In the Shadow of the Dragon King Page 4

  “David?” Charlotte said. “Are you there? Are you okay?”

  He blinked and gasped for air, unaware until he did so he’d been holding his breath. He swallowed hard. An invisible fist clenched his throat and squeezed. Somehow he found the ability to speak. “I-it’s my parents. They’re not dead.”

  Chapter 3

  Chickens squawked and scattered. Horses clomped, and grain wagons creaked over the cobblestones of Crafter’s Row while children hurried toward the kitchens with baskets of freshly picked berries, apples, and vegetables. Men shouted orders, and servants scrambled to prepare the castle and its grounds. It would not bode well for King Gildore and Queen Mysterie to return home after a year away to find the castle in disarray.

  Eric woke with a crick in his neck and his stomach rumbling like a wagon on cobbles. Excitement rippled through him at the thought of Their Majesties’ return. They’d been gone far too long, and he ached to hear of their travels and adventures. It was one of the perks of being Trog’s squire, and Eric enjoyed his talks with the king.

  Much to his dismay, the welcoming festivities, along with the influx of thousands of jubilant and loyal Hirthinians, would provide little time to talk and socialize. He decided to wait until the following day to take them on a tour of the newly built university with its marble corridors and spindled turrets. They would be thrilled to see the progress, and he would have time to learn what he could about the danger lurking in Fallhollow.

  Pleased with his plan, Eric grabbed his boots and climbed down from the loft. Sestian barged through the open barn doors, panting, with his hair a mess and his clothes askew.

  “Eric, you’ve got to ask Trog for permission to attend the festival.”

  Eric grabbed a pitchfork and tossed some hay and alfalfa into the horse stalls. “Why is that?” The animals nickered with appreciation.

  “The mages are gathering in Hammershire, waiting for the paladin’s arrival.”

  Eric stabbed the pitchfork in a bale of hay. “I thought they had three days?”

  “Don’t know. I’m telling you what I heard Master Camden tell Farnsworth a few minutes ago. Come on! You have to ask Trog to let us go.”

  Eric considered the proposal but then shook his head. “I can’t, Ses. Trog will never give me permission to go anywhere, especially today. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s a bit ticked at me.”

  “That’s yesterday’s news. Today is now. You have to ask.”

  Eric collected the satchels of polished knives and stepped outside into the bright sunlight. “Why don’t you ask Farnsworth?” Eric walked across the road to the well and set the satchels on the ground.

  “I can’t. He put me in Trog’s charge.”

  “Then ask Trog yourself.” Eric splashed water on his face.

  “Are you crazy? The way he looks at me with those little green eyes. They’re like little sour grapes ready to burst, except instead of spraying juice, they spew daggers. I don’t know how you deal with it.”

  “I see. So you want his eyes to throw daggers at me?”

  “He won’t hurt you. You’re his squire. You have clout.”

  Eric laughed and wiped the excess water from his face. “How do you figure? I slept in a barn last night with beggars’ rations to eat.”

  “A minor setback.”

  “I doubt he sees it that way.”

  Eric gathered the knives and headed down Crafters’ Row toward the farrier’s stall. The brilliant blue sky sparkled. The birch trees along the road rustled in a warm breeze infused with the scents of hyacinth and wisteria.

  “Eric, please,” Sestian said, shuffling up from behind. “We may not get another opportunity like this.”

  They passed the fire pit where a whole hog and deer turned on a spit over an open flame. Eric tilted his head back and inhaled deeply, taking in the sweet smell of burning applewood mixed with roasting meat. Real food. His stomach grumbled.

  A speckled dog ran out of the cordwainer’s shop, overturning a workbench, before darting off with its tail between its legs. The shoemaker emerged from the stone building, cursing. Eric and Sestian set the bench upright and picked up the tools scattered about the ground. The wrinkled old man grumbled and snatched his utensils from their hands.

  An imposing figure wearing all-too-familiar deerskin boots blocked out the sun. Ah, great. Eric gathered the knives he’d dropped, stood and met Trog’s stern gaze.

  “Well, well, I should have figured as much,” Trog said. “May I ask why you were in such a hurry you knocked over this man’s stand?”

