Realm of Dragons

Better to stick with the plan. Taking a bag from his shoulder, Renard opened it, trying to decide what would be the easiest to carry, and to dispose of. Coins, definitely. He knelt by the chests, scooping them into his sack the way a farmer might have gathered potatoes. He kept going, wanting to take as much as he could get away with, because a chance like this only came along once.

That was roughly when everything went wrong.

Renard heard the snick of locks being opened, but there was nowhere to hide in a room this size, and no time to get back out the window. He tied off the end of his sack of stolen coins, but by then, the door was already swinging open.

A pair of guards came in, accompanying a man who might have been a clerk of some kind. The guards took one look at him and reached for their swords, while the clerk opened his mouth and let out a cry that could probably be heard two villages away.

“Thief!”

With no time to run, Renard knew he had to go the other way. He barreled into the first of the guards, smashing him back into the door frame with his shoulder. The second had his sword out by now, but in such close quarters, there was no space to swing the weapon. Renard grabbed the guard’s arm and pinned it back as the man tried to find an angle to swing at him. He knew that at any moment, the second guard might be there at his back, ready to kill him. He did the only thing he could do in that moment: he drew his dagger and thrust up, around the side of the man’s breastplate and into his lungs.

As the guard collapsed, Renard spun just in time to try to block the swing of a sword. He only partly managed it, and felt the blade cutting through the layers of his leathers, wounding the flesh beneath. Renard cut back, slicing across the man’s throat. He paused, trying to make sense of the chaos, and then cursed himself for doing it. You couldn’t make sense of chaos like this; you could only ride it and hope for the best.

He grabbed the sack he’d filled, flung it over his shoulder, and leapt through the window he’d come through. Renard rolled as he landed, but even so, it hurt, the clink of the coins against his ribs knocking the wind out of him. He forced himself to his feet, saw people staring, but he was already running.

A crossbow bolt flashed past him and he ducked instinctively, but what good was ducking when the bolt was already past? He wove as he ran, heading for the patch of wall he’d come over.

“No time,” he told himself. He ran for the castle stables instead. Another bolt flashed past him, but Renard ducked into cover, hiding behind a door, then scuttling low to duck in behind some hay bales. The guard who had fired at him came in, loading a fresh bolt, and the germs of a plan formed in Renard’s mind when no more followed.

“Don’t think,” he reminded himself. “Ride the chaos.”

He waited until the man’s back was turned, lunged up, and wrapped a meaty arm around his throat. Renard squeezed, and kept squeezing until the guard went limp. Then he dragged him back behind the hay and started to change.

The disguise that resulted was a long way from perfect. Renard had the man’s surcoat with Lord Carrick’s insignia, and he had a helm that would disguise some of his features, but they were built too differently for Renard to steal the other man’s armor. He would just have to hope that confidence was enough.

Going through the stable, he selected a mount and saddled it, throwing his ill-gotten gains into the saddle bags. Renard mounted up, trying not to think of all the ways that this could go wrong, then, very deliberately, he rode out into the middle of the castle.

Around it, he could see guards milling about, clearly trying to find him. How long would he have now? Minutes? Seconds? In the voice he normally reserved for quieting rowdy crowds when he played, Renard called out to them.

“Quick, he’s over the wall! We need to get after him! Open the gate!”

For a second, he thought it wouldn’t work. It shouldn’t have worked, because he knew just how flimsy this disguise was, and how stupid it was to open a gate when a thief was inside. Yet it seemed that these men were too afraid of losing part of Lord Carrick’s spoils to think properly, and the gate swung open.

Renard charged through it, bellowing more nonsense about getting after the thief. Men came out with him on foot, but Renard surged forward, outpacing them with what he hoped looked like his eagerness for the chase. He rode for what must have been half a mile before he grabbed the saddlebags and hopped down from the saddle, striking the horse to send it off in a fresh direction in case the guards had worked out his ruse by now.

