Dragon Lords, page 1
part #1 of Swords and Skulls Series
DRAGON LORDS
Chris Turner
Copyright 2017 Chris Turner
Cover Art and Map: Trevor Porter
Published by Innersky Books
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in these stories are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
CONTENTS
1: Dragonskull
2: The Ring of Pain
3: Road to Nowhere
4: Tomb of the Ancients
5: Dragon Forge
6: Red Sands
7: Trove of the Forgotten Ones
8: Jaws of Death
9: The Dragon Lord
10: Valley of Gods
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I: Dragonskull
Vetravincus, wandering mercenary, was on a mission to fence a jewel. He found himself jostling shoulders amongst the crowd in the central market of Dragonskull, a lawless oasis in the arid wastes, also famous for dragon bones scattered amongst the dunes. Less than two generations had passed since a slave caravan of brigands, deviants and cutthroats, bound for King Juna’s prison mines, broke their chains and took control of the town. Often a man was beaten for some minor offence, or his throat cut or his valuables seized; worse was done to women.
Of foul play, Vetra was little worried. His broadsword was forged with crucible steel, sharp enough to cut through bone, and hung from his armoured back in a shagreen scabbard. His hard features, broad shoulders, sure step and reinforced ringmail were enough to give pause to the most impulsive footpads.
Vetra heard someone cry out and he grasped the pommel of his sword. A boy struggled in the hairy arms of a red-faced merchant. A yam and a cuchri fruit lay mashed at their feet. A flash of steel glinted in the noonday sun; the merchant raised a cleaver to the gaunt-faced boy. Vetra lunged and pulled the boy away.
“What’re you doing?” the merchant screamed, his cleaver missing the youthful hand and sticking deep into a wooden table. “He stole—”
Vetra smashed the pommel of his broadsword into the merchant’s mouth. Blood, broken teeth, and curses filled the air. Vetra grabbed the man by his scraggly beard and pulled him close. He could smell the fruit merchant’s fear; piss ran down the vendor’s leg and rancid meat wafted from his agonized face.
Vetra put his blade to the merchant’s throat. “Have you ever swiped a grape? Have you ever been that hungry?”
The merchant opened his bleeding mouth to say something but stopped. His eyes flicked to the side.
Vetra turned and saw a large man approaching. Dragon tattoos rippled on bare, muscled arms, and a dirty blond beard curled low under a pointed chin.
The big man snarled. “Who are you to impose law on us, outlander?”
Vetra sheathed his weapon. “I meant no imposition to your laws.” He glanced down at the child and mouthed the word ‘Run.’
The boy jumped to feet and tore off through the crowd, panic-stricken. He squeezed his way through moving carts, tables and milling bodies, eluding the grasping hands of bystanders.
“Stop that weasel!” the big man yelled to the crowd. He put his hand out to Vetra. “Out of my way! I’ll not kill the thieving brat. Just put him to work in Berit’s smithy, or chain him to a post in the tannery.”
Vetra chuckled and stepped aside. “You’ll never catch him. His feet are faster than a rabbit’s.” He shook his head and sauntered up the monger’s lane, merging with the crowd. He peered left and right, his dark eyes on the alert for trouble. At least he had saved a young urchin from mutilation, no doubt a better deed than anybody in that motley crowd had done that day.
The aisle merged into a common square packed with bustling traffic. Carts jolted past without heed for people safety; noise and dust were like layers of froth off a devil’s brew. A camel came bearing down on him and he stepped aside from the grunting beast, whose rider shook a fist at him. The diversity of the throng fascinated him. Lean Guirites from Amashra swarmed the streets with keen, curved, gold-chased swords belted at their hips. Thrules, four to five feet tall, wore loose, purple robes to the ankle, whispering amongst themselves with hoods drawn tight, concealing all but their cat-like eyes. Wood traders from Kamuchaya trundled in by cart; silk merchants from Asban on their desert ponies, whipping their dust-ridden beasts through the throng. Behundrians dominated the scene, swarthy, stocky residents with tempers and arrogance to match, who imposed their law, which was cruel at best.