  Eric’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. He glanced at his master and the cordwainer. “Oh. No. No, sir. It’s not what you think. I—we—Sestian and I—we—we didn’t do this. I-it was a dog; I swear it. We only stopped to help pick the bench up. Ask him.” Eric pointed to the shoemaker.

  Trog crossed his arms and fixed his green eyes on Eric. The seams of the dark-green broadcloth shirt tugged at his shoulders. After a moment, his gaze shifted to the shoemaker.

  “Is what the lad says true?”

  The man nodded. “Right bit of a helper them two is. Damn dog messed up me stand like he says.”

  “Hmph. Very well.” Trog took the knives from Eric and handed them to Sestian. Eric winced as Trog gripped the back of his neck. “Come with me. Sestian, stay put, understood?”

  Sestian nodded, rocking from heel to toe. “Yes, sir. Here I am, and here I’ll stay.”

  Trog guided Eric across the road to a wood bench beneath a large shade tree. “I take it you slept uncomfortably well last night?” Trog asked.

  Eric rubbed his neck. “Miserably.”

  Trog nodded. “Are you ready to tell me the truth about where you were yesterday?”

  “I can’t,” Eric said.

  Trog’s eyebrow lifted, and he said, “Were you sneaking a taste of mead?”

  Eric shot him a wry look. “At nine in the morning? Please.”

  Trog leaned forward, his arms resting on his legs, his hands clasped between his knees. “Eric, I was young once, and I understand the need to protect your friend. However, you must keep in mind the secrets you keep now can come back to haunt you in the future. Now, I don’t know what Sestian has pulled you into—”

  “He hasn’t pulled me into—”

  Trog shot him a sidelong glance. Eric closed his mouth. Trog continued. “I don’t know what he’s pulled you into, but whatever it is, I need you to promise me you will remember what I’ve taught you, remain vigilant, and stay true to who you are … a future knight of Hirth. Don’t ever lose sight of that or what it means.”

  “Is this a test?” Eric asked. “Of course I’ll remember who and what I am. I’ve been training for it most of my life.”

  Trog nodded and looked down. “It is good to hear. Our world is changing, too fast for my liking. You and Sestian must remain steadfast and not be influenced by those with skewed visions of this kingdom. Keep your eyes and ears open. Be smart.” He tapped his forefinger on his temple.

  Eric furrowed his brow. “Have you been sneaking some mead, sir?”

  Trog chuckled. “If only.” He slapped his thighs and stood, his gaze settled on Sestian. “I need you and your impish friend to head over to the Floating Isles’ welcoming docks. The Duke of Itas and his daughter are due to arrive any minute. I’d like the two of you to escort them to the castle and make sure they are settled in one of the third-floor apartments. Once everyone is tucked into their quarters, you and Sestian have my permission to attend the festivities in Hammershire.” Trog glanced at him with amusement. “I assume that is acceptable to you?”

  Eric grinned. “Yes, sir. Very much so. Thank you, sir.”

  “Then I suppose you should get going before I change my mind.” The knight took the bundle of blades from Eric and tucked them under his arm.

  Gladly!

  Eric hurried across the road, grasped Sestian by the shirt collar, and shoved him t
oward the stables without a single look back. “Come on. We’re going to the festival.”

  Sestian’s eyes widened. “We are?”

  Eric grinned. “Yeah. But first we have to do a little chore.”

  ***

  Eric and Sestian shouldered their way through the crowded cobblestone streets of Hammershire. All around them merchants hawked their wares from cramped wooden stalls decorated in bright fabrics. Magicians paraded their potions, amulets, and charms; entertainers dazzled their audiences with fire-breathing stunts, acrobatics, and magic acts. Tempting aromas of butter cakes, candied apples, and roasted chickens saturated the air. Outside the hatter’s shop, Lady Emelia and a short, brown-haired girl with a round face and rabbit teeth began to follow them like hounds on a scent. Despite Eric’s attempts to lose them in the crowd, they remained in tow, as if pulled along by an invisible rope.

  “What is wrong with them?” Eric asked, stopping to examine an array of leather trinkets. “Do they not have anything better to do than follow us around like pups follow a bone?”

