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  DRAGON’S

  TRAIL

  by

  Joseph Malik

  © 2016 Joseph Malik. All rights reserved.

  Map © 2016 Joseph Malik

  Edited by Monique Fischer

  Cover illustration by West Coast Design and Lynn Stevenson

  Published by Oxblood Books, Gig Harbor, WA

  ISBN: 978-0-9978875-0-1

  1.11.20170605

  [email protected]

  www.josephmalik.com

  Facebook/Twitter: jmalikauthor

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or translated in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Dragon’s Trail is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, along with all characters, are products of the author’s imagination.

  Book II of the The Outworlders, THE NEW MAGIC, debuts August 2017. Register for my mailing list for release information and advance review copies.

  For my beloved wife, to whom I turn

  whenever I need a study in courage.

  Table of Contents

  PRELUDE

  I: OVERTURE

  II: MINUET

  III: FUGUE

  IV: ACCELERANDO

  V: SCHERZO

  VI: MOLTO ALLEGRO

  VII: BOURRÉE

  VIII: ALLEGRO

  IX: ETUDE

  X: BRUSCAMENTE

  XI: GAVOTTE

  XII: ALLEGRO ASSAI

  XIII: CODA

  Map: The Western World

  Glossary and Cast of Minor Characters

  PRELUDE

  “The history of the sword is the history of humanity.”

  — Sir Richard F. Burton, 1884

  In eastern Gateskeep, bordering the principality of Falconsrealm, the Tower of Horlech stands against all seeming odds, sagging and nearly fallen. From the top floors, the rift-strewn wildwoods and misty cliffs of Falconsrealm stretch out of sight in three directions.

  Known to locals as Edwin’s Folly, the Tower of Horlech slouches to the northeast atop a knob of rock and scrub, looking for all the world like a helm’s crest bent by a debilitating blow. Year after year, Edwin’s Folly stands; year after year, the townsfolk of Horlech wager that it won’t. On the first day of summer, the town holds its Tower Day celebration, in which the previous year’s losers pay their good-natured debts and wagers begin anew.

  Inside the sagging walls of Horlech, on the eve of the celebrations a few years ago, a young sorcerer named Crius Lotavaugus advised the war council of Gateskeep.

  A spindly shamble of a man, Crius Lotavaugus’s tangles of hair and tight dark beard made his age indeterminate, but it was widely held that he was the youngest to ever hold the office of Lord High Sorcerer of Gateskeep.

  He stood at the head of the great stone table in comfortable, if drab, attire: a long leather jerkin, a pair of silver necklaces, unremarkable trousers, and well-worn boots burnished with deliberation and care.

  “War?” Crius asked. “And I’m only now hearing of this?”

  Glances and convictions collided in the silence.

  “A war is coming.” Ravaroth Anganor, informally called Lord Rav, sat on Crius’s right, rocking back in his chair. He wore his dark beard in fine braids in the manner of men of the Wild River Reach, and his clothes were rich with spring colors inlaid with silver across his prominent chest, which sported a general’s brooch.

  “Coming,” Crius stressed. “War is always coming. But that’s no reason to provoke one.”

  “The bloodline of the wizard Sabbaghian,” said Lord Rav, “banished all these years, now walks the halls of the Hold of Gavria. They have put him on their war council.”

  Duke Edwin Hillwhite, who owned the crooked tower, was a gangly man with a mop of black hair and a broad jaw. He addressed the others at the table. “The Gavrians are buying up all our grain, and trading us gold, not iron, for it. What else could they be doing with grain and iron? They’re building an army.”

  “And you raise your prices for iron just as we have to start equipping a larger force,” said Lord Rav. “How convenient.”

  Edwin shrugged. “Demand is demand, General. I don’t set the prices. The mines set the prices.”

  Lord Rav laughed to the others at the table, who joined him, before he turned back to Edwin. “They’re your mines, boy! You’re telling me you don’t control them?”