Spices, jewels, and fruit, along with silk and ivory flowed from the east while fish, wheat, timber, and steel came from the west. The odd caravan of gold came from the south, with armed escort, from as far as Pakshar and then by way of Senesch on the coast. The Kirns of the South, the Mosetes of the North, the Guirites of the East, all plied the common route, some friends, some foes. They travelled the same dusty streets, rubbing shoulders with each other on foot or donkey or camel, drank by each other’s side in the seedy ale holes and saloons or rolled dice in the gambling houses that graced the town.
Vetra ducked under awnings and pushed his way through the back curtain of a fabric shop. He gave not a glance at the fine silks and Damir linens, but took a shadowy route through a narrow alley with wet clothes strung up from the railings of the overhead apartments. A particular dealer resided here who could fence these emeralds of his. Pity he had to come all the way to this remote outpost for this. He had learned upon arrival that a recent entry permit was imposed on non-Behundrians. Persons in transit were exempt, but to be caught without one while even entering the bazaar was considered an offence—a hefty ten talon fine, or time done in the stockade. Nothing more than a local collection tax, he thought. Two silver talons, one permit.
He pushed down his disgust and wiped the back of his shiny black hair. He was sweating like a stallion.
The three small emeralds were uncut, likely stolen, and payment for his last job. Easier to fence it here in out-of-the-way Dragonskull than be caught in Lausern, pegged as a smuggler by the Vizier’s street watch. He had to find the dealer who would move it first, otherwise his trip was a waste of time. As for the permit, well, he was willing to take a chance...
The alley reeked of sour cabbage and spoiled wine. Trickles of noisome grey water ran in gutters. Vetra turned. A man’s cry? A scream of pain? His lips parted in a scowl. Best to keep walking. But he knew he would not.
Down the narrow, littered alley he stole like a thief, his garbandia knife clutched in one hand, his other on the pommel of his sword in its worn scabbard. He thought he heard a sound behind him, a stalker, crouching hidden behind refuse heap and crumbled wall. He paused.
Nothing.
A large rat skittered out and down a dark hole.
Angry shouts drifted through a canvas-covered gap in a plastered wall. The sounds rose in pitch, the wheezing gasp of a pleading man, grunts and blows, then various chuckles and throaty murmurs. Hackles raised, Vetra bent his head, unable to overcome his curiosity. He pulled back the canvas flap and peered into a windowless chamber dimly lit by oil lamps. A man was gibbering, spread-eagled on a low table. A dozen figures surrounded the victim, and taunted him with cruel knives and wicked bits of sharp, rusted iron.
“I tell you, Rafa, I don’t know where the map is.” The prisoner was lashed hand and foot in stout cord and struggled helplessly as he wailed.
“Liar!” cried Rafa. “I saw you chewing the parchment and swallowing it. Only a knave or fool would do that before looking at the map. Nestor! Jangir! Put the tong to him. This rogue deceives us.”
Nestor nodded, a brawny ape of a man, with a ragged overcloak, iron wristbands and yellow front teeth.
The sound of sizzling flesh came to Vetra’s ears. He clenched his jaw.
Predatory laughs added to the tortured man’s howls.
Vetra, for the life of him, could not stand by and witness a defenceless man tortured and killed, even if he were possibly a villain.
He ripped a hole through the canvas and leaped in, sword gripped. He saw they had branded the victim’s right calf with a lurid mark: a long knife piercing a dragon skull. The victim was a short man, no more than five feet tall. He looked Thrule, but for his wincing features, thin Behundrian nose and more strongly defined jaw. It was hard to see past his shaggy mop of sweat-matted brown hair.
The victim was struggling anew now, and in a fierce display of strength had to be restrained with force despite the strong cords binding his limbs.
Vetra barrelled straight for the man with the tongs. The best attack was a surprise one. Without preamble, Vetra pounced, cleaving skull and jawbone in a spray of blood and brains. The villains around him fell back with cries of horror. Leaning in, Vetra slashed more throats and limbs.
