The Last Dragon 2 Read online

  She spied the innkeeper, a man wearing a semi-clean apron and requested two clean rooms.

  The thin man said, “Through the door and up the stairs. Want a look, first?”

  “We do,” she said. “Which are available?”

  After he told her, a pretty serving girl with long brown hair flashed a smile my way. I said, “I’ll wait down here for you to return.”

  Instead of chairs, the common room had short benches made for seating two on each side of wide tables. The tables were also long, the tops scarred from use. Countless mugs had spilled, knives sliced the wood, candles dripped, and bowls banged the tops. A few had names or initials carved into them. The room held a warm and pleasant atmosphere from the small fire and candlelight, and it smelled of spiced smoke. The pretty serving girl came my way.

  “Something?” she asked with a smile that appeared genuine.

  A thousand clever answers should have come to mind. Instead, I gave her a smile of my own. “White wine? Then dinner?”

  She swirled away, with a glance over her shoulder to make sure I watched. Kendra returned with a nod of approval and ordered a bowl of fish stew for both of us. She said, “Clean as can be. Nothing fancy, but what there is, they offer with a friendly smile.”

  The white wine was good, so I downed it quickly and motioned for the same girl to bring me another.

  “Oh, not again,” Kendra moaned.

  “How are the rooms, again?” My innocent remark was to draw her attention away from my love life.

  She said, “Clean. Comfortable. Like I said.”

  The fish stew arrived, and we ate. The warmth of the room, a full belly, and two mugs of spiced white wine had my weary head almost on the table. Kendra escorted me to my room, pushed me inside and firmly closed the door as if she was my mother.

  There was a chair, a chest with two drawers, and a raised bed with a cotton sack stuffed with yellow straw so clean it must have been placed inside this day. The pillow was filled with soft feathers, and there were two blankets, one for under and one over unless it got cold. Then, both were for over because there was no fireplace for warmth. I barely got my clothes off before falling asleep.

  Kendra knocked on my door mid-morning. A boiled egg and a piece of bread torn off a loaf constituted our breakfast as she hurried us out the rear door. We checked on the horses, which were being cared for better than me, then walked in the weak sunshine in the direction of the bazaar where all manners of items were for sale. From several blocks away we heard the music, the sellers calling to buyers, the workers shouting orders in an altogether pleasant chorus. However, Kendra stopped a few people and spoke briefly to them, and then took us down a side street as confidently as if she’d visited Andover a hundred times and knew her way around.

  She located a small, rusted iron plate shaped like a knife mounted on the wall beside a door. Inside the wide, narrow room were displays of weapons. Knives were spread upon a tall work-table, while swords, pikes, spears, bows, maces, and war axes hung on pegs.

  A man intently worked at the tall table while sitting on a high three-legged stool. Without looking up, he called, “Make yourselves at home. Look around, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Behind a partially closed door to the rear glowed the orange fire of a kiln and the harsh smell of heated iron permeated. My first reaction was that all the weapons in sight could not have all been made by one person. I moved to the wall of swords and took one off the pegs. It was without scabbard, the blade dull and offered no reflection—usually a sign of poor craftsmanship. Not in this case.

  The edge reflected light readily enough, the metal had some give, so it hadn’t been hardened so much that it would shatter or break with the first strike, and the handle was simple but functional. Again, upon a second look, the handle was made of sand-hide, a material from a sea-fish that maintained a solid grip in the slipperiest of battles. A tool more than a decoration, a weapon to be admired.

  “There, I’m done. Thank you for waiting, but I was setting a gold inlay for a wealthy customer,” the man said as he looked up.

  He was tall, perhaps thirty, and his features thin to the point of being sharp. I smiled at my silent pun and replaced the sword on the peg.

  “You chose one of my best,” he said as if impressed. “Not the prettiest, but the one you want if you plan to fight. Do you wish to purchase a sword?”

  “I have one,” my hand went to my hilt.

