Terry W. Ervin Page 7
“Know anything ’bout serpents?”
“They call me Road Toad. And I am familiar with them and their habits. Krish, here, is not. But he soon will.”
The handler looked at Road Toad skeptically and frowned at me. “If you say so.”
A second handler walked up behind us. He was larger and smelled of leather and oil. “Major Parks said there were two new night guards. Didn’t say anything about them approaching the bevy.”
Road Toad turned on the larger handler. “Do you have orders directing you to keep us away from the serpents?”
The handler stared back long and hard. Where I might have flinched, Road Toad didn’t.
The big handler grinned, showing clean but uneven teeth. “You get hurt or raise a ruckus with the serpents, you’ll answer for it.” He elbowed his partner and went back about their business tending the dragons.
Road Toad walked up to a black, one I guessed was Night Shard. He reached out and upward with his hand. The tethered dragon sniffed and then lowered its massive head. Its eyes with ivory irises weren’t set on the side of the head like a horse, but in the front like a wolf. Its snout was blunt and shorter than a red’s.
Road Toad rubbed the black dragon’s snout then tapped hard on the right side of its jaw. In response the beast stretched open its maw. Its breath was sour with a hint of carrion.
“See,” said Road Toad. “Unlike the reds who have dagger-like teeth, the blacks have jaws like a snapping turtle’s.” He ran his hand lightly along the bony ridge. After tossing a chunk of his slimy cheese on the dragon’s flat, red tongue, Road Toad tapped the underside of its jaw. The dragon closed its mouth, then snorted.
Road Toad began walking along the dragon’s left side, dragging his left hand across the scales. He motioned for me to do the same and explained, “Inside the mouth is an orifice that expels the juice.”
The prince had said juice. I thought dragons breathed fire. But I also thought they were only red. “Juice?”
Road Toad laughed. “A stream of caustic fluid. A direct hit would dissolve the better part of you on the spot. Most can expel it at least three, sometimes four times its body length, snout to tail. Depending on size and age of the serpent, maybe four times in quick succession. No more than ten sprays an hour. No more than twenty-five in a day.”
After reaching three quarters of the way down the tail, Road Toad stepped over. I followed. Night Shard turned its head and watched us as Road Toad pointed to the red dragons. “They breathe fire. Liquid comes out and ignites, something to do with contact with the air.” Road Toad patted Night Shard on the rear leg and stepped away. He watched as I did too.
Slowly swinging its long serpentine neck, Night Shard tracked our movement away from the bevy.
“Dragon fire is usually limited to twice the serpent’s length, but in most situations a lot more devastating. All things equal, your average red would tear up a black, if they could catch it.”
We’d stopped next to the rack holding my spear. “Blacks are faster?” I asked.
“In the air, they can fly higher, faster, and farther.” He paused. “And don’t get the idea that they’re tame either, Krish. Approach them correctly, they probably won’t bite, or tailwhip you.” He’d lost all traces of a smile. “But with a word from the serpent’s cavalryman, his aft-guard, or maybe a handler, one of them would snap you up in its jaws without hesitation.”
I looked at the bevy of winged reptilian beasts as they jostled each other, and stared skyward. I decided right then and there, I wouldn’t wander close, alone. Maybe never again at all.
Chapter 7
North Pacific Ocean
2,873 Years before the Reign of King Tobias of Keesee
“Missile tubes flooded,” announced the first officer. “Fore and aft torpedo tubes flooded, loaded and ready.”
“Captain,” called the sonar man with restrained emotion. “Active sonar, 1900 meters aft.” The warning was unnecessary as a pinging sound reverberated through the missile sub.
The missile sub captain checked his watch. Right on time. “American attack sub,” he acknowledged before nodding to the first officer. Both heard the sonar man’s continuing report, but they had other business. They inserted and turned their launch keys simultaneously.
“Torpedoes in the water,” advised the sonar man. “American frigate and friendly sub exchanging torpedo fire.” He stared back at his screen and cupped his earphones. “Captain, torpedo in the water dead astern. Estimate 1850 meters.”
