Raigart’s Dragons ~excerpt (unedited)
Lord Raigart is a man with a dream. A dream of dragons covering all of Athos in flames hotter than than hellfire, scourging the land and elevating him to a position greater than any man has known. Ages ago, the goddess Davnia defeated the one great Wyrm that almost destroyed the world–but deep in the earth lay the eggs that will bring Raigart’s dreams to fruition.
Ainar the King is old and ailing, placing his hopes for the future of Athos in his sons, Magnus and Ulfgar, and his foster son Peder. But against Raigart’s dragons, there is no hope of defense. And when Ainar’s oldest and bitterest enemy, the rebel Alric of the Taillands, wants to join forces against the threat, Ainar knows it’s nothing more than a play for the throne he’s always coveted. But can he afford to refuse?
Alric has long been a proud thorn in Ainar’s side, but his motives have changed. With his sons and wife dead at Raigart’s hands, his designs on a crown have been usurped by a simpler purpose–vengeance.
*
“I’m not certain this is a good idea, uncle,” Sturla said again, his eyes darting along the trunks of the trees that marched away on either side of the path. “This could be a trap. An ambush.”
Astride his warhorse, Alric Prince of the Tailmen didn’t deign to turn his head. His disregard would be a stronger rebuff than a scowl, and in any case, the youngling needed no encouragement to press his cause.
On Alric’s other side, Hegred employed the opposite tactic, glowering at Sturla with such scorn the younger man went red and dropped his gaze.
“That is why we have outriders, Sturla,” Alric said mildly, taking pity on his wife’s nephew. It wouldn’t take much more for the boy to reach the end of Hegred’s patience.
Sturla’s throat-knot bobbed, emphasizing the thinness of his neck even more than did his shorn hair and lack of beard. “And if the outriders themselves are ambushed?” he pressed with a stiffness that could only be wounded pride. He would be aware of what Hegred thought of him. The old warrior’s eyes cried “coward” every time they lit on Sturla.
In answer, Alric let out a sharp whistle, keening high and shrill before falling off in a lingering warble. In reply from the trees some distance ahead, the trill of a starling.
“It appears we’re safe for the moment, nephew.”
“I do not trust this Raigart,” Sturla insisted.
Would the fool not shut up? Alric thought. The indulgence of an uncle could only go so far, yet Sturla seemed unable to hold his tongue. Out of the corner of his eye, Alric saw Hegred’s hand stray to his axe.
“He could have an army hidden in this forest,” Sturla went on with ill-advised persistence.
“If there was any chance of that, my prince certainly wouldn’t have padded his escort with a puling weakling who’d never lifted a sword in battle!” Hegred snarled. “If you must whine, stick to something you know about—like saddle sores—and leave military matters to others.”
Sturla visibly bit back a retort, blinking at a suspicious sheen on his eyes and staring at the alders that seemed to shiver in the breeze all around. He would be realizing, of course, that an argument would not serve to further endear him to his uncle. Nor would it improve Hegred’s opinion of him—indeed, the old warrior would likely never see anything worthy in him. An education, even one centering on military strategy, wasn’t a thing that impressed the old-timers. The only thing that mattered to them was how much blood a man had spilled.
“Politics is what I sent him to Sylphae to learn,” Alric said, drawing a startled glance from his old friend. He and Hegred had been thick since childhood, and did not tend to disagree in public. But Alric’s purposes would not be served if Hegred lost his temper and pinned Sturla to a tree with his axe. “What he lacks in muscle, he makes up for in brains. He speaks no more than what I have told myself the last few days. This could be a trap.”
“Then why come?” Hegred growled, his scarred face seeming to fold in on itself.