  He glanced at the scrolls and loops on my handle. “A weapon is often chosen for appearance, which is not always wise. I could offer to compare mine with yours and point out the differences if you wish.”

  The response seemed genuine, and while I wore a simple scabbard, the sword within was the gift from Princess Elizabeth and her father—and perhaps the best sword in the kingdom. Handing it to the weapons maker would be a test of his knowledge and honesty. I said solemnly, “That would be good of you, sir.”

  Kendra’s lips made a little smirk she tried to hide.

  The weapons maker fetched his sword and proudly displayed it on the top of the workbench. He pointed out the things I’d already discerned, and more. He then asked to examine mine and offered to give a fair appraisal.

  I drew it and placed it beside his, which I admit was a very well made and functional sword. Still, beside each other, they were like a beautiful bride standing beside a filthy street urchin. His eyes narrowed, he drew a sharp breath and backed away. “Malawian steel. Where did you get this?”

  Kendra allowed her smirk to grow into a full smile before speaking, “Oh, that. The king gave it to him a few years ago, and he thinks it makes him the best swordsman in the kingdom.”

  He suspected a joke. When none came, he reached for his sword, as if ready to defend himself. His face showed his disbelief—and he undoubtedly thought I’d stolen it.

  Kendra said easily, “Please calm down. My brother is capable of taking that sword from you and spanking you with it. That is one of the many reasons he protects Princess Elizabeth as her personal bodyguard. He usually does it alone. She needs no other.”

  The weapon’s maker said in a whisper, “True?”

  “And I am her personal servant. She will arrive here, tomorrow we believe, but we have some needs, first. And you were correct, that is Malawian steel.”

  His finger ran along the edge and found the chip from my fight. He looked scornfully at me as if I’d kicked a kitten.

  “Can that be repaired?” I asked.

  “Perhaps in Malawi. Don’t trust anyone else to attempt work on it, or they will ruin the temper of the blade. How did this happen?”

  “In battle,” I told him shortly. “Now, I have other needs, and you may laugh at my requests.”

  He held up a hand and moved his thumb over both sides of the blade and found where the nick had a slight curl. He pulled a sharpening stone from a drawer. “May I, at least, remove the burr? Carefully?”

  As he slowly worked his stone along the sharp edge, as if it was the final polish of a royal crown, I told him of my problem of not having a bow in hand when needed, twice. I suggested a short bow, straight when unstrung, and a modification to my scabbard to accommodate it so I could carry it alongside.

  He raised his eyes long enough to say, “No.” His attention returned to the blade. “That will not do.”

  “That’s it? No?” I blurted.

  “The flat, short bow you suggest would hold no power. It would also ride heavy on your hip, and you would have no place to carry arrows. What good is a bow without arrows?”

  Ignoring Kendra’s evil sisterly smile, my pride forced me to continue, “I still want access to a bow at all times.”

  He lifted my sword and held it out to me with the palms of both hands. I took it, and he handed me a slightly oiled cloth. After the blade was wiped clean of fingerprints, and I’d tested the burr and found it all but corrected, he said, “Let me show you something.”

  Before any objection could be mouthed, he l
eaped to the wall and returned with a stout bow that stood almost as tall as my shoulder. There was a little curve to it, but the center was thick and made sturdy with laminated woods cross-grained for strength. A layer of metal had been bonded in the center of the grip where bows most often snapped, and leather had been tightly bound around it. Only the tip of the metal at the two ends showed.

  He handed me a string. The grooves for it were carved deep to accept the string quickly, even in battle. My weight awkwardly bent the staves enough to slip it on. He said, “It’ll be easier after a few tries. You’ll learn the technique.”

  After drawing the string, there was no doubt it was a quality weapon, but not what I wanted. I started to protest.

  Holding up his palms to still my tongue, he said, before I could object, “A small quiver could be made to mount on the side of your scabbard to hold a few arrows, say three or four? Another quiver could be on your horse or at hand.”