  “Not alone,” said Edwin. His tone soured. “And don’t call me ‘boy,’ again.”

  “You would do well to remain silent,” Crius told the duke. “In fact, I’m not quite sure why you’re in this meeting.”

  Edwin stammered, “This is my castle!”

  “Granted to you in the hopes that you’d repair it,” reminded Crius, “as you are the only man in the kingdom who can afford to.” He made a show of looking into the corners and ceiling. “How’s that going, anyway?”

  Edwin fumed. “Do you know what’s required to stanchion this place?”

  “Indeed,” said Crius. “I’m impressed that the knocking of your headboard hasn’t collapsed the place entirely.”

  “No need to get sore just because I’m twice the man of any of you,” said Edwin, folding his arms and straightening.

  “If that were true,” said Rav, “you wouldn’t need your men to enforce it.”

  Edwin’s arms unfolded. “Meaning what?”

  “This is a garrison town,” said Rav. “Those are soldiers’ daughters your boys drag in here.”

  Edwin twitched. “You have no idea what I go through.”

  “Two or three a week, I’d imagine,” said Crius. “You’d think this tower would stand straight of its own accord.”

  Edwin lunged at Crius across the table. It took three men to hold him back.

  Lord Rav refilled his and Crius’s goblets from a decanter of something reddish-purple and mercifully strong.

  Edwin, still fuming, shook the others off and sat. “I should pummel you, you little bastard,” he told Crius.

  “And I should turn you into a titmouse until this matter is concluded,” Crius said. “You could still flap around and tweet all you want, and perhaps we’ll finally find it endearing. But I’ll refrain if you will.”

  “Is that what this is about?” Edwin asked the table. “The council called us here to discuss what I do in my bed, with my subjects?”

  “No,” said Rav. “But don’t make us have to come back here to discuss it further. You will like that conversation even less than this one.”

  The room fell silent.

  “Which brings us back to the matter at hand,” said another general, named Lord Erlac, whose graying beard grew in patches across an array of scars that he stroked out of habit. “We hear rumors of an insurgency brewing in Falconsrealm.”

  “Finally, we get to it,” said Prince Damon. Damon was a dark-haired noodle of a boy in fine clothing that was mostly white, including a white fur cape despite the sun outside. He was the prince of the distant Ice Isle, though it would be ruled by a regency council for a few years, yet. The Snow Prince, they were calling him.

  “Let’s discuss this,” Damon said. “And what, Duke Edwin, did your brother find so important in Falconsrealm that neither he nor my sister could be here?”

  “Prince Albar—” began Edwin, only to be interrupted by the Snow Prince.

  “Albar,” Damon hissed, pointing at Edwin, “is not a prince yet. My sister rules Falconsrealm. He never will. Those are points you’d be well-advised to remember.”

  “We’ve seen attacks on our border outposts in the Shieldlands,” Erlac continued. “Supply trains raided, a ship burned along the Border River. An
d if you ask me,” he turned to Edwin, “they’re getting a pass from your brother, that power-starved, quivering milksop—”

  “My brother is the heir presumptive!” Edwin shouted, rising. “He’ll. . .”

  “Go on!” Erlac yelled. “Finish that statement! I beg you. We would love to know what the Hillwhites plan to do once you’ve finally married into royalty. Enlighten us.”

  Crius gestured to Edwin that the table was his.

  Edwin took his seat.

  The scarred general continued, this time more quietly. “We know the forces at Gavria are sending liaisons to the court at High River.” High River Keep was the princess’s seat at Falconsrealm. “We don’t know why.”

  Eyes turned to Edwin for a long moment.

  Someone finally grunted.

  “I’ve not heard of this,” said Edwin.

  A knight, clean-shaven and young in contrast to the others at the table, denoted by his gold horsehead pin as being a rider in the king’s personal order, summarized the council’s concern.

