Bane of the Dragon King Page 21

Mangus leaned forward. “I panicked. They’d promised in their drunken stupor they would remain where they were. So here I am, pinging off the walls, searching for the dames when I’m yanked up by Master Jared himself and carried to his quarters where I came face to face with the cargo I was looking for. I knew then I was in deep dragon dung. Almost crapped on myself. Long story short, he housed the girls in safe quarters well away from me, deposited them on the Isle of Sagewick a few days later with promise of passage home, and stripped me of my magic for a month. That was painful,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “He might as well have pulled a lightning bolt from my body.”

  “I guess you never did that again,” David said.

  Mangus and Trog laughed.

  “My lips are sealed,” Mangus said.

  David turned to Trog. “What about you? What was your daring story?”

  “It wasn’t so much daring as funny. Gildore and I were young, eleven and nine, if I remember correctly. Gildore had an awful day. He’d been bested in a fighting tournament. As a reward for losing, he had to attend a woman’s tea to learn all about etiquette that bored him out of his mind. He was then sent to shine armor and weapons, then put up with the orderings around of his teacher who made him shine all the silver in the cutlery cabinet simply because Gildore complained he was tired and wanted to retire to his room. When he was finally allowed to go to his room, he was given nothing but bread and water and a note to think on his behavior.

  “The next morning, Gildore told Farnsworth and me what had happened. Of course, we had to exact revenge, so Farnsworth and I snuck into Master McKellim’s room while he was taking a bath, stole all of his clothes from his boudoir, undergarments and all, and threw them in the pig pen.” Trog laughed at the memory. “That old man came flying out of his quarters naked as a plucked chick and looking like one, too, screaming and flailing his arms. Farnsworth and I tried to tell Master McKellim that Gildore had nothing to do with it, but Gildore wouldn’t have it. He took all the blame, and got a good beating for it, too. Farnsworth and I vowed to have the man expelled. He left on his own a few weeks later after Farnsworth put chickens in his room and rubbed raw fish on his bed.”

  “And put honey in his hair concoction,” Mangus added.

  Trog laughed. “Oh yes. I forgot about that. The bees swarmed him all day.”

  “That’s funny,” David said. His face ached from smiling so much.

  “What about you,” Mangus asked, his hand on David’s shoulder. “Tell us your tale. Strip your soul bare.”

  “It wasn’t funny at the time, but looking back on it I guess it was, especially to everyone watching. I was at summer camp a few summers back. I must have been eleven or twelve. We were all sitting around this campfire listening to a scary ghost story when I felt something cold and wet slithering up my pant leg. It was right at the terrifying part of the story when I realized it was a snake. I jumped up so fast and started running around, screaming. My shoes came off, my pants followed, and I flung the snake into the lake. That’s when I noticed the silence and the stares and the sounds of crickets. Then this girl, Melony something-or-other, pointed at me and yelled, ‘He’s in his underwear!’ Everyone around the campfire broke into laughter. I, of course, was mortified. I ran back to my cabin, my white undies flashing in the moonlight.”

  Mangus and Trog laughed.

  “Nothing like a bit of humiliation to bring you back home again,” Mangus said, taking another swig of his ale. “It builds character, son. Keeps you grounded. Teaches you not to laugh at those less fortunate than you, but rather offer your help, even if it’s nothing more than being there and keeping quiet.”

  David leaned forward and nodded, remembering after the incident how Charlotte came in his cabin and sat on the bed next to him while he wiped the tears away. No one else had come to help him. No one else came to see if he was all right. No one but Charlotte. That night she didn’t say anything. She just sat there and listened. It was what he needed. It was all he needed.

  The room became quiet and still, and it made the mind whir and think. David stood and stretched his legs as questions with no answers perched on the tip of his tongue.