“I’m trying to achieve something here, old friend!” Alric laughed. “For more than two decades now, almost half my life. Wars may be fought, but they are never won. Battle alone will gain us nothing but scars and dead men, as it has for twenty-five years. I need more than the Tailmen to win. I need money, I need political allies, and I need servants who can do more than water a sword. Without them, my sons and my grandsons will be fighting this same war for the next hundred years. That is why I sent Sturla to the university. I could put a sword in his hand and let him die as pointlessly as the next man, or I can use his talents for my benefit. For the Tail. And mayhap I can use Raigart of Jutland, as well. That is why I have come, even though it might be a trap.”
Hegred scowled, unimpressed. “No man would dare to ambush Alric of the Tail!”
“Raigart is mad,” Alric said softly. “Who knows what he would dare?”
Hegred snorted as if the matter was a trifle. “His message was clear enough—he wants to join us.”
“His words were that he might be of service to the Tailmen,” Alric clarified quietly—he always spoke quietly when he had something important to say. “Of following Alric sur-Bern, he made no mention.”
Sturla sat straighter in the saddle, like a dog that has pleased its master. Hegred, conversely, clamped his lips together behind his blond beard, and glowered impartially at everything in his field of vision. Alric tried to hide his smile, watching as the old warrior sucked his teeth and snorted and at last shrugged the entire thing off. Hegred was not here for his brains—he was just smart enough to know that. The sword that hung at his hip, opposite his axe, was named Grunsild—Protector—and that was its purpose.
Another starling-call sounded from the trees ahead. A few moments later, Hjort emerged astride his small mare at the head of the path and hailed them. Smaller than most, Hjort’s entire body was no wider than Hegred’s thigh, but by god, could he ride. A bow was slung across his back, and a quiver of twenty arrows. Alric knew he could shoot every one of them in less than two minutes, and with an accuracy that could pluck out an owl’s eye. He’d been a thief in his youth. Caught red-handed in Alric’s own bedchamber, while his household made merry in the hall downstairs. The audacity, Alric thought, shaking his head at the memory. Had it happened twenty years ago, Alric would have taken his head for a trophy and presented it to his wife, for whose jewels the thief had risked all. But Alric was no longer the hot-headed youth, had felt a change beginning in himself some years ago, had begun to see value even in people who were not crass, sword-wielding brutes. Sneakiness was a talent that could be used—as was the agility the boy had demonstrated climbing the outside of Alric’s tower like a beetle up a tree trunk. All Alric had taken was the lad’s right ear. And then he’d offered him a position of honor in his household.
Alric reined in his horse. “What do you see, Hjort?”
“No ambush, near as I can tell,” the young man reported. “Raigart and his pet Kurgan await you in the clearing. Looks to be a group of maybe twenty, half-mile away down-slope. Bows and swords. No armor that I can see—they aren’t here to fight.”
“That’s it, then,” Alric said with a shrug. He glanced at Sturla and offered the boy a half-smile. “No trap. Let’s get about it.”
Wheeling his mount, Hjort led them through the trees to the clearing. As they came out from among the trunks they saw Raigart upon his grey stallion, his Kurgan, Oberon, standing at his stirrup. As always, Alric had to suppress a shudder at the sight of the mask Raigart wore to hide his ravaged face. Alric had been in attendance at the Games where Raigart was disfigured, had seen the wound up close when it was still bloody and fresh. He found himself wondering what it looked like now. Had Ambrian of Voth, the priest who tended him, been able to save anything? Regardless, whatever was left of his face, it had to be preferable to the eerie perfection of that mask.
“I wasn’t sure you would come,” Raigart said by way of greeting.
Alric cast a warning glance at Sturla to keep his mouth shut. Hegred would need no caution—his instincts concerning danger were better than any man Alric knew. At the moment, his hand was hovering near the haft of his axe, fingers flexing. “I always make a point of accepting interesting invitations. Your messenger said you have a proposal for me.”
“I do,” Raigart replied with a nod, both halves of his mouth smiling. “I am making an appeal to all those who oppose the tyranny of Ainar’s rule. By what right holds he the throne of Athos? By whose authority does he sit above us all? His place was won by a sword-stroke, a knife judiciously planted, and promises made to men who hold power. No divine law justifies his claim to the throne.”
