Redheart (Leland Dragon Series) (2 page)

Chapter Three

Jastin Armitage shifted in his saddle, creaking the black leather. It had already been a long journey, and there was still no sign of the small village for which he was bound. But it was there. He sensed it as surely as he felt the relentless sun against his back and the dry wind breathing hotly into his eyes.

He’d been to Leland Province before. It had been many years ago, but he already recognized the land’s haphazard tilt that quivered the knees of Blade, his chestnut mount. What he didn’t remember was the scorched landscape that spread out before him as a rutted desert.

“Ho,” he called to Blade, and tugged at the reins to swerve past a bear-sized boulder that marked a sharp turn. To his memory, a bend in Chirp’s Creek lay just ahead. He reached for his water bladder, intent on refilling it, his wind-parched lips already tasting the cool splash of creek water.

Blade tamped a hoof against the bank of the creek. But, no. Not a creek. Peering over the edge of the road, Jastin found only a crusty path of dried mud littered with fish bones and pebbles.

Cursed, forsaken place. He dragged his palm against the back of his clammy neck. Blade whinnied softly, head swaying as if to mourn the dry bed, as well.

“Come on. We’ll drink in town.” The horse obeyed, and Jastin thrust the empty bladder back into his saddlebag.

Blade’s hooves struck a hollow rhythm as the afternoon dragged mercilessly on. Perspiration beaded on Jastin’s brow, but disappeared instantly, gulped up by the dry, greedy air. To pass the time, as he often did, he mentally inventoried his weapons hanging in precise order against Blade’s flanks; a crossbow with a full quiver of arsenic-tipped bolts, a curved mace, a leather pouch with vials of liquid scents. His polished sword was kept at his side at all times. He rested his gloved hand against its sheath.

Finally, trembling like a phantom through the haze of brutal heat, a village appeared. He squinted to make out the details of the place, and as he grew closer, he grunted in disappointment.

Ragged dirt paths were beaten into the earth by accident. Here and there, war-weary buildings of stone and thatch hunkered against a losing battle. The stench of despair leaked from the streets and oozed toward him like a perfume of horse manure and day-old fish. In the far distance, farmlands endured between thickets of withered trees, as though daring the miserable earth to deny them their right to exist.

Jastin drew up Blade to another halt. He shielded his eyes and stared past the village and its doomed farmlands to the sight beyond it. The Leland Mountains. Great spires of gray and marbled brown broke through the blanket of emaciated treetops and stretched from east to west, with a dramatic crescendo just beyond the village.

These were the mountains that had first called him years ago. These were the mountains to which he returned. He set his jaw, eyes searching them for dark secrets.

Blade whinnied.

“Very well,” Jastin said. He prodded his mount, and they loped into town. There, he slowed to read a wooden sign that was carved simply, Welcome to Durance. Below the carved letters, a painted footnote had been added: no dragons. Maybe there was extra money to be made here, after all.

He spied the livery, and threaded Blade through the deserted street. Where was everyone? Somewhere, a bored goat bleated. At the stables, he swung a thick leg from his mount’s back and hit the ground with both feet. Several minutes later, a young boy peeked around a door.

Jastin tossed him the reins. “Plenty of water for him.”

The stable boy nodded.

“Got a tavern?”

The boy pointed across the street to a square building with a wooden roof. The signpost beside the door hung upside down, lazily flapping with each gust of dusty wind. The Brown Barrel Inn. Jastin strode toward it.

There were more men at the bar than townsfolk in the village square. He slapped down a coin, and gave the barkeep a nod. “Ale.”

A tankard slid toward him. He eagerly drank, but nearly choked. The ale was warm and stale, and just a day or two from vinegar. He managed to swallow the mouthful, and raised his drink in a salute. “Best ale I’ve had in days,” he said. “Now, how about some good food for a weary traveler?”

The barkeep paused in drying a goblet. “Food we have. Good?” He glanced at the men near him and exchanged smiles.

“Well, it will fill your belly!” said one customer.

The room broke into laughter. The barkeep tossed his rag over his shoulder. “We lost our cook,” he said.

“Didn’t pay her enough?” Jastin asked.

The barkeep smacked the dried goblet onto the bar. “Pay her? You mean we were supposed to pay her?” He threw back his head and guffawed.

“Heard tell she died of her own food,” said a puny voice from across the room.

“You remember the time I found that pig’s ear in my stew, Temin?” A man seated at the bar smacked his drinking buddy on the arm, startling the other so that he nearly toppled his mug.

Temin clutched the mug protectively and glared. “Whole town remembers, Berl. You won’t let it rest.” He looked around his friend’s shoulder at Jastin. “Besides, it wasn’t a pig’s ear.”

Berl stuck a finger toward Jastin’s nose. “Was too. Seen enough pig ears to know.”

“Eaten enough, you mean,” said Temin into his mug. “Don’t see how one more in a bowl of stew should make a difference.” The man sucked at his drink.