  “Trog, this is totally off topic, but why do you and Eric dislike the mages so much? I get characters like Pusrig and Seyekrad, but you’re good friends with Mangus. Slavandria and Lily are good at heart. Why is there such animosity between you and the mages? You’d think the two would bond together, especially now. Fallhollow is everyone’s realm. I don’t understand.”

  Trog sucked his bottom lip and leaned forward in his chair fiddling with a necklace he’d had in his hands for an hour or more. “To make a long story short, they let Eric’s mother die. Gildore pleaded with the mages to protect Hirth. He knew there were scouts and assassins out there working for Einar. He begged the mages for their help. They refused and Gwyndolyn died. I’ve never forgiven them. I don’t think Eric did either.” He brushed his thumb over the pendant. “All I have of her now is a note and this necklace.”

  He held it up by the chain. A blue sapphire surrounded by silver filigree shimmered in the firelight.

  David leaned forward, excitement ripping through him. “May I see it?”

  Trog handed it to him.

  David held it high and stared into the pendant. Buried deep within, a fog brewed and swirled. He knew what it was in an instant. He looked at Trog. “Do you know what this is?”

  “It’s a sapphire. A very rare sapphire from the Spice Isles.”

  “No, no. That’s not what I meant. Do you know what this is? What it does?”

  “It doesn’t do anything,” Trog said. “It’s a pendant.”

  “No,” he shook his head with a smile. “You have something very special here. You have a reminiscent vapor.”

  Mangus looked up, his brow furrowed. “Impossible. What would Gwyndolyn be doing with a reminiscent vapor?”

  “What is a reminiscent vapor?” Trog asked.

  “It’s a memory,” David said. “Lily gave me one, once, in a necklace much like this one.”

  Trog stood and grabbed the necklace out of David’s hand. He held it to the light and studied it. “How do I get it out?”

  “You have to break it,” David said.

  “Be careful there, Trog. You don’t know what memory Gwyndolyn put in there. Sometimes they are best left alone.”

  “Most of the time I’d agree with you, Mangus, but if it was important enough for my wife to keep, it’s important enough for me to see.” He threw the stone as hard as he could to the floor.

  A pale blue brume rose from the floor. Inside of it, a very young Trog, perhaps sixteen years old, paced the gardens of Gyllen Castle. A woman with long dark hair approached. It was Queen Mysterie, but she, too, was young. In the brume, Trog watched her come toward him, her black silk gown rustling with every step she took.

  “The answer to your troubles, young squire, cannot be found growing among the gardenias and hydrangeas,” she said, her hands clasped before her.

  He stood there, just looking at her, appearing as if her words caught him off guard.

  “Do you remember this?” Mangus asked.

  Trog nodded. “It was the first time I ever killed a man. A group of Dalvarian rebels attacked the kingdom of Doursmouth. They rode from one town to the next, destroying everything in their path. I was part of the delegation that answered the victims’ pleas for help. We rode hard and fast, and with every town and village, we found the bodies of men and women, young and old, slaughtered where they stood. When we reached the castle’s town of Swiline, we found the remains of a gregarious landowner decapitated, his head displayed upon a pole outside the church, his body left upon the steps of his manor for the wolves to feast upon. Bodies lay everywhere. I grew ill, vomiting at the stench and the sheer inhumanness of it.

  “As we wandered through the town, we found survivors—women and children, covered in blood, crouched in fear among the bodie
s of their husbands, fathers, and sons. They had suffered the worst kind of fate—vile, obscene acts so wretched I cannot repeat the telling of them. We left a squadron of men in the town while the rest of us made our way into the castle. We found King Darius dead in his sitting room, a dagger to his heart, his wife in a stunned daze at his feet, her gown ripped to her waist, blood crusted on her lips. We were in the room only moments when assassins, dressed in black from head to toe, attacked from the shadows. I shall never forget the look in his eyes when my sword met with his gut and his life drained from his body. I killed two more men that day, and I no longer regret saying there was a part of me that reveled in their demise. I knew then as I know now if I had not killed them, my master, my friends and fellow squires, Farnsworth and Gowran, would have died before my eyes. That fate for them was not an option for me.

