Michael Stackpole: When Dragons Rage

Logic suggested that he had been speaking with a dragon. After all, the DragonCrown had been fashioned to make them subject to the owner. The one gem that Chytrine possessed gave her control over at least one dragon. Had he touched the mind of an enslaved dragon?

Kerrigan shifted his shoulders and sat upright. That doesn’t matter . Whether it was an enslaved dragon or some trick Chytrine had played upon him was immaterial. The suffering that mind knew would become a daily occurrence if Chytrine won.

The young magicker shook his head. With the help of his friends, he was determined this would never happen.

With his arms flailing unsuccessfully to control his flight, the Tolsin guardsman landed hard on the round wooden table, shattering it completely. The short drop to the ground forced a grunt from him and caused his tin-pot helmet to bounce off. It clunked and danced across the floor, striking Call Mably full in the knee, which was, for Alexia, a consequence unintended but hardly unwelcomed.

Mably—a scrawny man with brown eyes and thin lines of hair covering his pate—hissed and clutched at his knee. He glanced up at her with a hot glare. He wore a leather mask of Oriosan green that had been festooned with a variety of marks and little badges to stress his authority as Tolsin’s magistrate, and its gaudy display only served to undermine the glare’s heat. He straightened up at his table in the Thistledown Tavern, and did his best to keep his voice even.

“To what do I owe this honor, Princess Alexia?”

Alexia took one step forward, pinning the guardsman’s right hand to the floorboards. “I came to visit Crow, but this man was under the mistaken impression that no such visit would be allowed.”

Mably’s nostrils flared for a moment, then he picked up a small steaming bowl of mulled wine. “He was not mistaken. The Traitor is to be allowed no visitors.”

Alexia frowned and turned her head partway to the left. She let her own gaze fall over a few of the tavern’s patrons near the fireplace. As they abruptly looked down, pretending to mind their own business, she spoke softly. “If I heard you correctly, Magistrate, you said Crow would be allowed no visitors.”

“I did, Princess.”

“And you are under the mistaken impression that rule would apply to me?”

“I am.”

Alyx walked over to him, the golden mail surcoat she wore rustling as she went. She leaned down, her gloved hands pressed firmly to the table, her nose a gnat’s length from his. “I noted your impression was ‚mistaken.’”

Mably’s eyes hardened as much as they could, which meant they avoided looking as runny as soft-boiled eggs—but not by much. His voice tightened, rising in register. “I recall that. It was not.”

“Ah, very good. Then consider this. I am a Princess of Okrannel. I am of the same rank as your King Scrainwood. King Augustus is married to a cousin of mine. If I were to choose to deem your prohibition an insult, then demand satisfaction of you, what do you think would happen? Do you think any of your people would stand against me? And do you think that if I slew the lot of them, you included, I would be censured or punished in any way at all? Don’t nod, Mably. You might not be the smartest man alive, but you are not that stupid. I want to see Crow. I will see Crow. Now! ”

She straightened up and hooked her thumbs behind the round buckle of her belt.

Mably reached for his wine coolly, but the ripples in the liquid as he grasped the bowl revealed his fear. He raised his left hand, flicking it casually toward the back of the tavern. “The princess wishes to see the prisoner. Let her pass.”

“You are most kind.”

Mably’s voice grew cold. “Even you would not imagine you would be allowed to wear a weapon.”

Her eyes tightened. “You have my word of honor…”

“Yours, yes, but not his. You see my predicament, Princess. Your sword belt, please.”

Alexia unbuckled it and slid it off. Then she rebuckled it and hung it from a peg on one of the tavern’s wooden columns. Unrestrained by the belt, the mail hung on her like a girl’s summer shift, rustling loudly as she crossed to the back corner. There, a corpulent guard struggled to his feet, pried a wooden chair off his ample buttocks, then moved it aside from the trapdoor leading down into the cellar.

As the man opened the door, she took a lantern from a wall peg and turned the wick up. The opened trapdoor revealed a steep set of ladderlike steps, and cold and moist air washed over her as she descended. The guard closed the door over her head and the scraping sounds from above indicated he’d resumed his post. She listened closely to see if Mably was ordering him to keep her imprisoned, but she heard nothing. A pity. While she hoped the magistrate would do something stupid, he was too much of a coward to strike openly.

Since it was a small town, Tolsin didn’t have much need of a gaol to house prisoners. When Crow had arrived someone had decided they needed a place to keep him—and the best option turned out to be the root cellar below the Thistledown. Alexia was fairly certain that Mably owned the tavern or had an interest in it, and that the Oriosan government would be charged for keeping Crow safe.

As nearly as she could tell, the preparations for housing Crow had been kept to a minimum. A corner of the cellar had been cleared and a patch of straw had been spread out. An eyebolt had been hitched to a rafter and from it hung chains that ended in manacles. The chains were long enough that Crow could lie down, and that surprised Alexia.

The light from her lantern finally touched Crow himself, bleeding some color into what had been the white ghost of a figure huddled in the corner. He’d been stripped of his clothing, and while his long white hair and beard suggested antiquity, his body was still that of a younger man. His left leg remained slightly swollen from broken bones that had only been partially healed by magick. A single scar started at his hairline to the right side of his face, came down over his cheek, then picked up two companions at his collarbone, which then traced down past his hip and thigh to his knee. A plethora of other scars, all white with age, crisscrossed his body.

Alexia gasped—not because of his nakedness or the scars, but because of the new livid bruises on his chest, his arms, legs, and face. His lower lip had been split and his left eye was all but swollen shut. A crust of blood matted the hair at his right temple and one bruise on his chest clearly bore the imprint of a bootheel.

Her gasp snapped his good eye open. Anger rather than fear flashed through it, then the right corner of his mouth tugged back in a smile. “Princess. I am honored. Forgive me for not getting up.”

Alexia shook her head and crouched down, setting the lantern at the edge of the straw. “They beat you?”

“They were provoked.”

She frowned. “You went with them peacefully. You wouldn’t do anything stupid.”

He snorted, and his smile stretched the split lip. “Your confidence in me is gratifying. I am afraid I did provoke them.”

“How?”

He raised his hands. “They’d looped the chain high enough that I couldn’t lie down.” His right eye sparkled as he separated his hands, then, quickly, slammed his wrists together. The manacles hit hard with a muffled clang, then the right one sprang open. “A manacle is only as good as the spring that keeps the catch shut. I unwound a bunch of the chain from around the rafter. After that I helped myself to some of the provisions down here. They have some passable wine in that cask over there, and there is some good cheese in that wooden box.“

Alexia smiled in spite of herself. “So, I shouldn’t have been worried about you at all?”