The Bringer of War

Seamus cursed as his sword as it once more clattered to the floor, dropping like a stone from his three fingered grip. Stooping low, he grasped it once more in his blood burned extremity and turned to face the center of the room.

Stella frowned at his continued struggles, sitting in one of the hard seats in the watch station. Her grimoire lay open in her lap, the page depicting a complicated series of hand gestures. She tried to return to her reading, but winced each time the big man’s blade dropped to the wooden floor.

“Why don’t you give up already?” she said, looking up with annoyance.

“Excuse me?” said Seamus, turning his scarred face upon her. Murdoch had provided an eye patch with a thick band that hid much of his acid ravaged skin, but he would have to mask his entire head to conceal them completely. Stella repressed a shudder, and went back to her book.

“Never mind,” she said.

Seamus sneered at the little witch. It was obvious that she was only interested in saving her own skin, as well as that massive book she clung to like life itself. Again he gripped the blade in his hand, and again her sent it through a few attack patterns. When the blade again skittered across the uneven floor, he became enraged, upending the heavy table that still bore his bloodstains.

Stella sighed, and leaned her torso across her grimoire. She fixed Seamus with a look that bore more pity than he was expecting.

“Look,” she said “that is a broadsword. You’re a long way off from being able to wield it in your...injured hand. You should look into acquiring a lighter blade, perhaps a cutlass or even a rapier.”

“Bah,” said Seamus, “what’s the use? I could not even slay a gnat, let alone the dragon who lurks beneath our feet.”

“Perhaps you could learn to use your left hand,” said Stella, pursing her lips.

“I can scarce even handle my manhood with it,” said Seamus, causing Stella’s face to scrunch up in disgust.

“You do not even wish to try,” said the wizard “you’d rather just annoy me by flinging your sword to the floor all afternoon.”

“Then cast a spell, oh mighty one,” said Seamus, holding up his maimed hand before her face “cause new fingers to spring up from my skin like water from a well.”

“I told you, I cannot,” said Stella with a sigh “I do not even know if I can find this dragon of yours, let alone find a way to kill it.”

“You must try,” said Seamus, his jaw growing tight. “Fennik will not be able to rest until the beast has breathed its last.”

“I must try,” she muttered “because the small minded ingrates in this fish guts infested city have said so.”

Seamus ignored what was likely an insult aimed his way and gripped his sword, this time with his left hand. Though it felt clumsy and ungraceful, he did manage to hang onto the blade’s hilt.

“Perhaps this can be done, after all,” he murmured, trying to focus his strikes upon his own dancing shadow. Stella looked back to her book, unable to watch his awkward movements without smiling.

At least it will be quieter now, she thought. Seamus disappointed her by speaking.

“How is it that you can track the beast, anyway?” said the big man. “Will you grow the nose of a bloodhound on your face, and sniff the dirt until you catch his scent?”

“No, you cretin,” said Stella with a pout “your blood mingled with the dragon’s. In a way I am not certain I understand, the grimoire says you are now linked to it. I can use your blood to find its blood.”

Seamus nodded.

“That sounds...feasible,” he said. His face fell into a scowl a moment later. “Wait, did you say my blood?”

“I’ll only need a drop, moron,” said Stella through gritted teeth “and I’ll never master the invocation unless you cease your foolish prattle.”

Seamus shook his head, glancing over at where Roikza slumbered in a patch of sunlight. The little dragon sighed, not seeming to care about the tension in the room.

“Never met a wizard before, anyway,” he said “except for those blokes what can make a bird come out of a hat-”

“Those are magicians,” said Stella with a sneer “and every bad thing you have heard uttered about a wizard is their fault! My father was one of...was the greatest wizard who ever lived. He left me this spellbook...the only spellbook not burned by the Templars during their damned inquisitions. The secrets contained within could drive you mad!”

“You don’t seem to touched in the head, hey?” said Seamus, a dubious expression on his face.

“My intellect can handle it!” she said. As if on cue, the book in her lap slammed shut. “What? NO!”

Seamus guffawed as the slender woman tried to force the cover back open. His mirth only increased as she pleaded with the tome as if it were a living thing.