“Commence primary launch sequence,” ordered the captain. “Open outer torpedo doors.” It was a futile effort, but one that might allow him to rain more destruction down on the enemy. “Launch missile one.”
“Launching missile one,” confirmed the first officer.
Over the next two weeks the camp’s military force tripled. I got my breastplate and sword training, and began saving for a crossbow.
I did see a few refugees from the Doran Confederacy, but no word about my family. I stayed away from the camp followers and avoided healers. But of all those in the expanding military camp, the arriving company of Crusaders drew the most attention. Standing orders were to avoid and not approach them. Dour glares from beneath the brims of their woolen forage caps further discouraged any contact.
They drilled and marched, placed long stabbing knives, or what Road Toad called bayonets, on the end of their muzzleloading rifles and practiced hand to hand. Some officers, and soldiers with three stripes on their shoulder, carried sabers.
They loaded their loud rifles by ramming lead balls and powder into the tube, almost as fast as a crossbowman. Smoke and sounds resembling small cracks of thunder signaled when they loosed their firepower. It looked to be more deadly than a crossbow.
Road Toad and I watched from a distance. “Those small guns in belt holsters worn by officers,” Road Toad said, “take longer to load, but they can fire six times.”
“How do you know so much? Have you fought with them?”
“Never fought alongside any Crusaders, but ran across a group of exiled ones some years back. We shared a camp. Traded my knowledge of the area for food and company.” He pointed. “I saw one of their rifles take down a great plains elk at two hundred yards.”
Road Toad didn’t look or sound like he was pulling my leg. “Really?” I watched the Crusaders drill. Their superior shouted, criticizing any minute error. “They don’t look very happy. What are they like?”
“They’re men, just like us. Serious. Not trusting, but from what I can tell, and have heard, an honest lot. These are the orange cross ones.”
“Does that make a difference?”
“Some,” said Road Toad. “The orange and the green crosses, they both serve the same God.” He rubbed his chin, coming up with a comparison. “Like the mounted cavalry and serpent cavalry both serve the king, but in a different way. I’ve been told their rivalry has led to bloodshed on more than one occasion throughout their history.” He signaled with a flick of his head for me to follow.
Road Toad led me toward the edge of the camp.
“You’re not going to train me today?” I smiled. “That’ll cost you.”
“Remember last night, the patrol with the three wizards that went out?”
We approached the log barricade erected across the camp’s northern perimeter. It was only six feet high in most areas, with a platform for defenders. I figured they’d have built it higher and all the way around the camp if the prince intended to stay and defend.
“There were a couple of Crusaders with them,” said Road Toad. “How often do you think that happens?”
We nodded to the guards on the log wall. One asked, “Come to see a wizard sweat?”
We stepped up and looked over the wall. A long mound of dirt twenty feet beyond the small palisade caught my attention. The eight-foot high mound slowly extended eastward.
“A second palisade may follow this afternoon,” commented the guard. “If you go a bi
t east,” he pointed along the barricade wall, “you’ll be able to spot the earth wizards. They’re digging a broad ditch.”
“Did you see Crusader engineers?” asked Road Toad.
“No, but the watch I relieved did.” The guard removed his helmet and wiped sweat from his brow. “Never heard of that.”
“Me neither,” said Road Toad before stepping down. “Krish, let’s go find you a crossbow.”
I followed him. “Why? I don’t have the coin.”
“I’ll lend it to you. Do you remember seeing any javelins?”
I nodded. “An arms merchant next to the green-striped tent. The one with the fat lady and the skinny man. Why?”
He looked up. “How many dragons can you spot?”
I searched the sky. “Two. No, three.”
“The Necromancer King is on the move. He’ll attack. Soon.”
Everyone in our little mercenary circle camp had been abnormally quiet that evening. All but Short Two Blades, Worm-Gut, and I had wandered off. We sat around the small campfire. I’d just finished up my supper of bread and beans and was preparing to get some sleep when Worm-Gut leaned close. “Nice crossbow you got yourself there.”