  “But the bow? How would I carry it with me?”

  He pulled a large book from under his desk and ruffled through the pages until finding what he wanted. He turned it and placed it on the worktable for me to see. It was a drawing of a knight, such as those who strutted the halls in Crestfallen Castle, wearing a broadsword they favored. It was a two-handed beast of a weapon intended to slay with a single swing, but they were too large to wear at the hip. They rode in scabbards worn like backpacks, with the handle extending above the right shoulder, and the blade hanging at an angle, to the lower left.

  He said, “Instead of a broadsword, a man might carry this bow in the same manner.”

  “Very nice,” Kendra muttered. “Four arrows for an emergency carried with your sword, and more in a second quiver if needed. The bow would be with you at all times.”

  It was not what I’d envisioned, but the more the knight in the picture gazed back at me, the more it fit my needs. He said, “We have several scabbards for broadswords we could easily modify for a bow. Mind you, it will not be custom-made unless you have ten days to wait, but I believe my idea may solve your problem.”

  “Do it,” Kendra said. “By tonight. Now, we both need good knives, and I also want a pair to conceal and throw.”

  With hardly a thought, he selected a pair of heavy knives and said, “Sharp enough to shave the beard off your face, and heavy enough to chop down small trees, although they will need sharpening if you cut trees and then want to shave.” His laugh was quick and infectious.

  They were far better knives than what we had. He reached under his desk again and came out with a pair of dull, flat, ugly weapons, each pointed at both ends. All four edges of each were sharpened before coming to their points, the middle thin and narrow so they were weighted near the tips. They were like two small pointed blades bonded end to end. There was no hint of decoration. The metal was dull, gray, and ordinary.

  Kendra said, “I’ve never seen the like of these.”

  He handed one to her. “The silly idea that you can make a knife spin exactly the right number of times, so it will always land on one point is a myth. Even if you are willing to spend a few years practicing every day and always stand at the exact same distance, which means you need your opponent to kindly remain at that distance while you throw. Do you plan to do that?”

  She said, “No.”

  “Good. Because I’ve never met an attacker willing to stand still for you at exactly four paces. More than likely, he’s charging right at you. It’s best to stop him before he reaches you, at a distance.”

  She felt the balance and placed her thumb under the flat of the blade and fingers on top. “If I throw this, what happens?”

  He smiled. “You’re holding it correctly. Use your wrist when you throw, so it spins fast. Unless it strikes armor, whoever it hits will bleed. How much? That depends on where you hit, and luck, and of course the rotation. A perfect throw will penetrate. A less perfect throw will slash and cut as it spins. But you will also have a second knife ready to fly, and one is usually enough to stop a thief or highwayman.”

  She handled them, examining the knives from every angle, and he was a good enough salesman to let her be without comment or trying to over-sell her. She ran a thumb down one edge. “Is this good steel?”

  “Oh, no. It’ll hardly hold an edge if you cut an apple with it.”

  She turned up her nose, but Kendra could read people almost as well as Elizabeth. She knew there was more. “Then, why would I buy these?”

  “Because they are sharp! And heavy enough to penetrate. A common sharpening stone will put the edge back with a few swipes. I usually sell them in sets of four, two to carry and two for spares.”

  She was interested. “How do I keep from cutting myself with two points and four edges?”

  He showed her the arm-scabbards with metal reinforcing the bottom and top, and small leather cups held in place by thin thongs for the other point. He said, “One under each forearm. When you pull them free of the metal cups at the tips, you will naturally be gripping them in the center, in the same position you will use to throw. No wasted motion to adjust your hands or grip.”

  The scabbards, if that was the proper name, were made of flat cowhide to cradle the knives on the inside of the forearm, with straps to hold them in place. Simple. Effective. Kendra put them on and managed to free a knife on her first try. The shop owner had hay stuffed inside a crude pillow for a target, and her first two attempts did as he said. If it had been a man, he would bleed. One of the blades had raked a cut as long as my palm before falling to the floor. The other stuck parallel to the floor, half the shaft protruding inside the pillow.

