Dragon Lords, page 2
part #1 of Swords and Skulls Series
Lehundr stared in awkward fashion, wiping his bloody blade on his torn garment.
“Where did you get that map?” Vetra demanded as he forged his way through the market crowd.
“Off a wandering Guirite, who knew not what he had. He was selling knicknacks and memorabilia from his market stand and I happened to notice it hanging there, pinned to a hide, as an emblem or decoration. He said it was a good luck charm. I recognized it for what it was—the mark of the Dragon Keeper. My father had schooled me well in the legends of the Dragon Lords. He said their treasure was an ancient secret woven into a map.”
“Well, you paid a hefty price for that bit of fabric.” He motioned to Lehundr’s quivering leg.
“Help me get to the Thrule district. I have healing ointments there.”
“I doubt any salve is going to fix that burn too swiftly.”
“You don’t know Thrule medicine.”
Vetra’s eyes darted about. What to do about this Thrule? He was in bad shape and likely would not survive another assault if the band of ruffians caught him again.
Almost as if in answer he saw a garish sign to the trader’s post looming like a sore thumb: a wooden slab with carved-out pickaxes and shovels crossed together.
Another reckless camel came veering in, the scowling man cursing from its saddle. Vetra was deafened by the animal’s grunt in his ear. He stumbled into a wizened merchant, carrying a load of silk bales, who rang out some Mosete words at him for being in his way.
“Quick, in here!” Vetra growled, annoyed with the overloaded street. The oppressive heat was getting to him. He pushed the Thrule on through.
They plunged past the swinging wooden door. A wall of noise, confusion and impatient voices assailed them.
Figures moved every which way in a bright-lit open pavilion. Sunlight streamed from the long windows that ran along the upper gallery below an arched, bricked ceiling.
Weigh scales lined the nearby wall, men measuring vials of silver dust, gold nuggets and ore chips, others wielding heavy sacks of precious metals. A few gripped freshly signed deeds and land rights. The depot was a central hub where all the traders secured their commerce, signed trade deals, filed mineral claims, and lodged complaints.
An open area at the back of the depot fronted a sprawling cobbled courtyard rich with milling folk who toted sacks of grains and other goods to the weigh stations—barrels of precious water, crates of Thorian metal, rolls of silk, or linen, baskets of dates and coconuts, raw leather, rugs, amphorae of wine. The heaving, jostling men swarmed about like ants. Vetra stared past the figures and tethered horses at the temple of Dergath and its forked spires and shiny jade dome rising into the white-washed sky. To its side rose the great curving bulk of the stone reservoir of water that kept the town alive.
Shaking his head at the chaos, Vetra strode to the central area. Straightaway he was accosted by a uniformed man selling trading permits at an alleged discount. The man shuffled clay tokens through his fingers with confident ease and pushed one in Vetra’s hands. Vetra squinted at the disk with scepticism, then, seeing it bore a true Dragonskull seal, flipped a silver coin at him, thinking it could come in handy if they were accosted by the town watch. The hyena-like cackles of men came from behind and he turned upon the three grubby traders who stared at him with obvious amusement.
A sudden suspicion dawned on Vetra and he stared at Lehundr who straggled behind in a daze, in no shape to call out a warning. Leaning back, Vetra shifted, realizing he had been duped and reached out to grab the vendor. But the smiley-faced con was gone.
He herded Lehundr up ahead and they inserted themselves in a line leading to a main counter, trying to appear as unobtrusive as possible. Lehundr’s darting eyes and burn on his leg marked him out.
The trade-clerk of the depot shouted across the nearby counter over the din of voices. “You’ll get your blasted silver dust, you damned rogue!”
The fuming, red-eared figure on the other side of the wicket glared. “I doubt that! Give me back my coins, you jackal. All five hundred. Shipment was due a week ago, and it still hasn’t arrived out of Dalispar. I’ve been swilling Jirrir’s sour ale and eating stringy mutton with my bully-boys for the last week, itching to carve out someone’s liver.”
The trade-clerk snarled. “Hire yourselves some trollops then, down Smeldra’s way. Amuse yourself for a few more days. Your silver’ll come, by Dron, or I’ll cut off my beard and eat it.”