I nodded and stared into the fire.
On my right, Short Two Blades, who rarely said more than hello with a nod, spoke up. “Sure is.” He’d pulled his wickedly curved falchion and laid it across his lap. He leaned closer to the fire and rubbed his hands. Although it was warm for a spring evening, that had been his set routine before sinking into what Road Toad called meditation. The flickering firelight worked to accentuate the creases that lined Short Two Blade’s weathered face. Surprisingly he spoke again. “Rumor has it you’re an expert shot.”
After getting the crossbow earlier in the day, I’d practiced a bit. “Good quality quarrels makes one look better than they are,” I said.
“Naw, Short,” said Worm-Gut after licking his bowl clean. Worm-Gut looked like he’d never missed a morsel. Although he was pudgy and a bit short, I’d watched Worm-Gut in weapons practice. He was faster and stronger than he looked.
Worm-Gut licked each finger before continuing. “Road Toad said Krish was good. That don’t mean he is.”
Short Two Blades spat into the fire and shook his head. “I watched him and Road Toad practice. He’s good.”
I never paid much attention to Worm-Gut. Nobody did, so it took me a second to realize he’d insulted Road Toad. “Did you just call Road Toad a liar?” One of the first things Road Toad explained was a mercenary never allows an insult to pass unchallenged.
“Saw Road Toad pay his own coin for the bow,” said Worm-Gut, ignoring my question. “You ain’t part of that Sun-Fox Warrior Brotherhood. Why’d he do that for you?” He tossed a few twigs in the fire. “You guys travel together, right?”
“Since the battles in the Gray Haunt Forest,” I said, standing up. Adrenaline began pumping. “Now, answer my question!”
Worm-Gut grinned and got to his feet. “I’ve seen you walk way around the selling women, but you follow Road Toad around like a puppy. Now
I—”
Before Worm-Gut finished his statement, he fell to the ground on his back. In a flash, from his sitting position, Short Two Blades had hamstrung the overweight mercenary. Before Worm-Gut recovered from his surprise, Short leapt closer and hacked down with his already bloody falchion.
Worm-Gut raised his hand to block, crying out, “No!”
Short’s weapon cut through the leather armor, into flesh and bit bone. With his right hand, Short stabbed a long hunting knife under his opponent’s ribs, and twisted. Worm-Gut was already dead. Still, Short Two Blades wretched his falchion free and drew it across the wide-eyed mercenary’s neck.
I stared down at Short Two Blades as he wiped his weapons clean on the dead man’s sleeve. I was speechless.
Short Two Blades looked up and simply said, “Road Toad was my friend long before he was yours.”
Later that night Road Toad crawled into our tent and threw his blanket over himself. I couldn’t sleep, thinking about what had happened to Worm-Gut. Road Toad must have guessed as he didn’t even ask if I was awake. “Short Two Blades told me what happened,” he said matter-of-factly. “You might have been able to take Worm-Gut, but not before he hurt you.”
“Maybe,” I said without conviction. “What’ll happen?”
“Depends on the agreement Worm-Gut was recruited under. Most likely Short will have to pay a camp fine and forfeit his pay for a month or until the next combat. Whichever comes first.”
“What about not crossing swords to the death in time of war?”
“That only applies to Keeseean military. Mercenaries operate under different rules. Fewer rules.”
I didn’t want to ask, afraid of the answer, but decided I’d better. “Short Two Blades just cut Worm-Gut down. He didn’t even know what was happening. He was just dead.” I gulped. “What if that happens to me?”
Road Toad rolled over and propped himself up on an elbow. “Mercenary life is tough. Most are fair and don’t mind another’s business. Worm-Gut was looking for trouble. He found it. You’re not the type that’ll do that.”
“What if I do by accident?
“You won’t.” He continued before I could ask another question. “Pops Weasel showed up in camp.”
“I heard,” I said. “He moved into Worm-Gut’s tent with Short Two Blades.”
“Did you hear what he said?”
After greeting, they’d been hushed in their discussion around the fire. “No.”
