The Dragon of Wisimir

Chapter 1: Dregs

You are aware then?

Yes, I have been aware the whole time.

Why didn’t you stop him?

Interference would make matters worse. We all know what he is; a meddler and a schemer, far better to let him plot and plan a ruse we can see than oppose it and make him aware of our concern.

You should have killed him.

None of us could alone. You have seen his power; the outcome would be uncertain and if he won, the consequence, worse.

Then the whole council, he can’t fight us all.

No, but then, can you be sure they would agree to such action? Or that he doesn’t own one or more of them? He is the oldest.

---

She flew over the city, circling; higher then lower, scouring for any trace of her child.

A Dragon’s eyes are sharp, ears keen and her sense of smell outstripped all of her kind.

Beyond that, she could sense the thoughts of others. No creature could match her, no creature would try. Below, the land burned. The crawlers had wrought much with wood and stone. The wood burned easily, the stone endured, for now. They hid beneath it; a little challenge each time she fed.

Some resisted. The Wizard she’d chased through the streets, full of the blood stench. He had been with her child; she knew, and hurt him. But his magic was strong. He wouldn’t be taken alive, forcing her to immolate him. No crawler could survive such flame.

Others fought, from a spire; a challenge to her dominance. With their magic, they gathered lightning from the sky. She landed on their tower, broke the stone beneath her claws and poured fire inside, silencing all opposition.

The smell of her child was strong here, strongest in the entire city, so as the sun began to set, she made her home amidst the stonework, near the spire. The journey had been long and some magic had been at work to conceal him, but he no longer screamed. She would wait and watch, then break their spells.

---

Horse hooves thundered down the dusty road; Ten riders armed and armoured, wearing the eagle on blue; the livery of House Krembar, galloping fast away from Wisimir.

In the centre of the group, Wilem quietly fumed, ‘Wilem’ wasn’t his name, but the name he’d been known by for the last three weeks and he’d almost gotten used to it.

Almost.

He stared straight ahead, at the back of the source of his anger. Lord Theynain of Krembar, leader of the expedition to the city.

An expedition they had abandoned when the Dragon arrived.

We need to go back to Wisimir! Wilem shouted, venting his frustration, but Krembar ignored him and kept on, pushing his mount. Stuck in the middle with the company all around, and his mount with the bit in its teeth, Wilem couldn’t do anything but the same.

The usual tale of my life.

Krembar’s people knew him only by the name. He was a squire, which meant he could be from a noble house or a peasant family house Krembar favoured. Wilem made nothing of his birth, so they treated him accordingly. The fact that he was shouting at their Lord raised eyebrows and looks all round, but they didn’t interfere beyond forcing him to keep up. Eventually when they were miles from the city and starting into the hills in the north, Krembar slowed his horse and raised his hand, halting the group.

We’ll stop here for a bit, he said and dismounted. He turned around, brown hair and beard jutting fiercely, eyes sparking with anger. Wilem got down too and planted himself in the Knight‘s path.

We need to go back, he repeated.

And do what? Krembar replied and pointed. Look.

In the distance along the coast, the city glowed orange. Not a sunset this early in the day, Wilem knew the streets were aflame.

How do you fight a Dragon, boy? Krembar whispered at his ear. There’s nothing we can do.

It’s wrong, Wilem persisted. We can’t just—

Abandon them? Hands seized him by the collar, lifting him off the ground. I might be your babysitter, boy, but that doesn’t mean I can’t break your skull to get some sense in!

Wilem struggled in Krembar’s iron grip, but the knight didn’t relent. Think about it, he said. The realm has nine cities and one prince. We need to slay that creature, not die in its fire.

Wilem sighed. All right, I guess we couldn’t have done anything else, he mumbled.

The hands relaxed and Wilem found himself on the ground on his knees. When your father ordered me to bring you here, Krembar said, he gave me something more important than anything else. It’s not about who you are, but what you represent, to everyone, your highness.

Wilem felt his cheeks colour as he got to his feet. So what do we do? he mumbled.

We ride for Parth and muster the army, Krembar replied grimly. In the meantime, we hope and pray there’s only one Dragon to worry about.

---

Am I dead?

Jack Von Drey opened his eyes and closed them again. It made no difference. Everything was black and he couldn’t move.

Fran?

Silence.

Fran!

Nothing.

He struggled feebly, trying at least to orient himself. He guessed he’d been pushed to the ground on his front. Against the right side of his face he could feel dirt and stone. His right arm, twisted and painfully locked between fallen rafter beams.

There were at least two other houses leaning on Orri Garner’s before he’d made the foolish decision to walk in. He guessed most of both of them were now pinning him down.

He moved his left arm, getting a hand to his face and brushing away the loose bandages and debris. His left leg was also free, but painful. Gently, Jack tried to lever himself up. The rubble above him shifted and wooden beams creaked, sending rivulets of dust and tiny stones past him to the floor. He froze. What do I do? More movement might bring everything down, but if he stayed, he’d starve or be buried anyway.