“Well, you’d better get a knife because—”
A loud shout pierced the air. Then a thud and clash of arms as a dispute over a transaction gained momentum.
Wood flashed in a fist and a brute cracked his club over the head of a lean desert man with a rat-face. “That’ll teach you to backbite, you lily-livered Kirn.”
The brute’s aide grumbled, “Well, Onast, any more of your bullies got a beef with us?”
“Ah,” the tradepost-clerk grunted. “This place is a barn.” He turned to Vetra, who had thrust himself next in line while a long line of men were distracted. “Well, what’s your complaint, outlander?” The clerk glared at Vetra, and the mercenary casually loosened his outer garment to better disguise his rugged physique.
“No complaint,” Vetra remarked. “I came to get a trader’s permit.”
“Trader’s permit? That’s that office down the hall,” he barked, jerking a thumb. “Why waste my time here?”
“I was ripped off by your so-called assistant who carries no more than a few trinkets of pretty clay.”
“Say what?”
Vetra gritted his teeth, his anger not allowing him to let it go. “I said, the imposter claims he was the one I should pay money for a permit.” He held up a faked token stained with yellow and red.
The clerked grinned. “Well, if you were fool enough to give honest coins to that good-for-nothing—”
“You!” burst out a voice. Vetra whirled to recognize an oily-skinned man wearing a turban from back at the market “—you were the rascal who Vilivet was talking about, some foreigner who thought to flout our market law.”
A rustle came from behind the clerk. A tall, broad-chested man came out of the back office, his ears pricked. “What’s this I hear about Vilivet?” There was a dangerous glitter in the man’s eyes, as a lizard eyes a cringing mouse. “Is there a problem here?”
“No problem, Cthan,” mumbled the trade-clerk soothingly.
“Aye, no problem,” grunted Vetra. “I just suggest you teach your clerk better manners.” He recalled the name ‘Cthan’ dropped by Jhara and noticed that Lehundr seemed to shrink in the presence of the hulking lawbringer of Dragonskull.
The oily-skinned man piped up in anger: “The outlander’s a sword-trickster. Took a thieving urchin from under our thumbs and stared down Vilivet.”
Cthan snorted. “What do I care of your little squabbles? If Vilivet can’t handle one grubby foreigner, then he deserves his hide whipped. Serve the man and be done, Sabias, before I wallop you. I get enough complaints about your surliness as it is.”
“As you like.” Sabias growled. “And you, Thrule,” he grunted down at Lehundr, “what are you looking at? I should have you thrown out and whipped. Thrules go in the other line!” He clutched his writing stick in a white-knuckled fist.
Lehundr had been staring in fascination, still dazed from his near encounter with death. A line of drool slithered down from the corner of his mouth, a detail which had likely triggered the clerk’s dislike.
Lehundr, whose natural habit seemed to be to look down, let the flap of his torn hood hide his face. His noiseless movement of upraised hand with open palm seemed a gesture of implicit subservience. Yet Vetra could see by his resentful shrug he was not pleased to be insulted.
“Leave him out of this,” Vetra grumbled with impatience. “The half Thrule’s with me.”
“And what’s your claim in this affair?”
“First of all he’s a half Thrule, not a Thrule, and he’s got your blood in him too,” reiterated Vetra loudly, “and if there’s any thrashing or bullying to do, it’ll be done by me. He glared down at the clerk who was starting to irk him.
The trade-clerk bristled at the outlander’s insolence. Seeing the merciless fire in Vetra’s eyes and the glint of steel rising out of his scabbard, he grumbled an oath and crashed a fist on the table. “Your door’s down there, big man. Take your Thrule with you.”
Vetra marched away like a lazy cat, earning the appreciative stares of several onlookers. He and Lehundr pushed past several grumbling and jeering men, tired of waiting in line.
Vetra motioned to the Thrule. “Don’t like you, do they?” He stared down at his companion’s five-foot height.
“They don’t like anyone here,” muttered the shorter man. “The Behundrians, I mean. A word of advice, friend, not that I don’t appreciate your grit in sticking up for me, but watch your step. One man and a sword isn’t going to take on a whole gang of villains. You don’t know them like I do.”