  The girls stopped at the next stall over. Lady Emelia smiled and waved. Eric looked away.

  “Aww, lighten up,” Sestian said, flashing a big grin in the girls’ direction. “What is there not to like? We’re both devilishly handsome. We’re privileged squires to the most elite group of knights Hirth has ever seen. Why, we’re practically royalty.”

  “Key word, ‘practically.’ Besides, I would think you would want something more in your life, like perhaps a little conversation, some intelligence, not some shallow minx who finds status more appealing than principles.” Eric picked up two pewter likenesses of King Gildore and Queen Mysterie and shook his head.

  “Intelligence?” Sestian laughed. “What do I need with intelligence?” He patted Eric on the back and hurried off.

  “What indeed.” Eric paid the merchant for a leather pouch and caught up with his friend.

  “Dragon’s dung, have you seen so many people in one place?” Sestian asked. “It’s complete and utter pandemonium!”

  They dodged an intoxicated trio staggering from the Golden Finch Tavern, singing in imperfect harmony. A small boy in pursuit of a squealing pig shot between Sestian’s legs, almost tipping him over. Eric laughed and watched the boy as he plowed past the row of inns before disappearing into the crowd. His smile faded. He tapped Sestian on the arm, gesturing toward three figures cloaked in sapphire-blue robes huddled at the intersection of Tavern and Medicinal Roads. Mages.

  Someone poked Eric on the shoulder. He spun around to find Lady Emelia peering up at him; a cunning smile etched on her porcelain face. She took a step forward and linked her arm with his.

  “Why, Eric Hamden, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to avoid me.”

  He cringed inside. Silverware scraping across plates made a more pleasing sound than her nasal voice. He unwound her arm from his. A poisonous serpent would have been more welcome. “What do you want, Emelia?”

  “Oh, don’t be such a cad.” She stroked his cheek and linked her arm once more with his. “It’s a beautiful day. Their Majesties are returning home today. What do you say the two of you buy us an exotic blend of juices, then escort us to the pavilion to watch the acrobats?”

  Eric stepped back, letting her arm fall away. It took everything he had not to spew ungentlemanly words at her. “I apologize, my lady. As tempting as your offer sounds, I am otherwise engaged. I’m sure you can find another more available suitor to buy you whatever your heart desires.”

  Lady Emelia’s mouth fell into a pout. “But I don’t want someone else.” She drew the tip of her finger down his cheek. “Come with me. It will be fun.”

  Eric broke away from her once more. “I’m sorry, my lady. Another time, perhaps.” He guided Sestian into the crowd and didn’t look back.

  “Perhaps we’ll see each other again at the ball?” she called out to him.

  “Not if I can help it,” Eric mumbled. “Did you see where the mages went, Ses?”

  “Never took my eyes off of them. Follow me.”

  Eric and Sestian darted alongside the A-framed buildings, keeping to the shadows as they pushed through the crowds. They turned left down Baker’s Street and waited beneath the awning of a bread maker. Up ahead, the mages crossed the road and continued past the bustling clothier, tapestry and weave shops of Threadneedle Lane.

  “Let’s go,” Eric said.

  A grip upon his collar jerked him backward, the fabric choking his airway. A strong hand planted in the middle of his chest and pushed him against the building. Eric clenched his fist and raised his arm to strike, but changed his mind.

  Fast.

  “Sir Farnsworth.” He glanced to his left at Sestian, pinned to the wall by the knight’s other hand. Two other knights, Crohn, and Gowran, stood behind Farnsworth, their arms folded across their chests, smirks cocked on their faces.

  “What are you two doing here? Don’t you have work to do?” Farnsworth’s eyebrows lifted up and down like hairy inchworms.

  Eric gulped. “Sir Trogsdill gave us permission.”

  At the end of Threadneedle Lane, one of the mages glanced behind him before turning a corner and melting away into the tree line. Eric’s stomach fell. Drat rotten luck!

  “Then I suggest you get going before someone becomes suspicious and thinks you’re up to no good.” The pressure on Eric’s chest lifted as the knight removed his hand. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Farnsworth raised an eyebrow in Sestian’s direction.

  Sestian shook his head. “No, sir. Absolutely not.”