Alric frowned, inspecting his fingernails as if for lint or grime. “I came because I thought to hear something new.”
Raigart’s one eye glared into Alric’s. His hands gripping the reins of his horse were white at the knuckle. “Gold and shed blood, not god, put Ainar on the throne of Athos. You know this, Alric sur-Bern. I know this. It is time we did something about it. Time we gather all those who would have freedom beneath one banner.”
Alric raised his brows in apparent unconcern, even as his stomach clenched. In his head, he was counting: Raigart had twenty years on him. “And whose banner might that be?”
In answer, Raigart turned his horse, so the livery could be seen. A black flail on a field of red. The new emblem of Jutland.
So here it was, not even couched in vagueness or flattery. This freak was out to supplant him. Now that Alric thought about it, he was surprised it had taken this long for someone to try. “I’m afraid I must pass,” Alric declined with a smile. “Unless you would consent to joining your resources beneath my leadership?”
Alric watched Raigart’s one eye go cold, then hot with fury. “What have the Tailmen ever been under Alric sur-Bern? Raiders. Renegades. Scum. Under Alric sur-Bern, scum is all they will ever be. Under me, the men of the Tail will be a scourge. They will clean this land. They will make it as it should be, as it was meant to be.”
Alric’s eyes roved the forest edge for signs of treachery. He knew now that Sturla was right, he was a fool to have come. Raigart was not sane, this much was clear. Alric could sense Hegred’s tension beside him, and to his right smelt the growing reek of Sturla’s sweat-drenched fear. With a burgeoning dismay, he noted the pallor on the face of Raigart’s Kurgan, and how his eyes also darted along the boles of the alders, as if looking for something.
Alric forced a laugh. “You may indeed have the Tailmen, Lord Raigart. That does not mean you will have me. Ainar could tell you, I’ve never been much of a follower.”
Sturla’s horse reared, letting out a shrill whinny, and to Alric’s exasperation, the dolt fell from the saddle to sprawl among the tufted grass. As Sturla spat bits of moss and moldered leaves, Raigart’s laughter filled the clearing. “Ah, if only all the Tailmen cut such a dashing figure as this!”
Alric opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly his own mount was dancing sideways, jerking at the bit. As he fought for control, he caught a glimpse of what had panicked the horses so, and his guts turned to water. Emerging from the trees, head low, shoulders hunched, long, scale-covered tail lashing, was a beast of hell.
Hjort gave a cry and put an arrow to the string. Leaping into the air, spreading its leathery wings like a canopy above its serpentine body, the beast dodged the arrow. With a cry oddly like that of a seagull, it took flight. The wind from its wings sent leaves scattering. Hjort’s horse whinnied, its eyes ringed white with fear, and wheeled about to flee. The dragon landed full upon both horse and rider, talons plunging deep into flesh. Hjort’s scream was lost amid the dread beast’s wail, then the roar of its fire. Even as horse and rider collapsed, burning, the dragon opened its wide beak and tore Hjort’s head from his neck.
“Hyaah!” Hegred snarled, cruelly pulling his own mount about. Lifting his axe from its cradle, he charged toward the feasting dragon. An arrow took him through the back before his first swing, and he toppled from the saddle like a sack of grain.
Alric drew his sword. His own horse had quieted, as if the capacity for fear had abandoned it. Raigart’s Kurgan lowered his bow, his teeth bared in what might have been a smile. Sturla had finally regained his senses and now scrambled to his feet and ran. At Raigart’s command the dragon abandoned what was left of Hjort and went after Sturla.
It was a thing to behold: the beast’s feet hardly touched the ground, its wings folded in half along its back. Then spreading, catching the air and lifting the beast so that it landed, with an accuracy a falcon would envy, on the back of the terrified man.