Another careful adjustment; bringing up his left knee sent little stabs of pain down to his ankle. He wondered if anything was broken? Best not think about it.

A few more inches and he pushed up into a crouch. Something high above groaned as weight shifted but held, and now the pain eased in his right arm. He could move and possibly wriggle it out. He flexed his fingers and they brushed against a familiar object; a sword hilt?

The sword!

Then he remembered, he’d left it outside, thank the Gods! The hilt had to be one of the weapons he’d come into the building for. There was no way he’d be able to free it now. He drew his hand out carefully, and tried to turn over into a sitting position. Fumbling fingers explored the weight that’d been on his back; a large wooden beam, sheer luck it hadn’t crushed him, but now a prop for the rest of the ruin above. More dust rained down and he began to cough; great heaves that seemed to come from the bottom of his lungs.

Fran! he yelled again, but there was no response. He tried to free his right foot, but when he did the wooden beam shivered and a rumbling started above; he froze and it stopped.

Jack remembered the last he’d seen of the Dragon, diving at the city, breathing fire as it came. That’s a way to die, he thought. Not buried in the cold and dark.

---

Rain fell on Wisimir. As night fell, so a northerly wind sprang up and brought with it a wintry squall. It was the least the Gods could do in answer to the prayers of the people. Dragon fire clung stubbornly to the wooden buildings in the poorer districts, but much of the rest of the city became a smoky shadow, the streets drenched in an acrid fog.

Urin squatted by a broken door, shivering in the wet, unsure of exactly where he was. He’d considered going inside, but the screams of a woman and animal-like grunts of the two soldiers seen through the window discouraged him. With the arrival of the Dragon, law and order vanished, leaving the rule of the blade.

Do something! A small brave voice in his head urged him to stride in and rescue the poor woman. As Chief Minister of the city, he had the authority. He’d done it before when he’d saved Serice from execution. The voice brought him nothing but trouble.

So he stayed outside in the rain.

He couldn’t see the Dragon, but the occasional jet of fire lit up the darkness, coming from the direction of the Magistry and he guessed the creature had landed there some time ago. It made some kind of sense. The building’s u-shape might suit as a nest for a giant bird and the spire was the tallest building in the city. If it had landed, Urin guessed the wizards must have been driven out, or killed. Just like the Magister.

It was hard to believe Leel was dead, but nothing could survive Dragon fire head on. The Wizard had already used his magic to shield himself twice. The last Urin had seen, he’d been exhausted, barely able to walk and the flames had consumed him. Urin wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or worried. Leel's greed and ambition had brought the Dragon to Wisimir, but without him, what would stop the Wyrm?

A glow in the distance kept the night at bay; the docks and the southside still burning. Screams and shouts came from all around. He wondered who was left alive to lead. Lady Governor Tarn had been watching the Tourney yards from him. Without her, then Watch Commander Tenneth or General Wisell, leader of the Kingsmen; the King’s soldiers stationed in the city.

What’re you doin’ out here?

He looked up. One of the men from the house stood over him. He recognised the face, Watch Sergeant Aster, the scar on his forehead gleaming in the flickering light and his misshapen nose loomed from the steps.

Just catching my breath, Urin replied. We need to get to the Governor’s residence, they’ll be mustering.

Aster laughed. Seems to me I don’t need to be doing anything, least of all taking orders from you!

Urin stood up and noticed Aster had a bloodstained knife in his hands. The screaming from the house had stopped. Don’t be thinking anything foolish, he warned.

Aster laughed again. Foolish? It’s the end of the world, all a man can do is foolish things, then choose a place to die!

Urin backed away into the street, keeping his eyes on Aster; wary of any sudden moves, but the Watch Sergeant just stared, then turned around and went back into the house.

Moments later the woman screamed again, this time a long keening wail full of despair.

Urin ran, hoping he was going the right way.

---

Orri Garner was dead.

The murky waters of Wismir’s docks brought relief from the world, as much relief as a magically animated corpse might find. Orri didn’t want to be ‘alive’ like this, but he didn’t know how he could be anything else. He’d fallen from second floor windows, taken a crossbow bolt to the chest and by rights should have drowned by now; if he still needed to breathe.

Light flickered in the depths; little slivers of orange and red, drawing him out of his fugue.

Flames?

He guessed he was about ten metres below the surface. For any light to reach him, it would have to be bright and powerful. He stirred and looked up, a splash of colour searing across the gloom. What could it be?

For the first time, since he’d died, he felt curious. He started walking along the sea floor, his hands outstretched, feeling his way towards the dock wall. The remains of the Geas helped; the binding spell placed on him by Magister Leel to kill the woman in the tavern. Although the waters had all but erased the symbol traced on the back of his hand, its power still buzzed on the edge of his mind, drawing him towards her, back on dry land.

