! It’s mine, then, all mine!”

The wizard leaped to her feet and stared at the azure sky above.

“Did you hear that, father?” she shouted. “I am the greatest wizard in the land!”

“You’re the only wizard in the land,” said Seamus dryly.

“Shut up,” said Stella.