With a scream, Sturla threw himself to the ground, rolled, tried to fend off the creature with hands and booted feet. So great a fool, he could not even see it was hopeless. Alric watched, strangely calm now, as the dragon’s fire engulfed his wife’s nephew. Watched as he flailed screaming amid the tongues of flame. The dragon did not feed on Sturla—Hjort’s flesh must have sated its hunger, if not its desire to kill. It stood upon him, twice his size, long neck arched, head thrown skyward as it crowed its triumph.
Alric watched, his awareness shrinking until all it knew was a cold hate. As Sturla’s limbs finally stilled, Alric turned back to Raigart and met his eyes—the real and the false. The younger man’s half-face was rendered in lines of rapturous delight. His laugh was as warm and wholesome as if he’d just shared a particularly amusing joke with Alric.
“You will truly not join me, Alric sur-Bern?” he asked.
“You will understand that I must decline.” Alric was inwardly amazed at how even his voice was, how serene he felt. He was fully expecting to die now. Should have listened to Sturla. You could always trust the coward’s wisdom. If only Sturla had been more the coward, he’d still be alive, Alric thought, and found himself smiling, Salgrim help him.
“Of course I understand,” Raigart said, his real eye twinkling. And motioning to his Kurgan, he turned his horse and prepared to ride out. The Kurgan followed, not giving Alric another glance. As he went, he whistled, high and shrill, and the dragon left Sturla’s incinerated body to trail at their heels.
At the edge of the clearing, Raigart turned in the saddle. “Aren’t you wondering where my little pet came from?”
“It’s no business of mine what demon your mother fucked to spawn such a creature,” Alric said softly.
“Oh, my,” Raigart laughed. “I believe I shall let you live, after all. How else to savor your reaction when you discover what my pet’s brothers have been doing?” His mirth resounded amid the trunks of the trees, a lilting counterpoint to the crackle of flames.
Alric waited until Raigart and the Kurgan were out of sight before he wheeled his horse about. He didn’t spare a glance for Sturla or Hjort, not a moment’s concern for Hegred his lifelong friend. But even as he pressed his mount to its full speed, heedless of the roots and undergrowth that could lame him, Alric realized it was too late. He was a morning’s gentle ride from home—nearly an hour at the gallop. The time and place of this meeting had been chosen by Raigart, to have Alric far from his place of strength. Far from his wife and sons.
As he finally cleared the edge of the wood and shot like a loosed arrow across the plain, Alric’s eyes lifted to the streak of greasy, black smoke that smeared the noon sky. He knew what it was. He knew what it meant. But he felt nothing.
At last his horse crested the rise and he could see what was left of his castle, Dunberg. Walls of granite as thick as a man was tall remained unbreached, as they had through countless sieges over hundreds of years. Those very walls would have trapped the people inside when the dragons plunged down from the heavens to rain fire upon them. Between the burning timbers of the drawbridge, Alric could see the iron bars of the portcullis still closed against the ever-present threat of attack. Alric’s vocal opposition of the king in Annensee ensured a siege or assault at least every other year. Every measure had been taken to fortify the perimeter, to keep the king’s men out and Alric’s inside.
No one could have foreseen what had come this day. Dragons were creatures of legend, shrouded in the mists of the world’s most ancient history, and had died out eons before the first Andun walked the earth. Only those whose faith in holy scripture was strictly fundamentalist even believed the beasts had existed at all.
Alric sat his horse at the top of the hill and gazed down on what the creatures of myth could wreak upon the hapless denizens of reality.
His wife Birgid would be dead, he knew. His four sons, upon whom he had bestowed his pride and love and his life’s singular passion. All dead. And somehow, knowing this, he couldn’t feel anything, not even the icy embrace of hate.
He had nothing now. No wife, no sons, no home. Nothing but the clothes on his back and the handful of coin in his pocket, and the name his father had given him.
And an enemy.
By Salgrim, it would have to do.