“Shut up!” she said “Do you want to find this dragon or not?”

“I wonder,” said Seamus, the smile fading from his face “why the watch does not simply send a contingent of armed men into the sewers, and drive the beast out with fire and steel.”

“Are you a dolt?” she said “No, don’t answer that, I already know that you are. The watch fears for their lives, as well they should! I would think an experienced, accredited dragon slayer such as yourself would know that.”

Seamus thrust his sword into its sheath, which took several tries with his left hand. Once he had slid it home, he stalked towards the front door. Without being bidden Roikza sprung to wakefulness and fluttered across the room to alight on his shoulder. She nuzzled the big man’s bald head, casting a baleful eye full of cunning at Stella. Then she was off, flapping her wings into the azure sky. Stella wondered if the little dragon was searching for the monster that burned her master.

The big man left, and Stella’s thoughts of going out into the sun after him were dispelled when the tome abruptly fell open, once again showing her the incantation she would need.

“Thank the gods,” she said with a sigh.

Out on the streets, Seamus kept his gaze fixed on the ground before him. However, he could not help but notice the extreme expressions on the faces of those he passed. Some were disgusted by his scarred visage, while some appeared pitying. The only constant was that they annoyed him.

Worse than the stares, which the big man told himself he had best get used to, were the whispered comments of those he passed. He had changed out of his ruined, decorative scale mail and into a ring mail tunic provided by Murdoch, but still folk seemed to recognize him. It seemed as if the watch had loose tongues, and had wagged them all over Port Gar about the scarred dragon slayer.

Not having much else to do while Stella prepared the incantation she boasted would find the wretched beast, Seamus found his feet taking him into a tavern. It was a bit nicer than the places he normally drank at, which were hole in the wall dives that sold cheap mead and ale. The fat purse at his side, a generous stipend offered by the Port Gar Merchant’s Council, encouraged him to aim his sights a bit higher.

The brightly painted sign outside proclaimed the place The Mermaid’s Rest, which he knew to be slang for a sailor drowned at sea. The picture on the sign was cheerful, however, and depicted a large bosomed fish woman with alluring, come hither eyes. Unlike many taverns, it did not have an accompanying inn, and the midday crowd seemed to indicate that the fare was at least passable.

He pushed open the swinging door, nearly bumping into another patron. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he noted that the conversations in the room became more muted. Indeed, when his vision was clear enough he saw many eyes cast furtively his way. The big man frowned, wishing that he had Roikza’s comforting presence on his shoulder. He was surprised to realize that it had been over a week since he had even thought of caging her.

He began to tromp across the floor, self consciously cupping his maimed hand underneath his good one. A scowl crossed his face when he realized the bar was full, and no empty tables remained.

“Drink with me, dragon slayer,” said a gruff voice from behind him. He turned to face a man sitting near the front corner of the establishment. The stranger had merry, twinkling blue eyes set in a face lined with age and tragedy. His bulbous nose perched above a bristly mustache, which connected to an even more bristly black and gray beard. Though Seamus did not much care for company at the moment, he felt compelled by politeness to join the man at his table.

“Thank you, kind sir,” he said as he pulled out a chair and sat down.

“No,” said the man “thank you for doing what the watch lacks the nerve to.”

“Likely,” said Seamus bitterly “I will go to my grave like my brother before me.”

“Aye,” said the man, slapping a thick gnarled hand on the table “you likely will at that...unless you are properly equipped.”

“What are you driving at?” said Seamus, his brows coming low over narrowed eyes.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the hairy man “I am Daveed of Maklarnay, late a humble blacksmith.”

“Seamus, with no family who will claim him,” said the big man, chuckling a bit “lately a scarred cripple.”

“Bah,” said Daveed, motioning for the barmaid. He ordered two tall glasses of an ale that had hints of honey and blueberries. The drink was refreshing on his hot, parched throat.

“The problem with fighting dragons,” said Daveed “is that when you stick ’em, their blood squirts out and melts whatever you stuck ’em with.”

“I know that, better than most...” said Seamus darkly.