They circled closer, having wits to stay out of reach of his hissing blade. Now they came rounding in, and he was penned like a boar amongst huntsmen.
A bold young voice called out from the shadows. “Oi! Ugly face!”
The rogues quickly faced the unknown voice, and Vetra took the opportunity to slice the next nearest man’s throat. The man staggered into his fellow villains, gurgling blood, a ghastly expression on his face.
Vetra ducked a whooshing blade. Darting sideways, he crouched as another sword edge thumped off his padded leather undershirt, ripping white desert robe. In the same motion, he slashed the victim’s cords that bound legs and arms. The prisoner rolled off the table and crawled across the floor out of reach of the scrabbling men. He snatch ed up the tong while Vetra held off the attackers then hurled it into the face of his captors, eliciting a cry of anguish.
“Get her!” the leader cried.
A flat-faced thug broke from the pack and turned on the intruder who had voiced the taunt, a young woman with cinnamon hair trailing down her slender shoulders. A gleaming knife was gripped in her hand, a dangling scourge clasped in the other.
The aggressor towered a foot over her, sword hanging loosely at his side, sizing her up, as a bull eyes a ripe cow. His leering face bobbed closer to inspect her with more care. He reached a hand out like a snake to grab her wrist.
Her blade flashed and slashed a crimson line across the back of the hand. He grunted in surprise. A knee to the groin doubled him over. Her lithe body then spun with a long leg arching up to crack the side of his head. The man crunched to the floor. The smack of leather on flesh resounded throughout the room. Two more leering figures broke away and came leaping after her, their hoods rustling and white desert garb trailing to their ankles. She sprang forth, whip whirling behind her head. She moved in sync with the rhythm of her foes as they came at her, cursing and grunting.
“A girl? Really, swordster?” Rafa sneered. “You are quite the hero, bringing an entourage from the local bordello!”
Vetra grunted, ignoring the taunts. He twisted to avoid the rake of the grinning man’s two-foot Shamari blade. He was in the thick of the fray, besieged by foes. Parrying left and right, he swore and swivelled left, evading a one-eared attacker who lunged for his vitals. Blood ran down the hilt of Vetra’s naked blade as he cut down hard. A high squeal erupted from a man bowed over in agony.
Meanwhile, the freed victim rolled underfoot. Despite his pitiful state, he hobbled to his feet and grabbed a weapon from the hand of the felled torturer then met an upraised sword aimed for his skull. Vetra laughed, cutting down a man to edge closer to the ginger-haired girl who had saved his neck.
Vetra saw her scourge rising and falling in sprays of red. A wicked weapon of leather strips and rusted nails, meting out an unforgiving punishment. She disarmed the first attacker, lashing out with a shrill cry, to leave a gaping gash on the man’s arm.
Rafa came striding in with a howl of disgust, keen on despatching the hellcat. But in his anger he underestimated his opponent, driving in too close too fast. A quick lash took out his eye. His lips gave rise to a screech of a pain. Hand thrust to his bloody socket, the man reeled, trying to stop the jet of blood gushing from between his fingers.
Vetra, summoning a savage fire from deep in his warrior’s heart, gave a berserker’s yell and launched full on the last four villains who faced him. Sword swung like a mallet, dismembering jaws and bursting brains. But more foes came pouring out from the shadows of a hidden entrance. Many more.
He shook the blood and sweat out of his eyes and edged back, his sword dripping in a white-fisted hand, snarling like a panther. “Quick! If you value your lives!”
The young woman and the freed man wasted no time: together the three of them cleared a path to the back flap.
Vetra squinted under the daytime glare to examine his mysterious aide in better light now. She was lighter skinned and wore a sleeveless vest, short leather breeches, brown belt and soft leather boots. Her shins were bare, and small ornamental bracelets and cheap rings decorated her ankles and fingers. She was in fit shape, with green eyes, luscious curves, and was scarcely winded.
The three staggered out of the shadows, scuttling to the end of the alley.
“What’s your name, girl?” demanded Vetra as they ran.
“Jhara. And yours?”
“Vetra. Why did you help me back there?”
