while. He thought that this man Dreg might send somebody snooping after him and wanted to put as much distance between him and Low Crossing as he could. He doubted that the two men guarding the road would even say anything about his passing, but he couldn’t be sure. If they did, the fact that they’d noticed the value of his sword meant that men would surely come looking for him sooner or later.
Just before dark he spotted a wagon train approaching from the south. There were three horse-drawn wagons surrounded by at least twenty mounted men. Probably just more sell-swords guarding a cargo, he thought. Not knowing what else to do, he left the road for the hills that rose up off to the east. He hated to leave the road. He was so close to Seareach he could smell the marshes already. Even so, he needed to come up with a story, or a plan, or both. He needed to know what the sell-swords were about, who had hired them, and what the political climate was between the Dragon Queen, the Dakaneese, and those Westlanders who had survived, but he didn’t want to get robbed, captured or killed doing it.
Seareach was the last place he could find a boat to take him swiftly across the river to Settsted. It was less than half a day south. If he had to go farther south than that to find transport, he would have to travel all the way to O’Dakahn and catch a sea ship. That could take weeks.
He found a low place in the hills and dared to light a small fire that night, for it was still chilly, even this far south. The beginnings of a plan began to form in his mind and he fell asleep turning the ideas over and over again.
He woke to the sound of voices-voices far too close to him. He reached slowly-as if he were just shifting his sleeping position-to where he’d lain the crossbow before he’d fallen asleep. It wasn’t there. Panic shot through him, but he didn’t overreact. He saw that the sun had barely reddened in the sky when he cracked open his eyelids. He felt a heavy booted man step close to his head, and could see three others. Two of them had longbows drawn and trained on him.
“Come on man, wake up,” a voice said. “We’ll just have a word or two with you.”
The accent was Dakaneese. The way the man spoke told Gregory that he was no lackey; this was somebody who had authority.
“Who are you?” Lord Gregory asked as he sat up. He was glad he had used his saddlebags for a pillow. Had these men found all of his gold he would already be dead. The thought of the wealth in his packs gave him an idea that added well with the story he had come up with last night.
“You don’t recognize old Dreg?” the man’s tone was full of irony. “My men said that you told them you knew me.”
“You need to hire better men,” Gregory calmly replied. Though he showed no fear outside, inside he felt as if his heart might fail him. “How did you track me at night? My fire was too small to be seen from the road.”
“With sorcery of course,” Dreg said with a nod toward the silhouette of a robed and hooded figure who was sitting on a horse near the other men. “What were you doing up north?”
Gregory sighed. Here it goes, he thought, all or nothing. “I escaped the Dragon Queen’s breed beasts through the Reyhall Forest and wintered in a cavern up in the foothills.”
“You’re high-born, don’t deny it,” accused Dreg. “Is there a reward for you?”
“Reward?” Lord Gregory chuckled nervously. “If there is, it’s not a big one, I assure you.”
“The quality of your steel says otherwise,” Dreg’s tone had become curious. “Where did you come by such a piece?”
“I pulled it off of a body at Summer’s Day,” Lord Gregory lied. In truth his father had given the sword to him, as his father had done before that. It had been in his family since it had been forged nearly three hundred years ago. He didn’t want to lose it, but it wasn’t worth his life.
“I’m a man of inspiration, and I have a weakness for survivors,” Dreg said coolly. “Inspire me to leave you to your fate and I may do so, though I doubt it.”
Dreg would probably let him live if he gave him the sword and some coin, but Lord Gregory had a better idea. “Get me on a boat to Settsted or Southport over in Westland,” he said. “If you do, I’ll make you rich-rich beyond imagining.”
“Granddad’s coin chest? Mam’s jewelry box?” Dreg smirked. “You’ll pay me when we get there? I said inspire me. I’ve heard this drivel hundreds of times. Just last week a man offered me an entire herd of goats to spare his young daughter from my men’s lust. I agreed, and being a man of my word my men never touched the girl. I did though, and after I killed her, we feasted.”
“Still eatin’ them fargin goats,” a man chuckled. Another laughed with him from the darkness.
Lord Gregory reached behind him and pulled his saddle bag to his lap. He heard the laughter suddenly stop as the men around him resituated the aim of their bows. He didn’t stop what he was doing, though, because he knew that Dreg wouldn’t let them shoot him just yet.
“Slowly, man,” Dreg cautioned. “Itchy fingers all around you now.”
“You’d be wiser to let me show you what I’ve got in private,” Lord Gregory said with enough confidence that he saw Dreg considering it.
“And be pricked by some poison dart, or caught up in some ludicrous charm spell. I think not.” Dreg trotted his horse up a little closer. “I could just kill you, fool, and take what you’ve got. Now out with it.”
“Kill me if you like,” Lord Gregory replied boldly. Most, if not all of his confidence had returned. “But if you do, you’ll never know where this came from.” He pulled the fist sized chunk of raw gold ore out of his pack and held it to where it caught the breaking light of dawn. All around him the gasps of Dreg’s men could be clearly heard. Dreg himself let out an audible “Ooh” and his eyes grew as big as coins.
“It appears that I owe you an apology, sir,” Dreg finally said, with some sincerity in his voice. “I have indeed been inspired. Now what was it you said you needed? A boat to Southport? Is there anything else?”
Chapter Six
Shaella, the Dragon Queen of Westland, daughter of the recently deceased demon-wizard Pael, carefully tipped the vial she held until a single drop of glistening crimson fell from it. The blood landed with a ‘plop’ in the clear water basin cradled in her lap. She stirred the concoction with a finger, sucked the liquid, then sat perfectly still until the swirling calmed.
On the surface of the stuff in her bowl she saw her reflection first. Her dark eyes contrasted with the angry pinkish-red burn scar that started at her temple and ran back over her ear, leaving one side of her head hairless. The rest of her thick, black mane could be laid over the ugliness so that it didn’t show, but she chose to let the ruined flesh be seen. A dragon had made that scar, the dragon that she tricked and enslaved, and then used to take over the biggest kingdom in the realm. Another scar, from a knife fight that had happened long ago in a Dakaneese tavern, ran down her cheek like a permanent teardrop. The scars were nothing to be ashamed of. Though they marred her beauty, they reminded those who came before her of her violent past, and her vast capabilities. The scars made it easier for her to be taken seriously, and she displayed them like badges of honor.
The people of her new kingdom, the struggling humans, the slithery zard-men, and the huge hairy breed beasts, all thought that the dragon was still hers to command. They didn’t know that she had lost her controlling collar, and thus the ability to command the great red wyrm. She didn’t discourage the notion that she could call it forth on a whim, though, and her appearance kept questions from being asked.
She mumbled a few words in a musical hum and the face in the water’s surface shimmered into that of another woman. This woman’s features were rounder: slightly chubby cheeks, framed by blonde curly ringlets, pale blue eyes speckled with green and gold, and a smile that spoke of true innocence. She looked stunning for the hundred and twenty year old marsh witch that she really was. Shaella remembered the woman’s ample bosom and wide curving hips from the visions they regularly shared together. All of Queen Willa’s Xwardian court had been, and was still, completely fooled by the powerful illusion that had changed the old witch’s appearance. In fact General Spyra, the aging head of the entire Highwander Blacksword army, was in love with her.
“What does our General have to say today, Mandary?” Shaella asked.
“Mastress, the hawk-man departed the palace here at Xwarda yesterday on his quest for the pirate treasure,” the plump woman said in a girlish voice.
“Did you place the finding stone?” Shaella asked.