  Had it been an enemy, the first throw would have had blood flowing freely and it would take a strong man not to pause to examine the wound. That pause would allow her second knife to fly, or for her to turn and escape. Throwing knives were not offensive weapons, but defensive. With luck, they provided time to get away, or for her to attack with another weapon.

  We left him to work on our new weapons and scabbards, as well as making a gift to him of the knives we’d entered his shop carrying. The two of us now carried our new knives, and he might even find homes and earn a few small copper coins for our old ones. We headed for the bazaar where we purchased new clothing, heavy blankets, hats to shield our faces from the sun, and loose-fitting shirts with arms that hung to our fingers. We were thinking of the hot sun in Kondor although neither of us spoke out loud about it.

  There was no doubt Kendra also wanted to cover her new knives with the long sleeves when she wore them. I considered making a few jokes, but she wasn’t in the mood.

  As we shopped, Kendra talked with merchants and other shoppers. On the surface, it seemed light and cheerful, simply interacting with the locals. Kendra was not a social person like that, so I searched for and found the reason behind her prattling. She always managed to steer the conversations to the recent deaths in the city. Finally, while examining boots, a woman mentioned a murder that had happened on the road right outside of town. She thought it may have been a mage.

  Kendra said absently, “Where are the dead taken in Andover? At home, we have a building where they are prepared for burial.”

  “Oh, here we use the old Hall of Justice. It’s right next to the cemetery, so it’s convenient.”

  Kendra flashed me a look that told it would be our next place to visit. After obtaining directions, we walked the few blocks to the old Hall of Justice, which conveniently stood next to the new one. We entered and found an old man sitting in a tall, high-back chair, his eyes drooping. When we entered, he woke with a start and asked our business as if we’d intruded on his nap, which we may have.

  My role was to follow her lead. Kendra had something in mind and hadn’t yet shared it with me. Not unusual, but at times she had a hard sense of duty. She said to him, “We are searching for a man. He died within the last two days, about thirty years old, and he may have been found on the road leading north.”

  “Do you wish to simply
inquire or examine the dead?”

  “Examine,” she said to my surprise.

  He stiffly stood and lumbered through the large open room to a small door while limping heavily on a cane. We passed through and down a flight of stairs where the air temperature fell to a chill. Five bodies lay on the floor, neatly in a row, each covered with a sheet of thin material. He respectfully lifted a corner of the sheet over the first with his cane and reset it. At the third, he lifted the shroud higher and said, “Is this the man you are seeking?”

  “It is.” Kendra turned her head away.

  “Then you know him, or of him?”

  “We do.”

  “For our records, and so we might notify family and friends, please stop on your way out and I will make an official record of his name and anything you might share.” He turned and started limping away.

  Kendra called after him, “May we examine him?”

  “Certainly. But you will not find what you’re looking for.”

  With that cryptic remark, he reached the stairs and struggled to climb them one at a time, much like I’d climbed the stone stairs above Mercia. Kendra knelt on the stone floor and removed the cloth. I knelt across from her, thinking I might contribute to her effort. She said, “I see no blood.”

  There was none on the front of his body or on his clothing, and no signs of bruising or injury. We rolled him face-down. Again, there was no sign of why he had died. He had been a mage, and that fact brought unwelcome ideas leaping to mind. He had marginally helped us, decided to return to his homeland and have nothing else to do with magic. Now he was dead with no external indications of why he had died. When we had last seen him a few days ago, he appeared as healthy as either of us.

  Kendra peeked under his shirt, examined his legs and arms, and searched his head with her fingers feeling through his hair. She said while doing those things, “I do not believe he was an evil man. He helped keep the dragon prisoner, but he didn’t like it. More a victim of circumstance than design.”