“You saved my brother. I was curious about your business in Dragonskull. Not often does a stranger risk his neck for a nameless urchin.” Her breath caught in her throat as she kept abreast the mercenary while the rescued man was struggling to keep up, wheezing up a storm.
Vetra laughed, a snort of contempt.
“You seem to have a knack for getting yourself in trouble,” she said. “That’s Rafa’s lair, don’t you know? His thugs pay allegiance to Cthan, the sheriff. Are you a daft brute or just a simpleton, going in there and taking on the whole crew?”
Vetra made a brusque motion. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” He halted, peering back down the alley. The Thrule held his branded leg, wincing with every step. Only three of the dozen pursued and they strode with leisure, as if they had all the time in the world. Vetra frowned. Confident swine they were, to saunter with such laziness, as if they had the luxury of kings to ferret out a cocky outlander and some rebels.
“My father... He never let me use a sword.” The girl offered a wry, white-toothed grin, though there was pain in that smile. “Said I would kill somebody.”
Vetra shook his head with bemusement. The whip she used earlier was sewn with hooked, rusted nails and ended with a blood-stained wooden handle. “In that I have no doubt.”
He glanced at the hectic market scene. Folk and mongers moved about their business, oblivious to the violence that had just taken place. His puzzled curl of lip returned upon remembering the girl’s performance.
“One learns to think fast on her feet,” she added, seeing his appraising look, “especially a woman, growing up on the streets.”
“My advice is get a proper sword,” he muttered. “And you, Thrule, what’s your story?” He peered at the man that they rescued.
“I am not a Thrule,” he gasped, stumbling up, his chest heaving. “I am a half Thrule. Lehundr. Snatched by those thugs but an hour ago.” A flicker of doubt passed his eyes as he debated whether or not he could trust the swordsman who hulked before him. “I have desert ponies waiting in the stables of the Prospector’s Inn. My uncle runs the place. Not the fastest steeds, but sturdy ones and reliable. We can be out of here in short order.”
Vetra considered the prospect while rubbing his jaw. Recent events had gone awry and suggested it was time to quit Dragonskull. His gems would have to wait till another day. They were not worth his life. Though he liked not the prospect of delay.
“The fools, they thought I was eating a map,” Lehundr continued, croaking out a harsh laugh. Again, a doubtful hesitation, but he continued. “It was but a decoy. The real one is weaved into my caftan here.” He lifted his torn cloak for an instant and Vetra caught a fleeting glimpse of two dragon heads facing each other—a mystical and sinister sign if he ever saw one—the beasts poised as if a cleverly woven part of the fabric, evoking mystic terror in any who saw it. The fabric was ancient and the pigments dyeing the wool were dulled and faded by years of sun.
“They wanted the map and were ready to kill for it,” he explained. “The rest you can guess.”
Vetra grunted. “Those villains are not going to give up their hunt to lynch a few ornery trespassers. We got lucky. And I don’t know why they haven’t pinned us down and gutted us already.”
Almost as if in answer, his keen eyes detected five grim figures on the other side of the market, blood trailing from their cheeks and arms.
A quick glance over his shoulder showed four more stumbling out of the adjoining alleyway.
Vetra pulled the two into a nearby back alley. “Quick, girl! Make yourself scarce. You, Thrule—or half Thrule, whatever you are—follow me!”
“What about the treasure?” Jhara demanded. “I heard about the map. We’re all going to be rich!”
“Are we now?” grunted Vetra. “Recall, we just narrowly escaped getting our throats cut. Look yonder, what do you see?”
“A market and a bunch of bustling fools.”
“No, death. Go take care of your brother. Begone, this is my last warning.”
“That’s not how this is going to play out—” She gave lip to a rush of words, but seeing the mercenary’s inflexible face, her mouth curled in a mischievous scowl and she turned and dashed off. She disappeared down the alley in a flash of gleaming brown leather and bouncing hair.
Vetra shook his head with perplexity. Her appearance was certainly one of the more bizarre things he had seen in a long time. He had a hunch yet more bizarre things were to follow.