“Enemy’s coming.”
I rolled over, propped myself up on an elbow. “When?”
“Soon. Most of the freemen are packing up now. Some have moved out already.” He lay back down and covered up. “Get some sleep, Krish. Midnight’ll be here soon.”
“Right,” I said. “I’ll try.”
That night I didn’t dream about Guzzy dying. I dreamt of Virgil Worm-Gut, son of Evers, being buried in a narrow grave, crying out to Short Two Blades that he was sorry.
The enemy didn’t come that night or the next day. Serpent Cavalrymen left to scout the enemy as did knights on horseback.
The enchanters’ tent was one of the few merchant businesses that had remained and it struggled to keep up with business. I’d spent two hours in line outside the tent and an additional fifteen minutes inside for the spells.
Pops Weasel called as I left the tent to walk back to our circle camp. “Krish!”
I stopped and waited. He broke into a hurried walk, strongly swinging his arms in the effort. He grinned and slapped me on the back, happy to see me.
“Just come from the enchanters I see.” He looked over his shoulder as we made our way to camp. “Enchanters’ll have a line into the night. Or until they fatigue themselves.”
“Had my sword and spear warded against salt damage,” I said. “A weak enchantment, but all I could afford.”
“Always do your best to keep your weapons sharp and ready.”
“Pops Weasel,” I asked. “There were eight enchanters in the tent. Each wore hoods and masks, and spoke in whispers. Does the magic disfigure them?”
“Naww, not to my knowledge. What I’ve heard is they disguise themselves from others because their working with magic makes’em vulnerable to magics. Especially a sorcerer’s.” He slowed and pointed, not at me but in a tight gesture as if to remind himself. “I was lookin’ to tell you something.”
I slowed and waited.
“Was going to tell you last night, but—” He held a hand up, signaling to himself to stop. “Well, you know. Anyway, I ran into some refugees from Pine Ridge. One in particular.”
Who?” I asked, grabbing him by the shoulder. I checked myself and stepped back. Pops Weasel didn’t seem offended. “My family?”
“Not quite,” Pops explained. “It was your cousin Guzzy’s father. Somehow, among the refugees, he’d heard I was at the battle in the Gray Haunt Forest, north of Pine Ridge.”
We started walking again, and I struggled not to interrupt with questions. I held my breath in anticipation and almost stumbled at Pops Weasel’s next words.
“They’re all okay, but I lied to him,” Pops said, quickly adding, “but not fully.” Pops rubbed his graying beard stubble. “Told him Guzzy died just after cutting down an ogre with his axe. Told him his son got shot in the back, pierced through the heart by a goblin arrow. He was grief-stricken. I told him you’d run the goblin through with your boar spear. And that we’d salted Guzzy’s death wound so he’d never become a zombie.”
We neared the camp as he explained, “So, Krish, I told him pretty much the truth. Better if he remembers his lost son for a heroic death, avenged by a family member.” The conviction in the old mercenary’s eyes said he believed it to be true.
“He didn’t know where your folks was,” Pops said, “but I told him that you were still alive, last time I’d seen you. Your uncle promised he’d tell your folks when he saw them.”
A military supply wagon had rolled next to our camp when we arrived. Two freemen, supervised by a corporal, were handing out additional supplies of salt along with beef and goat jerky.
It was a quiet camp that night. We tore down our tents before the collection wagon rolled by to pick them up. After checking our equipment, we spread our blankets under the stars. Everyone in our circle camp slept but me.
Chapter 8
North Pacific Ocean
2,873 Years before the Reign of King Tobias of Keesee
The missile sub rocked as expanding gasses expelled the first intermediate range ballistic missile from its tube. Upon clearing the water the first stage motor ignited, propelling the missile skyward.
Two Keeseean soldiers stood guard with Road Toad and me around the bevy. Fifteen minutes into our midnight watch two riders on blacks returned. The serpent cavalrymen unstrapped, leapt from their mounts, and sprinted toward Prince Reveron’s pavilion in the center of camp.