  Farnsworth stepped back. “Then get moving, both of you.”

  Eric and Sestian scrambled off without looking back, the knights’ laughter resonating loud and clear behind them.

  “I don’t believe it!” Sestian said reaching the town square. “We were so close.”

  Eric smacked a wall and cursed beneath his breath. “We should have been more careful. Come on. Let’s go.”

  “Yeah, yeah. In a minute.”

  A troupe of musicians arrived in the town square, followed by six dancers whipping around long, colorful ribbons attached to a stick. Sestian’s gaze fixed on a particular raven-haired woman dancing to an energetic fiddle and flute.

  Eric rolled his eyes and punched his friend on the arm. “Forget it, Ses. She’s too old for you. Besides, you wouldn’t know what to do with her if you had her.”

  “Speak for yourself. I am an apt pupil, you know.” His smile grew wider if that was at all possible.

  “You’re an idiot, is what you are. Come on. Let’s go before we’re accused of shirking duties we don’t even know we have.”

  Sestian rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

  They left the walled town and scampered up the hill, weaving in and out of the throngs of people trekking northward to Gyllen castle. The turrets of the sprawling limestone fortress pierced the sky while hundreds of arched eyes, stacked eight layers high, watched over all that lay below. Vibrant blue and gold silk banners hung over the palace walls; flags flapped in the persistent cool breeze.

  Colorful tents and haystacks speckled the lush hillside. A breeze rustled from the east across the Northern Forest of Berg and the Domengart Mountains. The Cloverleaf River meandered southward, glistening in the afternoon sun.

  Inside the castle grounds, Eric and Sestian stopped and stared. As if by magic, the royal wisteria tree, its branches so wide it embraced the entire courtyard, was in prolific lavender bloom. To their left, pages led commoners to the small but comfortable quarters beneath Festival Hall. A line of horse-drawn carriages wound along the outer rim of the courtyard, each filled with nobles ready for escorts to take them to their lavish apartments.

  “Sestian!” The bark came from the jobmaster, a heavyset man covered in filth and sweat. “Where in flaming dragon’s breath have you been? Get over here, now! Eric! You too!”

  “What in crea
tion does he want?” Sestian grumbled.

  “Perhaps an audience with the privileged squires. We are practically royalty, you know.”

  They laughed and made their way across the courtyard. Sitting on the edge of the merman and hippocamp fountain was a short, stubby man, his feet barely touching the ground. His equally round wife, her hair piled high on her head in a beehive mess, sat beside him.

  Sestian groaned. “Ah, the swine-bellied Baron von Stuegler and his haughty wife. Wonderful.” His eyes drifted to the two large trunks and array of handbags stacked to their sides. “From the looks of it, you’d think they were moving in.”

  “Don’t suggest it,” Eric said. “They probably would.”

  “Sestian, hurry up!” the jobmaster ordered. “Take the Von Stueglers to their quarters on the third floor. They’re tired of waiting.”

  “What? I’m not a baggage hand—”

  The jobmaster smacked Sestian on the head. “If I wanted your comments, I’d ask for them, now move! Eric!” He shoved a whistle into Eric’s hand. “Take over for a bit.”

  “W-what do you want me to do?” Eric asked.

  “You’re an intelligent lad. Figure it out.”

  “But I should help Sestian. There are a lot of bags, far too many for him to carry alone.”

  Sestian glanced over his shoulder weighed down by two large paisley bags. “I’ve got this, Eric. I’ll catch up later.”

  Eric’s objections were interrupted by horns sounding from atop the gatehouse. The guard shouted, “The King’s messenger arrives!”

  The people scattered as the rider rounded the bend. His cloak flew out behind him as he brought his horse to a stop beside the waiting stable hands. The man dismounted and handed his steed into their care.

  The jobmaster shoved Eric aside. “Captain Morant. Welcome back to Gyllen. What is the word?”

  The rider stripped off his gloves. “King Gildore and Queen Mysterie are but two hours’ ride from here. They will arrive by sunset.” The captain looked around, taking in all the decorations, and grinned. “They will be most surprised at what you have done to the place.” He turned to Eric. “I need to speak with your master right away. I have a message to deliver to him from the king. Do you know where I might find him?”