The Bringer of War

Stella leaned her back against the cold stone of the cramped cell, focusing her will upon the tiny, almost imperceptible line of energy far beneath her. When the watch had thrown her into the dank stone prison, they had boasted it was designed to block her black magic. She had silently cheered when they removed her restraints and rudely shoved her within.

Unfortunately, the miniscule amount of energy she was able to glean from the line was sufficient only for generating harmless light from her fingers, rather than the gout of flame she had hoped would reduce the wooden door to cinders. She tried the spell several more times but was met with failure each time.

Undaunted, she was trying to draw a large amount of power into herself by slowly bleeding the line. It took a great deal of concentration, and each time she attempted it her will faltered and she was forced to release the pent up energy back into the ley line.

She had spent two miserable nights in the cell, which was not tall enough to stand up in nor wide enough to lay down on the floor. Twice a fearful guard had swung the door open and pointed a loaded crossbow at her face, using his foot to shove in a tin plate laden with a mound of beans and a biscuit so hard she honestly wondered if she could chisel her way to freedom with it.

The watch station she was being held at was sunk beneath the streets near the merchant quarter. Occasionally she would hear the doors of other cells being opened as they were filled or emptied. Her eyes would brighten up when the jangling of keys could be heard outside her cell, but they would inevitably fall in despair when the guard kept going right past her door.

She almost did not believe it when the door shuddered open and light spilled over her bedraggled form. The grim looking captain who had caught her the other day stood bearing a torch, flanked by two of his men bearing crossbows. She blinked in confusion for a few moments before the captain spoke.

“Up,” he said harshly “it is your lucky day, witch. The city of Port Gar has need of your magic, and may not burn you after all.”

“I can scarcely contain my enthusiasm,” she said, her dry voice breaking. With effort she leveraged her sore body to its feet. Murdoch grabbed her roughly by the bicep and dragged her out of the cell.

“Hurry up,” he said, shoving her stumbling a few feet ahead of the procession “and speak not one word of magic, or my boys will send bolts through your brain.”

Stella passed by twin rows of the diminutive cells on their way to the stairs at the end of the dark hall. On the other side of some she could hear the weeping of the accused within. Shuddering, she carefully walked up the stairs though her instinct was to dash up away from that dreadful place as quickly as possible.

The guard station was much more pleasant on the ground floor. A messy desk laden with numerous parchments and scrolls was at the top of the stairs, facing the door leading to the street outside. Rows of stout chairs, some with manacles attached, lined the wall opposite the dungeon. A long, low table designed to hold prisoners still during ‘interrogations’ held a different sort of occupant than normal.

Seamus looked up out of his remaining eye at the slip of a woman who flinched at the sight of his scarred visage. There was a ruined patch of skin beginning just above his left eye, spilling down his cheek and temple. His left ear was gone as well as much of the hair on that side of his head, leaving only a jagged hole. The dragon’s blood had seared away all but the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand. Roikza sat up on his chest and hissed threateningly at the woman as Murdoch shoved her towards the makeshift bed.

“Gods have mercy,” she said, staring with pity at the big man. Her eyes fell upon the snarling bundle of feathers and claws on his chest. “What is...that?”

“I am confused, captain,” said Seamus, sitting up with a grimace of pain flashing across his face. “I thought that you knew of one who could help me find the beast that slew my brother, and put an end to it.”

“I spoke truly,” said Murdoch, crossing his arms over his chest “this woman is a witch, I’ve seen...I’ve felt her power.”

“I cannot restore his...the parts that he...” said Stella, stammering as she stared at the man’s gruesome scars “I mean, I can speed the healing, but what is gone is gone.”

Murdoch raised an eyebrow at her, putting his arms akimbo.

“So,” he said “you can do more than knock over guards and swindle merchants. Do what you can, witch, if his pain can truly be eased.”

Stella looked up at the captain and swallowed hard.

“I’ll need my grimoire,” she said slowly.

“Done,” said Murdoch, nodding at one of his men. A few moments later the man returned with a cloth wrapped bundle. He flopped it onto the stout table holding Seamus, the impact making the patient groan.

Stella eagerly caressed the tome, unwrapping it with shaking fingers.

“Please just open,” she whispered “oh please please please just open...”

She took a deep breath and tried to cover. To her surprise it opened easily, the pages flashing by as if in a strong breeze until it stopped on exactly the page she needed.

“Thank you,” she breathed, shutting her eyes tight. She glanced up at Murdoch, who had unsheathed his short bladed sword at the book’s display.

“No treachery, witch,” he said.

Stella rolled her eyes, then turned them towards the tome. Her lips moved slightly as she read over the strange, hard edged characters on the page. A pair of hands were artfully rendered near the border, the fingers spread out in a fan pattern.

Closing her eyes, she felt about for lines of force. There was a bright, pulsing one just above them, running towards the sky, and she wondered how she could not see it in the cell below. Perhaps, she thought, the watch really did have a magic proof cell.

Gathering energy was almost too easily, as she felt herself swell with power she had no need of for the enchantment. Sweat stood out on her brow as she willed the fires within her to simmer down to a manageable level. It wouldn’t do for her to burn herself out like...

Shaking the unpleasant memory away, she pointed her arms at Seamus and aped the drawing she had seen. Willing the energy to flow from her fingers into his injured body, she spoke the word of power that would unleash it.

“Pythia,” she said loudly, causing Murdoch to shuffle on his feet. Seamus gasped as the power surged through his form, his eyelids fluttering as he lost consciousness.

“Stinking witch,” said Murdoch, shoving the point of his blade under her chin “you’ve killed him!”