Berl hunkered over his own tankard with a scowl. “Principal. A man ought to be able to order a simple bowl of stew in a public place and not have to worry about seeing a wrinkled old pig’s ear sticking out like a flag on a banner wagon.”

“I gave you a new bowl free of charge, didn’t I?” growled an enormous man emerging from a door behind the bar. He planted fat hands on the wood, his belly squeezed against its edge. His nose was wide. Rust-colored hair clung in fuzzy patches to his head. “And it wasn’t just her cooking losing my customers. The sight of her,” he said, and shuddered.

“Kept the rats away, though!” said the barkeep. More laughter hit the roof. The men clanked their tankards together and drank to that.

Jastin couldn’t help but chuckle. For such a desolate town, spirits were high in the Brown Barrel Inn. Now was the time to strike. He set his tankard on the bar. “Rats, maybe, but what about dragons?”

The laughter silenced. Men at the bar exchanged looks. “It’s just a word,” Jastin said, and rested his elbows on the bar, eyeing the men. “No dragon trouble in this town? Is that what your sign means?”

The silence continued for some minutes, until the barkeep set his hand on the bar. “You got an interesting way of making conversation, stranger, but you’re right about our sign. No dragons around here, not for a long time.” He poured a fresh mug of ale, and pushed it toward Jastin with a pointed look.

“Just curious, my friends,” said Jastin. “I’ve had run-ins with a dragon or two, myself, and I like swapping stories while I drink.” He tugged his coin pouch from his waist, and let the heaviness of it thud to the bar.

A wrinkled old man stared at Jastin’s full pouch, and then lifted his chin. “Dragons ate my goats last summer. Ever’ last one, they did.” He looked into his empty mug and sighed. “Spent ever’ last copper I had on a new herd.”

Dark frowns settled onto the old man. Jastin only smiled, and clapped him on the back. “Barkeep,” he said. “A filled tankard for my friend.”

After another short lull, a mousy and toothless man rose from his stool. “I seen a dragon.” He offered his empty tankard with grimy hands.

“Is that so?” Jastin caught the barkeep’s eye and nodded to the man’s empty mug. It was filled, too.

Another man spoke out, then another. Voices ran over top of voices as Jastin settled comfortably onto his barstool. The men clamored for ale as their stories of dragons spilled from their mouths like sap from the willow trees. Each man’s gory details bested the one before him.

Then a young man stood up in a darkened corner of the room. His hair was long and stringy, and the color of dung. “Hey,” he called out over the others. “I seen a dragon. Day before yesterday. Right outside the village.”

All eyes in the tavern turned. Jastin raised his eyebrows. “You don’t say.” He carried a fresh, foamy mug of warm ale to the man and held it out. “Tell me about it.”

Chapter Four

“My fellow dragons,” Fordon Blackclaw announced in his carefully practiced bellow. His ebony claws gripped the carved podium at the center of the dragon council arena. “As leader of your honorable council, it is my oath-bound duty to remind you that this conflict is not in the best interest of the Dragon-Human Relations Pact.”

“We have a right to speak our minds,” called a Green, whom Blackclaw didn’t recognize.

Leaning aside, he whispered to Fane Whitetail, his advisor. “Who speaks?”

Fane squinted across the stadium. “He is too young to be Min Greenscale, though he bears the same snout. Perhaps a son?”

Blackclaw looked out across the arena that was writhing with scaly dragon heads and spines. He hadn’t seen so many tribes gathered in one place, even here on Mount Gore, in a number of years. He was heartened, and sucked in a deep breath of pride. His ideas were working. His ending would come to pass. Anticipation raised wetness at the back of his throat, and he had to swallow to keep from spraying spittle when he next spoke. “It is true, honorable Kind, that you have the right to speak your minds. With this I will not interfere. But you must remember words, once spoken, cannot be disclaimed. This is my official stance. Mark it for the record.” He nodded toward the wispy half-breed Blue standing in as recorder, who dipped his claw into red ink and scrawled across a parchment.

Blackclaw retreated from the platform and sank onto the bench reserved for council members. Hale Brownwing rose to speak in turn, but he wasn’t listening. Blackclaw’s eyes lingered on the recorder as the arguing among the dragons continued. “Whitetail.” He crooked a claw at his advisor, who scrambled to his side. “Remind me who the half-breed is, and why he is considered qualified as recorder.”

“His training was impeccable, and he came highly recommended. There is no basis for judgment of qualifications according to color alone, or a mix of color, as it were.”

Blackclaw narrowed his eyes on the advisor’s nervous expression. “Did you read that straight from the bylaws?”

“No, sir, although I could do so if you wish it.” Blackclaw could almost hear the gulp from Whitetail’s throat. It humored him.

“Not necessary, but thank you.” His dark gaze found the half-breed again.

“Humans have broken nearly every pact vow themselves! Why should we be held to a standard that has long since been destroyed?” shouted someone from the crowd.

“What do you call it, do you suppose?” Blackclaw said. He leaned toward Whitetail, though his eyes remained on the recorder. “Blue with Green. Is that Teal?”