Renard went the other way, to the spot where he’d left his own horse. He could feel the pain of the sword blow he’d taken, and the ache in his ribs from the fall, but as he mounted up it seemed worth it. He’d done it; he’d actually robbed Lord Carrick. With the sounds of the hunt for him still in the distance, it would be easy to ride clear.

Now, it was just a question of celebrating.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Brother Odd was working in the gardens when the call went out around the monastery. “Ships!” one of those meditating on the walls called out, echoed seconds later by more of the brothers, and still more. The sheer number of those calling out told him that this wasn’t some cluster of merchant ships come to bargain, or a noble aiming to give a grand farewell to a son offered up to the monastic life.

Even so, he had to see it for himself, had to hope that everything he suspected in that moment was wrong. Still clinging to the rake he’d been using to gather leaves, he climbed the stairs to the walls, looking out.

A trio of ships stood there on the horizon, enough to be called a fleet, enough to carry a whole company of men. They were surging forward from the sea, and by now they were already close enough that Brother Odd could make out the banners of the Southern Kingdom.

“What’s happening?” one of the brothers asked, even though it must have been obvious.

Another beside him looked hopeful. “Maybe it is a procession, or a royal expedition.”

Brother Odd couldn’t help laughing bitterly, and caught himself. That was the kind of thing the man he had been did. He gripped the rake tighter. This was the man he was now.

“Those are not trading ships, brothers,” he said softly. “That is an attack.”

“An attack?” the first brother said. “But why would they attack us? This is a holy place, a place of peace!”

“Perhaps that is why they have sent so few ships,” Brother Odd said. “They know that they can take the island easily.”

“But why would they?” the second brother demanded.

Brother Odd shook his head. “Because that would give Ravin easy access to the Northern Kingdom? No, don’t say anything else. I have no time to explain the evils of the world to you, brother. I need to find the abbot, and you need to get out of the monastery. Tell everyone who will listen that they need to run, now!”

He didn’t wait for a reply, but hurried instead down from the walls, seeking out the abbot and hoping he wouldn’t be too late. It was too easy to imagine the progress of the ships in toward the shore, the lowering of small boats or the throwing of ropes over to the docks. Brother Odd found himself imagining how he would organize the capture of a place like the monastery, and it was all too easy. Maybe if they’d had a company of soldiers here to defend those solid walls that cut them off from the world, it would have been different, but as it was…

He found the abbot in a cloister near the main gate, other senior figures from the monastery there with him. The precentor and the sacristan were both there, the head of the lay brothers and the librarian. Around them was a ring of other brothers, all waiting for information.

“Brothers, brothers,” the abbot said, making a placating gesture. “Calm yourselves. I am sure it is not as bad as you imagine.”

“It’s as bad and worse,” Brother Odd said, stepping forward. “The ships there have Ravin’s colors, which means that they’re probably the head of a larger invasion force to follow.”

The abbot turned to him. “Brother Odd, this is a matter which the senior monks must discuss. You must calm yourself. Seek the equilibrium that our home offers.”

“That’s going to be hard to do with a blade in me,” Brother Odd said. “And have no doubt, there will be blades. You need to evacuate while there’s still time, or at least shut the gates so that they can’t get in.”

“Brother Odd, you overstep your bounds,” the abbot said. “This monastery welcomes those who come to it. I and others will go down to the docks to meet our visitors. I will discuss things with them. I am sure they will see that we offer them no threat.”

“Men like that like it when the people they attack aren’t a threat,” Brother Odd snapped back. “They’ll cut you down, and—”

“That is enough, Brother,” the abbot said. “You are still thinking like the man you were; the man you claim you do not wish to be. I want you to kneel here and contemplate that. In silence, please.”

Brother Odd wanted to argue, but he couldn’t see a way to do it, not with every other eye there on him. To say anything more would be to defy the abbot openly. A monk did not do that. Seeing no other choice, he knelt, the rake before him, forcing down the waves of frustration and anger that threatened to overwhelm him.

The abbot turned to the others there.

“You will come with me,” he said to them. “We will greet our visitors in peace and remind them of the holy neutrality of our isle.”

He set off through the monastery’s gates, the others trailing in his wake.