  “When it was all over, I ran into the courtyard and retched until there was nothing left within me. I justified it as all men do, but the memory of all I had seen and done haunted me for months. My life changed in that moment. I had seen the worst of human evil in others and in myself. Guilt overcame me as if I was the one who had committed the crimes against humanity. I did not want to become a knight if it meant I had to kill others.”

  “What changed your mind?” David asked.

  Trog took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “It was something someone told me about intent, the intent to kill versus the intent to protect. It changed my life.”

  They turned back to the brume and watched.

  “Do I have your permission to speak freely, Trog?” Mysterie asked. “I do not know the rules of your kingdom, and if women are to wait to be addressed before speaking.”

  Trog scoffed. “That is absurd! Of course not! I mean, yes, of course you can speak. You do not have to wait for my permission. For heaven’s sake, girl, you have a mind of your own, and I am not in control of it or your tongue.”

  Mysterie smiled. “It is good to see that not all your passion is dead.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  She cast a shy smile. “Nothing. My mouth ran away with me.”

  An uncomfortable silence seemed to pass between them. It was Trog who broke the quiet.

  “My lady, I am confused. Did you come out here to speak with me or to get some fresh air?”

  “I wanted to speak to you. I saw you leave the sitting room. What troubles you?”

  He turned his back to her. “It was hot in there. Too many people.”

  Mysterie nodded her head. “I see.” She cast a sideways glance at him then turned away. “I know the demon you face, Trog, for I have seen him, too, staring back at me from my dreams.” She heard him turn around. She faced him. There was sadness in her brown eyes. “I felt his presence in that room. You sensed him too. That is why you left.”

  Trog turned away. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

  She placed a hand on his shoulder. “You do not need to pretend with me, Trog. I saw your face in that room, and I saw it when you killed that man this morning. I see the torment in your eyes, but Trog, you cannot compare what you did with what they did. The intent in which you took that man’s life was not the same as his when he took my father’s.”

  “I killed a man, my lady. Since when does it matter to God about intent?”

  “Intent means everything to God.”

  Trog’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying that there are times when killing another person is all right but then there are others when it is not? Isn’t murder, murder? And if not, who are we to justify those times, Mysterie?”

  “Intent always matters, Trog. What those men did to us and to our kingdom was born out of greed and lust, anger and hate, malcontent. They felt no sorrow or remorse or regret for what they did. In fact, the more we suffered the more they reveled in their decadent behavior. That is the difference between them and you. You and the men who fought by your side did not have such horrific intent. You heard the call of a people in trouble and you came. You were not the ones who caused the trouble.”

  Trog turned away. This time she would not let him look away from her. She grasped one of his hands, her other rested upon his face. “Oh, Trog. Please, I beseech you to not feel the way you do. What happened here was not your fault. I see it in you, the feelings of regret, sorrow, responsibility. You feel guilt for depriving those men of their lives, but you must understand. Your intent was not to deprive those men of their lives but to ensure they did not deprive us of ours. In your deed, there was honor, bravery, and a will to survive. There was a sense of compassion, love, friendship. Even now, I can see the struggle within you, questioning if what you did would settle right with God. This tells me you are a man of great conviction. A man filled with humility, benevolence, and grace. In your actions, you provided hope and restored faith in what is good and wholesome in this world. If your desire is to become a knight, you already hold the finest qualities of one. You are strong, upstanding, and true—true to yourself, to your friends, your kingdom, and to your God. He does not look down on you today, Sir Trogsdill Domnall. He is proud of you for what you have done. It was His will you were here in Doursmouth. It was His will that you stopped those men before they could harm anyone else. You must believe as I do that all in this life happens for a reason, don’t you? Who are we to question His plan for us? Think about that the next time you start to berate your intentions, your honor, and your self-worth.”