“Do you wish to establish a new line? A Teal line would be unusual, but completely possible.”

“Are you daft, Whitetail?” Blackclaw rapped a fist on his advisor’s bony skull. Hard. “Teal line? What would be next? Puce?” He glared. “Can I dismiss you yet?”

“Y-yes. Through the proper channels, of course. It could take months, however.” Again with the gulp. Blackclaw couldn’t help but smile, just a little. The scrawny rat of an advisor had come to be an asset, really. He’d already proven he had no scruples, and would protect his position on the council at whatever cost. Plus, the White had no pride. What better quality could there be in a right-hand dragon?

Blackclaw waved his paw at Whitetail. “Well, make yourself useful then, and draw the council to a close. I have grown bored with the bickering.” His eyes found the crowd again. So many dragons. So many angry dragons. He tried not to grin.

Whitetail waved Brownwing from the platform and cleared his throat as he took his own place. “Council Leader Blackclaw wishes to thank all dragons for today’s valuable meeting. Your voices have been heard, and your righteous anger has been marked.”

“What about the pact?” asked someone.

“We are tired of waiting,” said another.

Whitetail raised a glistening paw. “These matters are being discussed.” He glanced over his shoulder, and Blackclaw gave him his cue with the nod of a head. Whitetail looked back out across the gathering, and continued. “Such concerns are valid, and will be addressed. But the situation requires diplomacy. Council Leader Blackclaw does not wish to draw the humans into…” Dramatic pause. “…war.”

Murmurs broke out. Dragon feet pawed the ground. Blackclaw drank in the sweet turbulence from his place on the bench. It had been said. Finally, after all these months and years of careful planning and waiting, the word had been said. War. Deep within Blackclaw’s belly, a rumbling hunger reawakened.

“With this in mind, return safely to your lands. All of you are welcome again next month, when the council will give voice to their decisions.” Whitetail descended the platform.

Blackclaw watched the mass fracture and slowly scatter. Jaws of Greens and Browns snapped in discontent. Pale wings of Whites and Grays billowed, but didn’t fly. In the open-air stadium of Mount Gore, dragons were hesitant to leave.

“They are disappointed,” said Whitetail, drawing near. “They are restless.”

“Yes. Just as I had hoped.” Blackclaw hefted himself from his bench, waved off the council members crowding to speak, and retreated. He rapped Whitetail on the spine with the tip of his tail. “Get me a female. I will be in the Great Hall.”

Blackclaw squeezed through a side exit of the stadium, and circled around to descend carved steps toward the manor. There, he paused. He again admired the dragon statues bracing the entryway arch. Reproductions of past council leaders glared up at the sky, with granite spouts of fire exploding from their jaws. Soon, his own image would join those on this mountain who had gone before, and he would be immortalized. He would be the greatest hero. It was his destiny.

He chafed at the thought of sharing the arch with Bren Redheart, his incompetent predecessor. He glared at this stone dragon, whose claws reached for an unseen enemy. What a worthless competitor, really. It was almost a shame the way the Red had died, with barely a struggle, as though the attack came as no surprise. As though he was expecting it. Welcoming it. How disappointing.

“He was not fit to lead as you have done,” said Whitetail from behind him.

“Redheart strangled our tribes with talk of honor, and made them weak and pitiful.” He spun to face Whitetail, and pointed a sharpened claw toward the Redheart statue. “Can you explain to me how his likeness shares the arch with the truly great leaders of our time?”

“The council commissioned the work before you took power. It would have reflected poorly on you to deny them.”

“Yes, yes, you idiot, I remember that part. What I mean to ask is what he ever did to deserve the honor in the first place! Pathetic coward. He died the same way he led.” Blackclaw turned his eyes once more to the statue. “I had underestimated the impact of his mate’s death on his confidence.”

“But some of his greatest accomplishments came after Sera’s death. His signing of the Mount Chaste agreement, the Battle of the Vast Plain—”

Blackclaw’s fist was around Whitetail’s throat like the crack of a whip. He squeezed scaly flesh, pulled Whitetail’s head toward his own, and met Whitetail’s frightened gaze. “He was a worthless, broken creature that deserved to die.”

“Of course,” Whitetail wheezed. “He deserved to die.”

Blackclaw held his grip, struggling with the impulse to shake the pasty dragon and throw him over the mountainside. When Whitetail’s eyes clouded red and lolled in their sockets, Blackclaw released him. “He deserved to die.” He whirled around. “What do you hear of the human dragon hunter? It seems time he should be contacting us.” No reply. Blackclaw glanced back at Whitetail, who was moving his jaw, trying to talk, and rubbing his welted throat.

“Speak up, Whitetail. And where is my female?”

“No word from the human,” Whitetail rasped. “The female awaits you in the Great Hall.”

“Have I had her before?”

“No, sir, she is immaculate.”

Blackclaw growled. “All the better. Come around to my chambers after nightfall. Bring meat.” He charged toward the Great Hall. “I am going to be hungry.”