Brother Odd continued to kneel, his thoughts racing in a way no monk’s should have. Maybe the abbot was right. Maybe he did need to slow himself, contemplate, not react the way the old him would have. Maybe the abbot going to the docks was the best move, peacefully welcoming those who came, trying diplomacy because the island had no swords to offer.

Instinctively, though, Brother Odd knew it was the wrong move. He knew what the men coming to the island would do. He’d been those men, and he knew how they thought. Men like the abbot were normally blessed that they had never known thoughts like that, but here… here it was a curse. They didn’t know what it was like to be a man who would see innocent people as an enemy to be crushed, who would kill for the least provocation. They couldn’t see the true danger coming for them.

Yet what could he do? The abbot’s instructions to him had been clear. Breaking them wasn’t something a monk could do, and Brother Odd was a monk, not the man he had been.

I am not that man, he thought.

But are you a man who lets his friends, good men, be slaughtered? another part demanded.

I am Brother Odd, a loyal monk, he insisted.

But that was not always your name.

Brother Odd wrestled with it, fought with it, but he already knew what the answer was. With limbs already cramping from the kneeling, he stood, lifting the rake and considering it.

“It will have to do,” he said, and set off in the direction of the docks.

***

The run down from the monastery to the docks was a short one, but by the time he got there, Brother Odd could feel his breath coming shorter. He was out of condition, not used to this.

You’re not supposed to be used to this, he reminded himself.

Ahead, he could see the spot where one of the ships had docked next to the island, a gangplank down to let down a cluster of soldiers who looked like beetles in their steel and leather compared to the monks. There weren’t many on the shore yet, but it was already too many, especially when they made no pretense of keeping their weapons sheathed.

As he got closer, Brother Odd could hear the abbot talking with their leader, a man with the design of a leopard on his shield.

“And I say to you that we are a holy place, Captain. We must not be used for war, lest it anger the gods.”

“It is King Ravin’s anger you need to worry about,” the man said, in the thick accent of the southerners.

“Kings swear to uphold Leveros’s neutrality when they are crowned,” the abbot pointed out. All the time, Brother Odd was making his way forward, hoping he would make it there in time. Hope that he wouldn’t be needed at all were long gone by now. “As many of our monks come from the south as from the north.”

“Then they will have told you that a king’s power is absolute,” the captain said. “Merely by refusing, you are traitors, and will suffer a traitor’s end.” He turned to the others with him. “Kill them all!”

He raised his sword to strike, but Brother Odd was already in motion. He caught the blow with the head of the rake, twisted, and sent the weapon spinning from the man’s hand. Turning, he swept his opponent’s feet from under him, sending him to the floor in a clatter of armor.

“No, there will be no violence here!” the abbot shouted, but it was too late for that. The spark had already fallen in the forest, and all they could do was hope to survive the conflagration of violence that followed.

Brother Odd certainly didn’t stop. Instead, he charged at the next of the soldiers there, and maybe the man still hadn’t realized quite what his opponent was, because he brought his sword up lazily. Brother Odd swept round the parry and slammed the end of the rake into his throat, hearing the crack and gurgle of it before the soldier started to topple. Odd dropped his rake, caught the sword, and turned to the other monks there.

“Run!” he bellowed, in the voice he’d long used to command men in the field. Some obeyed immediately. Others hesitated, looking to the abbot. Those were the first to die. The soldiers on the dock were already hacking down with blades, lashing out at any target they could see without a care over who they hit. They were expecting pleas and peaceful protestations… Odd gave them violence instead.

He charged a pair of them, slicing out low then high with his newly captured blade. He was still getting used to the weight of it, and the first man was able to parry, while the second thrust at Odd’s flank. He twisted away from the blow, but still felt the steel slicing into his flesh.

That triggered the old fury, bringing out the side of himself that didn’t stop, didn’t hold back, didn’t care. He roared like a wounded animal, hacked down on the soldier’s arm hard enough to cut it off at the wrist, kicked the first one back.