“Of course you do,” said Daveed, a trifle embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to...at any rate, the Templars up north, where the dragons are a bigger problem, they got this wonderful stuff called Bast. If you work it into the steel when you’re shaping it into a weapon, no dragon blood will ever melt it.”

“The witch was saying something like that,” said Seamus, wishing he hadn’t listened to the arrogant little git with half an ear.

“A witch?” said Daveed, frowning fearfully.

“Never mind,” said Seamus “so I take it you know where to get some of this Bast?”

“Actually,” said the smith “I was hoping you knew where to acquire some, being a dragon slayer and all.”

“I normally hunt much smaller dragons,” said Seamus, biting his lip as memories of his slain brother bubbled to the surface of his mind.

“Well,” said Daveed “if you can come across some, or discern how it’s made, I can forge you a fine set of weapons and armor, free of charge...if you share the secret of Bast with me.”

Seamus’s jaw set hard. He had been viewing the upcoming dragon hunt as nothing more than a good way to commit suicide. However, if the smith could truly do what he claimed, there was a chance he could win. A slim one, no doubt, but still...

“Very well,” said Seamus, spitting in his palm and offering it across the table to Daveed. The man added a dollop of white froth to his own palm before clasping Seamus’s hand. They shook vigorously, and Seamus was surprised at the strength in the man’s hand.

“My shop is near the shipyards, where the smells and incessant hammering don’t disturb the rich folk,” said Daveed “look for the banner bearing a hammer on a blue field.”

“I will, Daveed,” said Seamus, draining the last of his ale. He looked at the bottom of the glass in amazement, because he could not fathom how it had disappeared so fast.

“Another round?” said Daveed, his grin ear to ear.

“Thank you,” said Seamus, smiling through his scars.

** *

Quinn hunched low, his nose mere inches from the playing board. An intense look of concentration knitted his brow as he scanned over the marble red and white playing pieces. There were many more figures of his color remaining, but that fact did not decrease the worry in his blue eyes.

Across the game table, Kate sat relaxed, her chin cupped in one hand. A slight smile was across her ruby painted lips. They were sitting in a tea room on the second floor of her father’s manor. Rich drapes the color of red wine blocked out the hot midday sun, allowing only a smattering of red tinged light to lance across the checkered tile floor. Nearby, a tray laden with half eaten crumpets and a jar of honey sat on a rolling cart.

Quinn at last moved his hand towards a piece, one of his Towers. He paused when he heard a disapproving grunt from Kate. The first sword met her gaze, hand still suspended above the piece.

“You don’t believe that to be a good move?” he said with a bit of irritation.

“I said nothing,” said Kate with faux innocence.

“Hmm,” said Quinn, returning his attention to the board. “For someone who’s lost half her pieces, I’d think that you wouldn’t have time to criticize my strategy.”

“Then why do you hesitate, oh master of the blade?” she said sweetly.

Quinn frowned, though a ghost of a smile tried to shine through it. With a sudden, decisive movement he slid the piece across the board and crossed his arms.

“Check,” he said triumphantly. “Mate in four moves.”

Kate raised her eyebrows, then leaned forward to consider the board. After a mere half minute of calculation, she picked up one of her Templars and used it to capture a Priest.

“Check and mate,” she said, leaning back against her comfortable chair and delicately sipping at her tea.

“What?” said Quinn, scowling as he stared at the board. “Bloody unbelievable! You created that opening just to get me to drop my britches, and that’s just what I did.”

“Father won’t play with me any more,” said Kate with a mock pout “says I’m much to devious a player for his taste.”

“I can see why,” said Quinn “had you been born Lord Mannix’s son, no doubt the king would grant you your own legion to command.”

Kate scowled a bit. The casual mention of her sex’s inferior status annoyed her for some reason. It was one of the things she had so found attractive in Bruno. Something of an outsider himself, he had never treated her like an inferior because of her womanhood.

“Is something wrong, my lady?” said Quinn.

“No,” said Kate “nothing, just remembering the fancies of a young girl. Thank you for the game, First Sword.”