Vetra gave a sinister laugh. He pushed his gleaming blade back in his scabbard and sauntered through the throng. “I see you are eager to be gone, and for that I don’t blame you. Best be on your way, Thrule, before those bullies target you again.”
At that moment two riders thundered up to the depot’s back station, kicking up a dust storm. Their mounts were lathered with sweat and looked to have seen some heavy riding. One cried out in a hoarse voice, “The main water pipe is down again. No breaches for a league or so, we checked. But ’tis the Thrules! They’ve taken the pipe somewhere further up the line. Rebels from the north—the Thorian mines have been hit too.”
The booming voice of the sheriff rolled over the general noise. “Damn those nomads! They’ve likely sabotaged the main water head at Sunswatch. Outback rebels, I wager. Round up your swords, men—and your camels. We’ve a rebellion to quash.”
A chorus of vengeful shouts and murmurs rose from the gathered men.
Vetra frowned. That the Thorian mines were compromised meant there would be a major movement of militia eastward. Large coin was at stake. The rare mineral Thorian, the magical element from which the wizard Slune had figured out how to manufacture the finest steel, was a lifeline of the Sahir trade. The Dragonskull constabulary, as their purpose demanded, would have to protect the common interest.
Cthan swore, grimaced at an arguing deputy, fit to be tied. “I’ll send word to Thraxen’s force at Menihem. We’ll meet them and rout out the vermin and put an end to this little rebellion once and for all. A round of stiff arrack for the lads.”
Vetra forewent his trader’s permit. He slipped out the back of the station with Lehundr close on his heels. This place was too conspicuous and crowded. While a hubbub of desert mounts being saddled and packed for war reigned there was no better time to escape unnoticed. Even so, Vetra paused. The excited jabber of men’s voices aside, he had not liked the suspicious retreat of a particular squint-eyed, curly-haired man upon mention of ‘outlander’ earlier. He had no doubt there were more of Rafa’s spies about.
* * *
The midafternoon sun blazed down like an angry furnace. Vetra and Lehundr crouched outside the stables at the back of Lehundr’s uncle’s Inn, for fear of being seen. The smell of dung lay thick in their noses. Three sturdy ponies swished tails at the pesky flies in the shade of the alley behind the stables. The inn rose several feet over the horse stalls: a two-storey clay and stone dwelling with arched doors and painted gumwood typical of the region’s desert dwellings. Few folk were about these quarters. The air was hot and heavy and would not be cooling down for some hours. Not fast enough for Vetra’s tastes.
“We should be travelling by night,” Vetra murmured, “for reasons of stealth and coolness.” He poked about in the dusty shadows and gathered what extra supplies from the stable he thought they needed: lantern, rope, extra wicks, a pickaxe.
Lehundr gave his head a decided shake. He fingered the salve he had acquired from the stable. “Rafa will learn that we were at the depot and come hunting for us. So we can’t wait until nightfall. In fact, they will be coming here before long.” To his burn wound he applied more of the ointment, a mixture of cactus and eucalyptus leaf.
“Nothing we can do about that,” mused Vetra. “Better pack up and go.”
“Come with me, Vetra!” the Thrule urged in a fierce whisper. “I need a good man on this job. A fighter! A swordsman. You’re a man of mettle. We’ll split the spoils. The map is genuine, I know it!” He lifted his outer robe again in excitement.
Vetra stared critically at the folds of fabric which showed the dragons and some crude, cryptic sketch of valleys and temples and skulls. It seemed to point to a hidden tomb, delineated by a dragon rune stone, north of the place where the pipeline snaked, if his bearings were right. “It follows the line of the pipe.”
“So—we’ll give the invading rebel Thrules wide berth.”
“Meaning, you think I’m going to hunt down this will-o-the-wisp of yours? Get knifed, and die with gold in my hands? No, we’ll get out of town, hide our heads for a while, but that’s all I can guarantee. This treasure seems too much of a longshot.”
“Why, though? The girl was not stupid—she could smell the promise of riches.”
Vetra ignored the remark and noticed the short, gleaming falchion Lehundr had tucked at his waist. “I see you favour the shorter blade.”
“Yes, it’s lighter, quicker and more versatile in battle.”
“The reach is shorter and you could get yourself gutted by a better fighter with a longer blade, especially on horseback.”
“You would know.”