“He must rest for a time,” said Stella, daring to slap the flat of the blade away from her face. “His body must do much of the work on its own, but it now has the tools to fix itself...more or less. By tomorrow he will be as fit as can be expected for a man with one eye and a crippled hand.”

“If he dies...” said Murdoch, again brandishing the blade.

“Then my own life is forfeit, yes, yes.” said Stella, waving the threat away. “He will live, I assure you.”

“We’ll hang on to this,” said Murdoch, slamming the grimoire shut “until he wakes.”

Stella sighed, watching wistfully as the book was taken from the room. She walked over to one of the hard wooden chairs and sat down in it, grateful for even such a spartan perch. Her brown eyes fluttered to Seamus’s slumbering form.

“Well,” she said “I hate to say this, fellow, but thank the gods you got mauled by a dragon! Pity about the scars, though...that bald head didn’t make you any less handsome. And I am intrigued by your pet.”

Her gaze fell upon the feathered lizard curled up in a ball upon Seamus’s gently rising chest. Roikza’s sinister looking eye opened up just a crack, and the wizard was startled by the amount of cunning she felt emanating from the baleful orb.

“Very intrigued,” she said, stretching out her legs and rubbing the back of her calves.

The eye slowly sagged shut, but she could not help but think it was still open a tiny sliver, watching her every move.

** *

Kate stared worriedly at her father as he cheerfully carved up a red apple with his table knife. Though the table was set with a fine brunch of hen’s eggs, smoked bacon and delicately crumbling biscuits, Kate’s own plate was untouched. She watched as Lord Mannix bit into a pale wedge, savoring its tart flavor. He noticed her attention and gave her a worried frown.

“Is something the matter, my dear?” he said around a mouthful of fruit. “You have not eaten much in days. Should I send for a physician, or-”

“No, father,” she said “I am well enough physically. I suppose I am troubled by...other matters.”

“Tell me,” said Mannix, taking a swallow of cool berry juice to help the apple down. “please.”

Kate took a deep breath, the turmoil in her breast causing her blood to rush. She fixed her soft brown eyes upon her father and spoke in a rush.

“It has come to my attention,” she said hastily “that you are sending a great deal of coin to the south.”

“I see,” said Mannix, pushing his food about his plate with a fork. His eyes were strangely cold when they met hers. “I am, indeed, sending some monies...”

“But,” said Kate “why do you hide this from me, from our own treasurer?”

Lord Mannix smiled sweetly at her, but she noticed a slight shake in his hand as he brought a morsel to his mouth.

“My dear,” he said “I am simply trying to keep certain...investments from triggering a stampede. I have heard that there may be silver in the hills around a small village called Ravensford. The tongues of our servants do tend to wag, accountants included. I would claim my stake before every other noble with aspirations of greater wealth bleeds it from the earth.”

Kate relaxed, practically sagging into the back of her ornately carved dining room chair.

“My dear,” he said with a chuckle “what did you think I was about?”

“I’m sorry, father,” she said “I feared, that, well, you had been...indiscreet with some peasant woman, and-”

Lord Mannix threw his head back and laughed, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin when he was finished.

“I have grown too old for wenching, my dear,” he said, still stifling a giggle. He glanced up as Quinn strode into the room and offered a brisk salute.

“Speak, friend,” said Mannix “you know I stand not on ceremony between us.”

“Begging your pardon, lord,” he said “but that matter about which we spoke...”

“Of course,” said Mannix, a tad too quickly for Kate’s nerves “let us be about it, then.”

He rose from the table, stopping to take Kate’s hand in both of his. He gently kissed it, which brought a smile to her troubled face.

“Do not fret, my all,” he said “I cannot promise that all will be well, but I can promise that I will do my best to prevent any harm from befalling you, our this house.”

He kissed her gently on the forehead, then gave her hand a final squeeze before joining the waiting Quinn out in the hall.

Kate sighed, holding her head in her hands. She was not certain how she knew, but she had the unmistakeable feeling her father had lied to her.

** *

Seamus stirred on the table, flexing his mutilated hand. There was still pain, but it was dull and muted, like the ache of an old broken bone long mended. His face still felt tender and hot, but the maddening heavy throb of the past eve seemed to be gone. Minor wounds, such as the scraped knees he received trying to belly crawl through the storm drain were vanished entirely. His stomach gurgled with the first signs of hunger since he’d been attacked.

The memory of Fennik’s bloody, screaming face as he was dragged away by the dragon haunted his waking hours as well as his dreams. He had done all he could, thrusting his crudely forged blade into the soft membrane between the beast’s jaws. The resulting spurt of blood had burned away most of his hand, and half of his face. His sword a melted, smoking ruin, he had screamed in blind terror, certain the dragon would spit out Fennik and consume him first.

He was still screaming when the watch hammered through the masonry holding on the metal grate, and screamed all the way back to the guard station. It was not until Roikza had come zipping through the open door to alight on his lap that he had calmed at all. Murdoch had given him the entire evening to recover, not hustling him for information until the morning.

Seamus found his despair replaced by a seething anger. The dragon had taken his brother, the only family he had left, and there was nothing that could be done about it. The only thought that kept him from despair and insanity was the idea of revenge. It may not bring back Fennik’s scheming, smiling face but it just might allow the big man to find some peace.

He looked over at the little wisp of a woman snoring loudly in a chair a few feet away. His look softened a bit, because she was pretty despite her slender frame and bushy head of thick hair. Putting a hand ruefully to his scarred face, he smiled bitterly as the feel of the mottled flesh, bumpy like a melted candle. No fair maids were likely in his future. But a dead dragon?

A grin broke out on his scarred face. Yes, a dead dragon might just be feasible.