  “All this aside, Gavria is building her armies,” he said. “If Sabbaghian is their Lord High Sorcerer, then Gavria’s next campaign may well be engineered by a foreign mastermind. We will have no references to this man’s strategies, and no parallels to his experiences. We will need advisers. Not heroes, not warriors. Chancellors. For the duration of the war. If there is a war.”

  Crius took a moment to pinch off the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “What you’re asking, sire—” his reasoning felt as unsure as the skewed walls around him, “— is to bring you demons. Demons to whom you will hand over your power, and trust to lead your armies against another.”

  Another young knight, still in his mail-and-leather riding gear, stood and slammed his fist on the marble inlay. “We said nothing of demons!”

  Crius looked to the ceiling. “Careful, or you’ll bring this place down.” After a moment watching the timbers and listening for creaks, he let out his breath. “Sabbaghian’s son, this King Ulo Sabbaghian, was raised in the demon world. Brought here as a demon. Conjured, as any demon. That he is human is of little consequence. He is a demon. And he is not to be trifled with.”

  “You’re scared of him?” asked Lord Rav.

  Crius nodded. “As you all should be.”

  “What we want is what they have,” said Lord Erlac, stroking his scars absently. “Only more of it.”

  “Master Crius,” Prince Damon’s voice was gentle. “Yes, this is what we’re asking. I understand the dangers inherent in this course.”

  “Respectfully, Highness, I don’t think you do,” said Crius.

  “I do,” insisted Damon. “The true danger is the fears these men, these demons, would arouse. We will not speak of this outside this room. We’ll treat them as we would any other adviser.”

  “The true danger is far greater than people’s fears, highness,” said Crius.

  Damon blinked once, and, in a voice that belied his age, said, “Perhaps. But that’s why we’re entrusting the Lord High Sorcerer with this.”

  Crius looked to Edwin, who grinned. “Oh, if I could but slam the door behind you,” said Edwin.

  Crius’s gaze roved the eyes of the others. None shied from him. “You’d already decided this. You had decided this before we even called this meeting.”

  “No one else can do this,” said Damon. “If it’s to be done, you’ll do it.”

  Crius smiled, looked down at his hands, and nodded, tight-lipped. “Very well, Highness,” he said. “I will travel, and I will bring you demons.”

  All agreed, and the council broke with murmurs of conversation and the bangs and scrapes of benches.

  Prince Damon wove his way over to Crius, shaking hands and clapping shoulders. Damon kept his voice low as he spoke to Crius away from the others. “What’s this danger that we don’t see?”

  “The killing blow is so often the one that looks harmless,” said Crius. “You won’t know what the danger is, and neither will I, until it has us by the throat. This will not solve your problem with Sabbaghian, or with Gavria. This will complicate it.”

  “This will level the field,” said Damon.

  “It won’t,” said Crius.

  “The war council says it will,” said Damon.

  “The war council hopes it will,” said Crius. “If Gavria marches, demons won’t matter. We’ll need to rely on the same things we’ve used against them from time immemorial: iron and blood. Swords win wars, Highness.”

  Damon clasped Crius’s folded hands in his own. “Then bring us demons with swords.”

  I

  OVERTURE

  “Fighting was fun; this was the thing. Fighting was tremendous fun.”

  — Ewart Oakeshott

  The Middle Ages had come to Camille Bay.

  It was a rainy Memorial Day weekend. Spring seemed to have been and gone without a single hour of sunshine, and the coming summer held no promises.

  Camille Bay, Maine, is a tiny Birkenstock town known for its artistic population and a never-ending slew of obscure exhibitions. Camille Bay is host to fantasy conventions, an occasional movie set, and the region’s most prestigious glass-blowing school. She boasts several successful authors among her quiet inhabitants.

  The particular way Camille Bay had chosen to draw the immediate world’s attention today entailed a re-creation of a medieval fair in the market square, courtesy of several large Renaissance troupes.