She rose from her seat, Quinn rising as she did and offering a bow of his head. She gathered up the hem of her olive green gown and headed for the garden. Eschewing a change of clothes, she walked right into the hot sun in her fancy dress. She had planned only to sit and stare at her plants for a time, but here there were rose bushes that needed trimming, and there her daffodils were being choked out by weeds. Soon she was on her knees in the dirt, sweat running down her brow as she went about her ministrations.

A frown crossed her features. The black rose bud, the only one on a bush of red flowers, had fallen off. She carefully picked up the wilted petals and brought them to her lips.

“Can you feel this, Sir Bruno?” she said. “I wish you could. I wish many things were different...”

A thought occurred to her, one that had been dancing about in the shadows of her mind. The bard’s tales were rife with stories of privileged maids who ran away from their lives of opulence and led simple lives with their one true love. Perhaps she could run away herself, go to that distant village in the south that Bruno had been sent to protect....

The idea died in her breast before it had truly taken root. Sir Bruno’s sense of duty would force him to return her to her father, forcibly cast over his shoulder if necessary. Too, she thought of her father, of how miserable and embarrassed he would be by the whole affair.

Still, it was a tempting thought, and she found her spirits lightened just by the idea of going through with it. She found herself whistling merrily as she worked. Working for over an hour in the hot sun made her feel parched, and she soon made for the cool confines of the manor.

A serving girl noticed her sweaty brow and had a glass of cool water in her hand before she had even had time to adjust her vision to her dimmer surroundings. She drained the glass, then held the cool vessel against her forehead, gasping a bit.

She was surprised to find Quinn pacing outside the door to her chambers, a deeply troubled look on his face.

“Quinn,” she said in surprise “what has happened? You look as if you found a snake in your boot.”

“Worse, my lady,” he said grimly “please, might we have this discussion in your chambers? There are many ears about...”

“Of course,” she said, opening the unlocked door to her chamber. She offered refreshment to him, but he declined.

“Your father is busy making preparations for the Harvest Ball,” he said “so I took the opportunity to...access his puzzle box.”

“And?” said Kate when the man appeared reluctant to speak. “Does he have a mistress, or an illegitimate child, as we feared?”

“I wish it were so, lady...” said Quinn sadly “I wish it were so. Where you present when your father dismissed Duncan Davros from his service?”

“Yes,” said Kate, frowning at the unpleasant memory “half the court saw it happen. They were shouting at each other fiercely, and my father...he struck Duncan across the mouth, drawing blood...”

“So I have heard,” said Quinn “but have you ever known the reason why these two men, long fast friends, would suddenly turn to hatred?”

“The only thing that father has said,” Kate replied slowly “is that Davros insulted him. I thought it was strange as well, but what can one do?”

Quinn sighed, then looked into her eyes earnestly.

“Davros,” he said “has turned traitor to the crown. He leads a small army of rebels in the forests many miles south of here.”

“What?” said Kate, blinking her soft brown eyes “That’s impossible! How do you even know such a thing?”

Quinn reached into his jerkin, withdrew a rolled up parchment that he handed to her. She peered at the missive, frowning when she recognized the author.

“This is my father’s hand,” she said “but...but it says that he...that he...”

“Is providing aid to the rebels,” said Quinn grimly.

“Oh, father,” said Kate “what have you done? Quinn.”

He looked up into her eyes, attentive and loyal.

“Who else have you spoken to about this?” she said.

“No one but you, my lady,” he said.

“We must conceal this fact,” she said stiffly “return the missive to my father’s puzzle box, and utter not a word of this to anyone. I will speak with my father, and try to convince him of the foolhardiness of his actions.”

“By your will, my lady,” he said, bowing his head.

“Quinn,” she said sadly “I have just asked you to commit treason against the king. How can you agree so quickly?”

Quinn smiled slightly, took one of her hands in both of his. He gently kissed the back of her hand, his whiskers tickling her flesh.

“Is it not obvious, my lady?” he said, before turning on his heel and leaving her alone. Kate plopped heavily into a chair, feeling fearful and giddy all at once.

“Oh father,” she said “what have you gotten us into?”