“Back, damn you!” he bellowed to the monks, and now even the slowest of them on the uptake were trying to run. Odd moved between them and the soldiers, giving ground slowly even though the battle rage in him wanted to charge at them. He maneuvered around crates and boxes, lining it up so that the men there could only come at him one at a time, could only die one at a time.

Oh, how they died.

The first went down in a fountain of blood, charging forward too carelessly and all but running onto Odd’s sword. The second came in more cautiously, with the mechanical sword work of the badly trained. Odd parried two blows to get the measure of him, took a slicing cut on his arm, then took the man’s head off in one sweep of the blade.

He gave ground, step by careful step. There was a problem with that, of course, because once he got to the open ground beyond the slender dock, they would be able to surround him. Only one plan occurred to Odd then: he charged.

He leapt at them like the man he had once been, not Odd, but Oderick. Sir Oderick. Oderick the Mad, Oderick who would ride down foes just because he could. Oderick, who had known the truth of battle: that it wasn’t about men’s flesh, but their hearts. The next man gave ground as he charged, and that was all it took to send the rest of them back toward their ship, waiting for the rest of their men to unload before they dared to take him on.

That was when Oderick ran, catching the others up as they made their way up the short path to the monastery.

“Run faster, damn you!” he ordered them, and it worked in a way that an order from Brother Odd would not have. They all ran faster, even the librarian, who never moved quicker than he needed to get from his shelves to the refectory and back. Oderick threw his arm around a wounded brother, helping him to make the journey, determined that they would lose no more.

“There!” he said, pointing to the gates. They ran for them, and behind, he could hear the sounds of pursuit now. Glancing back, he could see men marching in formation, more disciplined now after the shock of his attack. He wouldn’t catch them like that again. A few men lifted bows, and arrows sang out. One caught the librarian in the back, and he fell, dead before he hit the ground.

“Inside, inside!” Oderick called as he dove through. “Now close the gates!”

It said something for the tone in which he ordered it that they obeyed without question. The gates swung shut ponderously, the thick wood and iron clanging. Only when the bars were in place did Oderick relax, the battle rage fading. That was when the full enormity of everything that had happened struck him.

His sword clattered from bloody hands. He’d saved people today, but he’d also killed, time and again. He’d put aside the calm of the monastery for the fury within. He’d reveled in the violence. Oderick looked down at the blood covering him, only some of it his.

“What have I done?”

There was no time to think about that though, because Oderick knew that men would soon be coming to try to batter those gates down. They needed to prepare for the defense.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

All along the ride back to Royalsport, Devin could feel the eyes of Rodry and the others on him. They might not know for sure what he was, but they had seen a glimpse of what he could do now, and there was awe there, maybe even a bit of fear. Devin didn’t know whether to be flattered by the hint of respect in those gazes, or worried about people’s reactions once more found out about him.

Magic wasn’t something for the likes of him, after all. It was something for strange men and women who walked out of the wild places, for herbalists and seers, and for men like Master Grey. None of that sounded like Devin to his ears.

Eventually, the city came into sight. Devin was grateful that it gave him the chance to get back home, or at least to the House of Weapons. He understood steel in a way that he could never understand what had happened out there in Clearwater Deep.

“Do you have any clothes other than those?” Rodry asked, out of nowhere, as they got close to the city.

“Other clothes?” Devin said. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, you can’t come to the feast looking like that, can you?” Rodry said. “Halfin, you’re about the same size as him, maybe you could lend him something.”

“Wait,” Devin said. “You want me to come to the feast? The feast for your sister’s wedding?”

“Of course,” Rodry said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve fought beside me, you’ve done more to help than either of my brothers could have, and you’re going to make the most perfect gift for me to give to my sister. It’s only right that you should come. Don’t think that I abandon my friends, Devin!”

He seemed to have declared them friends just like that. Devin had to admit that he liked Rodry, admired his bravery and his strength. He felt honored that a prince would think of him as a friend, even if it was as sudden and impulsive a decision as everything else he did.

“I would be honored to attend,” Devin said. “The outer feast is—”

“Not the outer feast,” Rodry said. “You’d have been able to walk into that anyway. You’re coming to the inner feasting, and that’s an end to it.”