  Everyone in the town participated; participation is the town creed. The costumes ranged from casual passers-by in Robin Hood hats, to axe-bearing Norsemen and lace-ruffled Elizabethans. Woe, indeed, to the unwitting tourist, reluctantly handing over his Mobil card to a bearded Norseman in a bearskin cape and a leather jockstrap.

  Crius’s vision unclouded in an alley of Camille Bay.

  With a fleeting sweat of terror he realized that this was not a world he’d expected and certainly not the world he’d visualized moments ago, standing an ocean of space distant in his chambers at Horlech with the Tower Day celebrations rampaging in the distance.

  A granite sky spat mist over a fitful, intense gridwork, a hornets’ nest as garish and searing as the sun even in the intense cold of the day. Everywhere he looked, the world seemed to explode with its own sprinting pulse; every color and edge exquisite in its squarishness and order. He smelled fish and seawater. An unsourced thrum slashed at him from nowhere.

  He climbed to his feet on a hard black road. A fine road.

  Roads were roads.

  Roads hadn’t changed.

  There he stood on the road, crumpled, hands on his knees, awestruck at a piece of trash more bright and polished than anything he’d ever seen, a massive facet of a jewel blowing along the slate of the yard fences and the blacktop of the alley.

  He watched it go, and the world tunneled into place in its wake.

  Square homes built shoulder to shoulder sprawled up the hills away from the sea. At the end of the alley the road led up the hill, and also down to a calm harbor brimming with boats.

  Away from the water, the town was bursting. He knew a festival when he saw one.

  Festivals hadn’t changed.

  He pulled his hood up and struck out uphill, thrilled with the quality of the road beneath his boots. The noise grew and his pulse quickened.

  What a world! What an intense, bright, loud, fast world!

  He stopped at a barrier and reached to warm his hand by its flashing lamp; he found light, but no heat. He touched it. He rested his hand on it. He giggled.

  He took a slow look across the multitudes. Warriors in piecemeal armor, commoners in simple dress, well-outfitted courtiers.

  Many things, it seemed, had not changed. More than he’d expected.

  A mechanical animal, albeit an unkempt and mangy one, butted its way through the street, forcing noblewoman and barbarian alike to leap aside.

  He found a space beneat
h an awning and watched the people pass. An occasional townsperson tipped his hat, someone clapped him on the back, and once a man dressed like a northern tribesman, ridiculously muscled, bumped into him, muttering in a language that was guttural, ancient, and simple.

  Across the road, under the eaves, berserker donned hunting hat and woodsman donned horned helmet, and the two laughed at each other.

  Two women in court dress emerged from a shop behind him, then threw bright rain jackets over their dresses.

  Costumes. Nostalgia. Idealism.

  He headed for the center of town, which bustled with demons with swords.

  In the late afternoon, away from the noise and the rabble, Crius topped a range of sand and gravel mounds near the sea. He tripped, slid, and came to a rest at the feet of eight men and one woman, all clad in the local garb, not costumes.

  Three men pulled the sorcerer to his feet.

  “Let him go,” snarled another voice, rife with the crack of authority.

  Crius shook his clothes straight and took a look across the nine faces—or eleven, now, he saw—for there were two more men about to duel beyond the line of onlookers.

  The woman, though, was the first to hold his attention. She was striking, petite but strong with black hair and eyes and olive-skinned. He laughed inwardly. She looked northern Gavrian. She was not one to bring before the Gateskeep High Council.

  Beyond her, the young man with the sharp voice was bare-chested to the sting of the sea air.

  With a ponytail and goatee the color of the wet sand behind him, he was on the small side of medium-sized, but his proportions were exaggerated with slabs of long muscle, cat-like. The most wondrous wicked scar, a mark of great pain and courage, graced the knotted muscles of his stomach. He stabbed his rapier into the sand, dropped into a full split, and leaped up again.