Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Ice Dragon

«We need food and drink immediately!» cries the Baron.

«I'm sorry, we haven't opened»-

The Baron takes out a purse and slams some gold coins onto the counter. «Two tankards of your famous ale, and as many beef pies as you can fit onto a plate,» says the Baron. «And I mean a large plate. Just pile them on a tray if you don't have one big enough.»

The man behind the bar, scoops up the gold. «Right away,» he says, and begins shouting orders to some unseen figures in the kitchens beyond. I like this Baron a lot more than anyone else I've met in Samsarina. We take a table by a window, a solid piece of furniture designed to carry food and drink for the hungry man, and when the pies start arriving, we get to work. Baron Girimos downs his flagon of ale in one long gulp.

«I hope you're not one of these people who thinks you shouldn't drink in the morning?» he says.

«I've never seen any reason not to.»

«That's what I told my daughter only yesterday!» cries the Baron. «But she wouldn't listen. Waiter, more ale. Have you any cold pheasant in the larder? No? Duck? That'll do fine. Send it along.»

By this time, several waitresses are scurrying around, pressed into action by the unexpected arrival of a wealthy Baron. Bowls of steaming vegetables appear, along with bread, cheese and cold duck, Girimos having issued instructions to just bring everything as soon as it's ready.

«Haven't eaten properly for a week,» he exclaims, tucking into a hefty portion. «Damned relatives all over the place.»

I finish a second tankard of ale, take a temporary diversion through a bowl of buttered yams, and then get back to the beef pies.

«That's not a bad pie,» says the Baron. «Plenty of beef. Satisfying. Not like these silly little things my wife gets from her fancy chef. Reminds me of the pies the quartermaster used to have when we were campaigning in Grykur. Man needs a good bit of food when there's dragons pouring out of the sky. Ever been in Grykur?»

«I was there in the war,» I say. «Led my phalanx all the way over the Dragon-bone hills.»

«I was in the Dragon-bone hills too!» says the Baron, enthusiastically. «I was a young officer. Not many Orcs could stand up to my cavalry battalion, I can tell you. But it was tough. I remember we were outnumbered four to one going up Blackwing Rise, and the order came in to retreat. 'What's that?' I said. 'Retreat? The Ninth Battalion of the Samsarinan Cavalry does not retreat!' I told the bugler to blow the advance — waitress, where's our ale? We're thirsty over here!»

A waitress rushes over with two more large tankards. She departs smiling, thanks to the Baron's generous tip. «Keep the ale coming,» he calls after her. «Where was I? Ah yes, the bugler. I told him to sound the advance, and right that moment he took an arrow in the throat. Fell off his horse stone dead. So I picked up the bugle myself and sounded the charge. You should have seen us going up that hill! The Orcs fled when they saw us coming.»

«I was on Blackwing Rise too!» I say. «On the south side, with the infantry.» I pick up the salt and pepper pots, and start manoeuvring them round the table, to illustrate our troop positions. «As I was leading the phalanx up the slope, the Fourth Orcish Regiment suddenly came over the hill, with a dragon behind them!» I pick up a small tumbler, to represent the Orcish forces, and start advancing the pepper pot.

«I was here, with the cavalry,» says the Baron, picking up a spoon and placing it beside a fork which represents a group of Western Sorcerers.

«Not that the Sorcerers were much help,» says the Baron.

«They never are! All the hard work gets left to the soldiers.» I notice my tankard is empty and there seems to be a lack of pies on the table. I open my mouth to roar for more but the kitchen is now fully operational and waitresses are already heading our way. As the morning progresses, the table submerges under a mass of condiments and cutlery, as the Baron and I re-create the campaign in the Dragon-Bone Hills in Grykur, of which the battle of Blackwing Rise was but one of many stirring events, albeit one in which the heroic performance of my phalanx was noted far and wide. At some point in the proceedings the Baron is on his feet with a long loaf of bread in his hands, illustrating the best way to cut down an opponent on horseback, while I pick up a tray and use it as a shield, demonstrating the way I led my men against the elite troops of the Fourth Orcish Regiment. By now it's approaching lunchtime and the tavern has a few more customers, though we're not paying much attention to them.

«What say we open a bottle of klee?» suggests the Baron. «Wash down some of this food before examining the desserts?»

That sounds like an excellent idea. It's a long time since I've had a glass of klee, the strong, fiery spirit distilled all over the West. Quality can vary widely, but the proprietor of the Jolly Bandit brings us a bottle brewed by monks in the hills, and it's not bad at all.

«Good klee!» says the Baron, banging his glass on the table. «Reminds me of a drop I had to drink right after we rode from Blackwing Rise to Sundread Valley. Were you in the valley?»

«Led my phalanx right through it.»

«Splendid!» cries the Baron. «Of course, we had to do a lot of fighting to let the infantry through.» «The Orcs were here» — «The Baron picks up the salt cellar,» — and we were here. And just as we were about to charge, damned if the biggest dragon you ever saw didn't come right down the valley with fire coming out of its mouth and a Sorcerer on board, blasting spells in every direction!

I waken up in surprisingly good health, given my recent excesses. No sign of a hangover at all. Plenty of food, that's the secret. Mop up the excess beer with a goodly selection of pies and there's no problem. I look around me. I'm in my guest room at Arichdamis's. I cant remember how I got here. Must have walked, I suppose, after leaving the Jolly Bandit. What time is it? It's bright and sunny outside. Early afternoon, I'd say. Still time to make it up to the tournament field for Makri's fight. I've missed out on the investigating I planned for this morning, but I can visit Baroness Demelzos later.

I haul myself upright and sit on the edge of the bed. I notice my clothes are damp. That's odd. Perhaps I spilled some water over myself while demonstrating my assault on the Orcish fort in Sundread valley. I do remember using a water pitcher for a mace at one point. Now feeling thirsty, I look around for my own water pitcher, but it's empty. I head for the kitchen. I'm filling up a large pewter beaker when Makri appears.

«Hi Makri.»

«Never speak to me again in any circumstances,» says Makri.

«What's the matter?»

«I said never speak to me again.» Makri glares at me with loathing, and storms out of the kitchen. It's puzzling. But Makri's moods are often erratic. I can't see that I've done anything to upset her. Maybe she's still annoyed at Lasat's plans to cage the young dragon. I look down at my tunic, which is still quite damp. I notice it's also in need of repair. The neck is looking distinctly ragged. Probably I should do something about it, if only to not cause Lisutaris embarrassment. At that moment Lisutaris appears. I greet her amiably. She glares at me. I begin to wonder if I might have caused offence in some way.

«Is there anything wrong?»

«Anything wrong? Don't you know?»

«Nothing springs to mind…»

«You missed Makri's fight, for one thing!» says Lisutaris, loudly.

I can make no sense of this. «What do you mean? She's not fighting till late afternoon.»

«That was yesterday!»

«No it wasn't, it's today.»