He found the dock wall. Dead hands reached up; fingers and toes finding holds and grips in the seaweed coated brick. Orri had never been much of a climber when alive, but the Geas empowered him and slowly he found his way up.

He emerged into a nightmare.

It was night, but the docks burned; all around, boats and berths ablaze, the smoke thick, covering the city in shroud. Orri could see no more than ten feet in front of him, but he knew instinctively where the tavern was; because she was there.

He walked towards the building, ignoring the flames. His sodden clothes crisped and steamed; his flesh too, but he couldn’t feel it. The spell’s compulsion held him, stronger now, back on land. His hands curled into claws and he began to run, turning a corner and there, the Ferriers straight ahead.

Fire gripped the building, made mostly of wood, it was moments from collapse. She was somewhere on the ground floor.

Orri crashed into the door, sending splintered wood everywhere. Inside, the heat and smoke obscured everything, but he didn’t need eyes. She was lying on the stone floor to the left by the fireplace, unconscious, with another girl in her arms; the one he’d seen last time he’d visited the tavern.

For a moment he stood over them. No need to act. They would die here, smoke or the building’s collapse would kill them both.

Orri reached down and scooped the girl up and over his shoulder, then he picked up the woman. When he was alive, he might have managed to carry one, but never both.

Quickly he made his way back to the door and out of the tavern, then stumbled across the street, only putting the women down when they were sheltered from the smoke and flames.

Then he ran off, into the night.

Chapter 2: Guts

Outside the Governor’s Residency, Urin found himself in a panicking crowd; men, women and children, from all walks of life in the city herded together in a search for answers. Faces devoid of hope and gripped by desperation. In times past, Urin would be one of those providing answers, now he had none. For a moment, his courage failed. He could run, head for the gates and keep going, abandon it all. He remembered Leel’s words. What do you want out of life Urin?

What do I want?

Less than a month ago he’d been the most powerful man in the city, charged with keeping the lanterns lit, the taxes collected and the streets clean. Everything had started to go wrong the moment he’d agreed to the Magister’s scheme of stealing money from the city treasury.

I betrayed this city once; I’m not going to again.

He tried to elbow his way through, but as soon as he did, they recognised him.

It’s the scribbler!

Master Urin, please, my daughter—

Hands grabbed at his shoulders, begging, pleading, pulling. He squirmed and tried to dodge, but someone grabbed him, spun him around and spat in his face.

He’s to blame for all this!

Pain in his stomach, he doubled over, gasping. He bunched his hands over the source, and found the hilt of a knife, its blade buried deep in his gut. Something hit him hard behind the right ear, dropping him to the dirt.

Get back you scum!

Heavy boots were all around him and hands under his arms. Urin tried to speak, but no words came out. They dragged him, bleeding across the street, towards the Residency. Through the gates, up the stairs, into the building and left him on the floor.

Knife wound, treat him, we need someone to take charge of this rabble!

Urin noticed the massive hole in the ceiling. Large chunks of masonry lay all over the shattered marble floors.

Then he felt hands on his stomach and the pain eased. A smiling face appeared, inches away. Grey eyes, light brown hair, a man whose nondescript features would be forgotten in a crowd unless you knew him and Urin did.

Sejel? he whispered.

The smile grew wider. I told you we would meet again, friend Urin.

Urin coughed and tasted blood in his mouth. You also told me you were Leel’s journeyman. That was a lie.

Ah no, I said a journeyman, that part is correct, you decided I was part of the Magister’s staff. As you have found, I am not.

Urin pushed himself up on his elbows and looked down. The knife was gone and the wound too. All that remained was a blood stain on his torn shirt. Then whose creature are you?

Sejel’s smile vanished. Perhaps I am my own master.

Urin scowled, I know a servant. We both have masters, what does yours want from me?

For a moment, Urin thought he saw a flicker of anger in those grey eyes. The man might have a forgettable face that Urin wouldn’t recognise at a distance, but he’d remember that look. How is your hand? Sejel asked.

My hand? Urin glanced at it, he’d forgotten. The Geas Leel had placed on him meant a sliver of steel placed in his hand would worm its way to his heart if he defied the Magister. The pain had been excruciating, but now, didn’t hurt. A puckered scar had replaced the oozing black wound between his middle fingers.

I cannot break the spell, Sejel said. But I have suppressed it and for now, removed the pain.

Urin rubbed the scar. Thank you, he said.

You are wrong about yourself, Sejel said. Look around you,

Urin glanced around. Soldiers and Watchmen loitered nervously in the ruined lobby; a few civilians huddled in corners, some dressed in the white robes of city scribes, the cloth marked by dirt and dust. One man drew his eye; covered in a blanket near the benches, moaning and shivering.

Who’s in charge?

You are. The Governor is dead.

Urin went cold, inside and out. Surely there’s an officer from the Watch, or the Kingsmen?

"Tenneth died an