Vetra chuckled. “Well, I hope you know how to use it. My experience with treasure is that plenty of blood flows alongside it.”
Lehundr gave a furtive grin. He draped the soft woollen scarf about his neck to ward off the daytime flies. Adjusting his coiled turban, he chuckled. Vetra thought he looked less like a Thrule, and more like a Behundrian.
“Daytime could be dangerous,” Vetra commented. “The deserts are populated with nomads, like tics on a dog’s hide. I don’t know what tribes are out there but their allegiance may not be to our favour, nor their temperaments. The region is unfamiliar to me, but I’ve heard many a tale of wayfarers and traders alike, pulled down by grasping hands, ambushed by desperados.”
Lehundr clicked his tongue. “Relax, I know the terrain. I can guide us.”
Even in daylight hours the sounds of men’s shouts and laughter drifted from a nearby canteen. Vetra heard loud coarse music, the odd bray of a donkey or the whinny of a horse. Not even he noticed the slim, covert form who had snuck up alongside Lehundr’s extra packbeast while the men stood conversing in the heat, downing some cheap ale at the stable’s gate before their jaunt into the scrublands.
Vetra winced and shook his head. “Bah, this tastes like tar.”
“Only the best Thrule stock,” scoffed Lehundr. “What, don’t like my uncle’s mix? Drink up, friend. It may be all you’ll get for a long time.”
Vetra peered around, the smells and sights registering only as blips on his consciousness. The day had unfolded in unexpected fashion and now his senses prickled with a sense of danger. He upended the tankard on the sand by the stable. “I think I’d rather die and go to Dergath than take this swill.”
The mercenary loosened his caftan, itching with the sweat that soaked the soft wool and made it stick to the back of his neck. The sour ale sloshing in his stomach did him little favours. He scratched at his stubbled cheeks, brushing back his shiny black hair under the coiled desert cap that he had chosen to stave off the desert heat. He was glad he had decided to ‘go local’, wearing lighter, airier garb, to downplay his real status as a mercenary. No small number of enemies had he made in his line of work, even as far as Dragonskull. Eyes and ears and noses were no less sharp in this town. Under his flowing white caftan, the boiled hide and ring mail protected his chest and vitals. One could never be too careful, even while not on the job. Time for him to skip town.
Vetra’s eyes widened at the size of the half Thrule’s saddlebag. Lehundr was now adding a sieve and trowel. “What? I thought you were talking about a few day’s trip, not a five-year hunting mission? Lighten your load. And what’s with all the cooking utensils and mineral-hunting gear?”
“One can never be too careful,” the half Thrule argued. “The desert is a dangerous place. Besides, we need some story, some alibi. There are many prying eyes about.”
Vetra shrugged. He saw that his companion’s stride had greatly improved.
Lehundr, catching his expression, showed a wide grin. “We Thrules know something of healing.”
“You’re a half Thrule,” Vetra reminded him.
“Does it matter? I still have a nomadic heritage.”
“You seem proud of it—also ashamed.”
Lehundr looked away. It seemed the Thrule kept more than one dark secret.
A disturbance gripped the nearby inn—cries, broken glass, the distant thuds of fists and crashing furniture. Vetra tensed, gripped his blade, while Lehundr’s troubled hiss rasped between his teeth. He tightened fingers on Vetra’s arm. From the open window drifted hoarse demands, whimperings of pain, and the screams of tavern wenches.
Four turbaned figures in dirty caftans burst out of the inn’s back alleyway, dragging Lehundr’s uncle by the ears. They thrust him out into the yard and kneed him down. His face was a bloody mess, his lip cut, eyes wild and puffed, cheeks dripping with blood.
Vetra drew his blade. He strode to meet them. The ponies started at the clamour, nostrils flared at the smell of blood; they yanked at their tethers.
The foremost man flourished a long scimitar at Lehundr. “Both of you are liars—” he thundered, referring with disgust to Lehundr’s uncle. “Who’s this then? Your map-bearing rat?”
They kicked the old man rolling in the dust. He clawed at his torturer’s feet, hooking fingers into the baggy folds draping their shins.
“The map, or your life, Thrule,” threatened the lead thug. He ignored Vetra and pointed his curved blade at the map bearer.