Even having known him such a short time, Devin knew better than to argue. He saw Sir Twell shrug.

“His highness is like that,” the knight said, moving his horse closer. “When a man  shows courage and honor, he’s a true friend to them. Besides, you’re worthy enough.”

The other two knights nodded. It seemed that it was settled: Devin was going to the feast.

***

When they arrived at the castle, Rodry headed off to the feasting hall with Sir Lars and his prize of star metal, to show it to his father before he gave it back to Devin for the forging. Devin, meanwhile, found himself taken to the rooms of Sir Halfin, trying to find suitable clothes. The knight was much older than him, but it was true that they were similar sizes, and soon, they were rooting through his clothes, picking out this doublet and that.

“I swear he’s more your size, Twell,” the knight grumbled, as he went through a chest to drag out hose, shirt, doublet, and boots. “Here, try these, they might fit you.”

They did, and they were finer than anything Devin had worn in his life. The shirt was silk, the double dark velvet embroidered with curls and spirals. The boots were soft leather, a far cry from the hard ones Devin wore. Devin washed the worst of the dirt from himself and dragged his fingers through his hair, wondering all the while exactly what was happening to him.

“You get used to Prince Rodry’s generosity eventually,” Halfin said. “He’s a good young man, reminds me of his father in that respect. So long as you don’t do anything to pick a fight with him.”

“Like being late for the feast when he’s invited you,” Twell suggested. “They’ll forgive us old Knights of the Spur a lot, but not too much.”

“Especially not when one of us has a reputation for speed,” Halfin said.

Sir Twell laughed at him. “Maybe ten years ago.”

“Oh, that would be back before the great planner started forgetting things?” Halfin shot back.

It was so strange for Devin, sitting there with two Knights of the Spur, listening to them make fun of one another like two old comrades, rather than the heroes out of stories.

“We need to hurry,” Halfin said.

He led the way down through the castle. Even though Devin had been there before, that had been brief, and he’d been in a dungeon for much of it. Now Devin found himself staring at the expanse of the interior. There were tapestries on all the wars, depicting everything from the rise of the Northern kings to the myths of the gods, and the dragons that no one had seen in more than a lifetime. They seemed to shimmer, picked out in metallic thread and shimmering as air caught the tapestries they stood on.

Devin hadn’t thought that anywhere could be grander, but when they reached the feasting hall, he knew he was wrong. He’d been in it for brief moment before, but now he got a true look at it. This was a place that was the epitome of opulence, strung with decorations and pennants, gilded and with marble columns supporting arches overhead, with music coming from lutenists and trumpeters. There were people dancing and talking everywhere Devin looked, while at the far end of the hall, the king and his wife sat on thrones next to one another.

“There are so many people,” Devin said, and not just people, nobles. Devin could see the difference. Everyone there, even the servants, was dressed in ways that were more expensive than anything Devin owned, and he immediately felt as though he stood out in spite of his borrowed clothes helping him to blend in.

Rodry was there, next to his sister Lenore. Devin had seen her when she had been seeing Rodry off, but now… she was perfect. Her dark hair was lustrous and her body encased expertly in a dress of gold and green. Her features were delicate, and when she laughed at something Rodry said, Devin couldn’t have imagined anything more beautiful.

Something caught at his heart then, sharp and almost painful. He felt as if he couldn’t look away. Then Rodry did something Devin hadn’t expected: he looked around and waved Devin over.

Devin should have felt as though he had no right to set foot on that floor. He should have felt as though he was about to stumble and fall with every step, yet he didn’t. The sight of her seemed to pull Devin across the floor, dragging him across just with the need to be near her, so that he glided evenly over to them. He remembered to bow when he got there.

“There’s no need for that, Devin,” Rodry said. “Devin, I would like you to meet my sister Lenore. Lenore, this is my friend Devin.”

His friend? There were so many other things that he could have described Devin as. He could have mentioned the sword Devin was making, or the fact that he was from the House of Weapons. It seemed strange to be introduced just as that.