Dave Smeds - The Schemes of Dragons

Toren restrained his smile. "Nothing you and Yari wouldn't do."

"That covers a wide range."

Toren chuckled. "I'm sure it does."

They let the mounts go at their own pace, and took advantage of the chance to view the city's hubbub of activity from a height. "You didn't seem tempted by Deena's interest during the journey from the Wood," Geim added as they approached a public fountain. Girls walked to and from it with incredibly large urns balanced on their heads.

"Was she interested then?" Toren asked.

"I think so. I'm not the best judge, and she's not the type to say much. Did she ever tell you why she alone, of all her family, survived the Dragon's pillage of eastern Mirien?"

"No."

"Thought not. She killed two of the Dragon's mercenaries. Unassisted. There's a great deal hiding under that quiet demeanor of hers."

"Yes, there is," Toren said firmly. "I suppose during the trip I was too preoccupied with other concerns to notice."

"Obviously you're feeling better about yourself now."

Toren shrugged. "I can do things that my shaman could not have imagined. I can't deny I'm proud of that, and the training has been invigorating, in spite of the demands. Certainly I wasn't as happy in the Wood, not even as a child. I was a fourth son." He scarcely noticed that he had slipped out of the High Speech into the Vanihr tongue.

Geim smiled ironically. "So was I."

They reached the broad avenue that would take them to the temple district. Toren deliberately stepped up his mount's pace, just to see if he could do it correctly. The oeikani snorted happily as it obeyed. Geim's animal trotted along with matching strides.

As the two Vanihr threaded their way through the temple grounds, walking their mounts to the frog god's stable, Toren noticed a pair of men in the shadow of a trellised walkway next to the main building. One was Obo. The wizard conversed with a short, lithe man in riding garments. The latter's dark hair showed strands of grey, though he seemed no more than forty years old. Heavy dust and flecks of dried mud covered the surface of his very plain cloak, but beneath, visible between the unbuttoned lapels, a tunic of freshly laundered fine brocade peeked out. An aura of sorcery hovered about him, nearly as strong as that emitted by Obo. Something about the man's features haunted Toren.

"Who is that with Obo?" he asked Geim.

Geim studied the stranger's features. "I saw him once last year. That is Keron, the king of Elandris."

A jolt of nostalgia darted out of the recesses of Toren's mind. Obo had served Keron many years; though most of the memories of the wizard's life had long since drained out of Toren's conscious recall, feelings lingered. Toren experienced a sense of deja vu each time he visited a place that Obo frequented, or read a piece of literature the old man favored.

Obo turned and saw the Vanihr. He motioned for them to wait, and with Keron, walked into the sunlight to meet them.

"May I present His Royal Highness, Keron the First of Elandris," Obo said.

"So this is the candidate," Keron said, acknowledging their bows. "I've waited three long years for Struth to find you, while the Dragon swallowed my kingdom and chased me across three nations."

"Sorry to inconvenience you, Your Majesty."

Keron chuckled wryly. "It was mutual, so I understand. Obo was right. You have the impudence of the Dragonslayer. A good sign."

Toren smiled. "I seem to remember bantering with you in decades past," he said, glancing meaningfully at Obo. "Perhaps your wizard afflicted me with impolite habits."

"I did nothing of the sort," Obo quipped. "I simply taught you the language of the Calinin."

Probably true, Toren thought. He certainly could not remember details of any such conversations; only a faint impression had led to his comment. Self-reflection told him he had been testing Keron, to see what kind of person led the resistance against Gloroc. The latter's sense of humor met with the modhiv's approval.

"I was not told you would be coming," Toren said.

"The fewer who know I'm here, the better," the king replied. "I have just come from Xais, where I petitioned the emperor of the Calinin Empire to lend me his army. If your mission is successful, the Dragon will be dead, but his human minions may seize power in the wake of his death. As soon as Gloroc dies, I must march in great force. Or did you think you were going to save Elandris single-handedly?"

"At times I've had that impression."

"I would be happy to leave it all to you if it were possible," Keron said blithely. "But it is not that easy. Rather the opposite, in fact." His faint smile vanished. "If you take up the gauntlets and succeed in killing Gloroc, your part will be done. You can rest, reap whatever rewards we can provide, return to your home. My work will just be starting." He turned back toward the walkway. "I am due for an audience with Struth. I leave in the morning for Tazh Tah, in Simorilia, where my son and my army are camped, but perhaps we can talk this evening."

The larger picture of the war against Gloroc, though it had been explained to Toren several times, had, at least until that moment, remained remote. Lost in contemplation, the Vanihr answered belatedly, "Of course, Your Majesty. I would be honored."

"Good," Keron said. "In the meantime, there is something I would like you to do." He unbuckled his belt, a strap of dragon hide embroidered with gold, set with rubies in the shape of a dragon in flight. He handed it to Toren. The smell of magic exuded from it.

"That is the belt of Alemar Dragonslayer," the king said. "It multiplies the strength of the wearer. My son and I are the only living men who can activate it. If you are all that Struth hopes, it will work for you. You may give it back to me tonight."

King and wizard walked away, resuming their conversation. The belt, lying in Toren's palm, already tickled. He strapped it on. It rode on his waist like air-no weight at all-but otherwise he felt nothing out of the ordinary. He waited for the energies to stir within him.

"Well," Geim said, "Try something."

"Like what?"

Geim scratched his head. "Perhaps you could lift your oeikani."

"Don't be foolish," Toren said. Obviously the belt did not work. And even if it did, the oeikani weighed far too much. But for the sake of the experiment, he braced himself under his mount and lifted.

The animal, much to its surprise, rose completely off the ground. Toren set it down quickly, huffing. Geim stroked the buck's neck to soothe it. True to its nature, it regained its composure immediately.

Vigor, hot and pounding, coursed through Toren's body. His muscles shuddered uncontrollably. After a bit of trial and error, he managed to adjust the talisman's output. The power faded. The belt waited quiescently on his hips for the next demand.

The modhiv grinned from ear to ear. He slapped Geim on the back-not too hard-and they headed for the stable.

Keron tried to calm all the thoughts bubbling in his head as he and Obo strolled together toward the dome of the high priestess, but concerns only sprang forth with renewed vitality. "Toren shows a spirit I found lacking in the other candidates," the king said. "What do you think of him?"

"He is a good person. He loves to succeed, becomes morose when he fails. All the pride of the Dragonslayer, tempered by an occasional lapse of confidence that serves to keep him humble. I like him, my liege."

"But will he be able to use the gauntlets?"

The wizard glanced at his toes. The furrows of his forehead deepened. "In my judgment, he is well beyond the level of the earlier candidates. Struth and Janna concur. But no matter how closely his powers seem to echo those of Alemar the Great, he is a different person. I doubt that anyone alive now or yet to be born will ever be able to activate the talismans as completely as the sorcerer himself. And if Toren is that gifted, that poses a whole new set of questions."