  Mysterie kissed him on the cheek then turned to leave. He reached out to her, his fingers sliding across the tips of hers. She turned. “Yes?”

  “Thank you, my lady, for your kind words. They have touched my heart and soul, and I shall remember them. You have lifted a burden from my shoulders. If there is ever anything I can do for you … ”

  Mysterie smiled. “There is actually one thing you can do for me.”

  “I am at your command.”

  “You can court my sister. She is quite taken with you.”

  He hung his head. “Oh, I see. I was hoping you and I … ”

  She smiled. “I’m sorry. A few weeks ago, I would have said, ‘yes,’ but I have already met someone I am quite taken with.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “Do not be so down, Trog. He is eighteen and quite debonair. I believe you know him quite well and will begin to serve in capacity as his personal knight and guardian in less than one week.”

  “Gildore? You are smitten with my king?”

  Mysterie laughed. “Very much so, Trog. I have discovered that he cares about you very much, which gives us both something in common from the onset. As for my sister, she is quite kind, loving, and slightly feistier than I. Will you speak to her?”

  Trog bowed. “If that is your wish, my lady, consider it done.”

  “Good, you will not be disappointed. I will bid you farewell, Trog. I feel tired from the events of the day and need to rest.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You are a fine man,” she whispered in his ear. “Do not ever forget it.”

  With a kiss to his cheek, she was gone.

  The image in the brume changed. He stood before the altar of the cathedral dressed in ceremonial robes. King Gildore stood before him, his sword raised.

  “Trogsdill Domnall, you have shown your valor and courage in protecting not only our men in battle, but the weak and tired, the injured and worn, from an enemy intent on destruction. You have performed gallantly and without pride and have earned your rightful place among those who surround you now.” A group of eight men, dressed in uniform, gathered round him. “You have proven your skill and demonstrated your virtue in the face of opposition and tyranny. Therefore, by the power vested in me, I hereby dub thee, Sir Trogsdill Domnall, a Knight of Hirth and member of the King’s Guard.”

  The king’s sword pressed to each shoulder and returned to its scabbard. “Rise, Sir Trogsdill and face those to whom you have sworn your service.”

  Goosebumps traveled up David
’s arms. “You were how old when you became a knight?”

  “Sixteen. The youngest in the history of Hirth, or the three kingdoms for that matter.”

  “Whoa. That’s intense.”

  Trog smiled. “Yes, it is.”

  The image in the brume changed once more. A gathering in a giant hall. There was food, music, hundreds of people. Trog was speaking with a gathering of dukes and barons when a woman tapped his shoulder. He turned around.

  “Mysterie. Thank you for being here.” He kissed the back of her hand.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Have you got a moment?”

  “Yes, my lady.” He excused himself from the guests and moved to a more quiet, subdued gathering.

  “I wanted to personally congratulate you. I think you will make a fine knight. I also wanted to introduce you to someone.” She reached through the gathering and plucked out a young girl identical in every way to Mysterie. She curtseyed and smiled at him, but she didn’t look away. Not like most girls. There was nothing demure about her. “Sir Trogsdill Domnall, please say, ‘hello’ to Lady Gwyndolyn, my baby sister.”

  Trog stared at her. No words came out of his mouth.

  She stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his chest. “Congratulations on your knighthood. Would you like to go somewhere quiet and celebrate? Or we could stay here with all the boring people, have more drink, eat way too much food, and resort to more upper-class fineries neither of us wants to partake in.”

  Trog smiled and his cheeks blushed. “I’d like to get away with you very much, my lady.” He glanced at Mysterie. “Thank you for your kindness, my lady. If anyone is looking for me, tell them I took a ride over the moon.”

  He linked Gwyndolyn’s arm around his and the two of them faded into the brume. As before, the mist fell away.

  A tear crept down Trog’s cheek. “Mysterie gave her those memories to keep forever around her neck. She would have had it still if the mages had done their job. If they had protected Hirth like Gildore asked, Bainesworth would never have been able to kill her!”