24 - The Court of the Leather Dragon
Where lies The Road of Graves? Nowhere in the scope of your sight. For miles around there is only the wide wrinkled, rippling, periwinkle-blue of the Hornwater lake; the small wooden tubs of other gondolas; in the distances, the skirting wheat hills, and Hornwater Town.
You press the paddle through the water. Your gondola floats sleekly toward an island. There is a short white beach. Then, terraces, grass yards and gardens, each terrace raised on walls of large mossy bricks. A fortress - six sides, ten thousand windows, crowned in six bonfires that are never permitted to die - commands the hilltop.
The parapet gargoyles of the island fortress are stone basilisks. They are lifelike, for they once lived. They were forced to gaze at one another, and turned to stone, by the Leather Dragon - the guild that holds court within the six high ramparts.
From beneath her wool cloak at the front of the gondola, you hear your Blue Lady’s wood-thrush voice.
“When that singing skeleton told me that the child, which I had driven from my Lord’s house; that he might live: it seemed justice. “I begged that The Scratcher and The Red King keep their eyes turned from him, and let him have his peace and happiness. “I only later thought to meet him. “Even to look at the face of someone I once knew would be more than this ruined Lady deserves. “But never did it strike me to think that he would be master of a guild, let alone one so terrible as The Leather Dragon.”
This noble being once believed that she loved you. Back in the grotto. You understood her mistake then; she had not seen your face. She- Why do you debase her with that thought? Why remember it now? You may, at least, congratulate yourself on one account. You have seen your Blue Lady to her last relation. You have brought her to the one she looked for. In this, you did your duty. The Wiege Family is, as well, far history. You brought Your Lady free from the poison and blades.
The guildmembers of The Leather Dragon pride themselves on woundless skill. Each apprentice trains in basic fighting techniques for four years, then trains under a knight for four years more. At the end of their training, each apprentice is made into one of four kinds of guild Knight.
| Flail Knight Fights with a long, spiked ball at the end of a chain, plus a shield. It takes time for them to wind up a strike, but the unusual angle of attack make these knights a challenge to ordinary swordsmen. | Glimmer Knight Their shields are mirrors, used to dazzle and faze their foes. |
|---|---|
| Laminar Knight These warriors wear armor of plated, layered, tough black leather, with ridges and studs designed to give them the aspect of their guild’s namesake. | Stoneraker Knight Instead of sword and shield, these knights carry two-handed halberds. The pommel of each halberd is an hourglass, designed such that the grains of white sand inside may only pass from the top to the bottom at a rate of one per day. If a Stoneraker knight goes unwounded for eleven-hundred days – until the sand completely drains - his halberd is retired into the guild’s relic hall. |
“My Knight, one word I have before we reach this white beach, and the guild Castle above it. “That trinket we found in the mines; do you still have the Shelley Stone? “If- If my stepson should receive me poorly- If I should die, use not the stone on my body. “My knight, I am not unhappy. I think only of my daughter’s ghost. “To pass on would be peace, I think.”
She sees more clearly than you, the danger in those dark stone walls. Already they shade the slate-colored sun from your gondola. Why did you think you had brought her beyond danger? You are a servant. If there is danger ahead, it is forever your duty to face it. In one thing, your Blue Lady’s sight falls short. For her to die, and you to live - impossible. You must install her with her foster child. You must establish noble standing for her. The cost to yourself is past mattering.
Your craft is noticed at once as you draw near the shore. Your prow has just touched the sand, and you have just handed your Blue Lady onto the thin ivory beachhead, when the sound of syncopated, stomping boots echoes round the rocks.
You can try to resist capture, but it’s futile. These are trained warriors, not furtive killers or thoughtless dead. Your Polished Steel Longsword might slide through the armor of one or two guild knights. Then you would be cut down and your Lady would be taken regardless.
The best course is: throw down your Steel onto the sand (don’t sheathe it), but keep your Pinecone Crest Shield up. The guild will have sent arbalests, and it’s likely you’ll need to a catch a bolt or three before they see you’ve surrendered.
You may be tempted to draw your lady back into the gondola and paddle away. Don’t. The only way to reach the end of your road is to go willingly.
Three knights are your escort through the hot and candle lit ways of the castle. You feel as if you have stepped into a monastery modeled on The Thin Man’s Sickening Cradle. This feels like a place for men to sleep. The only sounds are your footsteps, the crackle of the torches, and from some distant quarter, voices growling and hissing a plainchant.
Swidden of the First Wyrm
Soldiers move in syncopated clusters of twenty over the broad field of short, sage-colored grass. They are like wheeling flocks of blackbirds in the air. You recognize that these are not training maneuvers. This is the clang and stump of three-hundred armor knights making ready to kill.
Your escorts bring you down from a rampart, into a grove of fourteen tall, black stumps. Each stump was sewn into a large tree, then burnt, by Smooth Sabel, the first Grand Wyrm of the Leather Dragon.
One man; he that wears the lamellar coat held together by burnt orange stitching, and a helmet like a golden manta ray, with its wings folded down over the sides of his head; this man has stood upon a stage, watching the maneuvers. When he sees you, he and his four attendant knights step down.
“Hornwater’s clanging bells wait tensed for the ringing of dusk. I wonder, what kind of spies are you, showing up at this hour? “Clearly poorly mannered ones. “My name’s Grauf. “They call me the earthquake breath. The shining orb. The Great Wyrm. All this you see assembled - my army. These; my talons. Soon they’ll drag some dense ruts through the bodies of the other guilds. “Your spying’s in vain. “Or is this a feint? You should know, I’ve never been wounded. Not by distractions. Or, sharp things.”
Three blasts from a towering horn suspend the Great Wyrm’s address.
The maneuvering scores of syncopated marching soldiers; the dozen squads of stamping horsemen; the arbalests; all turn with uncanny synchronicity towards a wide brick track that runs in a straight line through the Swidden. As each group takes its place along a specific quarter of the road, they fall still. You measure their strength at five-hundred foot knights, three-hundred horse knights, and three-hundred men with arbalests. Most of the soldiers are Laminar Knights; armored as their guild’s namesake.
You are reminded of a painting you once saw. A man with the head of a crow, dressed in mottled robes, watches as the slate-colored sunlight streams in through a high window in his sepulcher, and shines over dozens of subservient, mummified lizards.
Dragon Eye Longsword
This fabulous weapon’s hilt is the shape of a serpent, with its fangs wrapped around a gleaming opal. It was made by a nameless mancer, who is said to have filled it with the hatred borne against mankind by the last, degenerated dragon. The Great Wyrm of The Leather Dragon is its bearer.
As Grauf steps forward to address his soldiers, your Lady speaks. It starts as a whisper for you alone.
“Why did my heart swell for this reunion? “I could have looked for no happy welcome. Still I desired, and you brought me in faithful silence. “You have carried your oath to me above all others, my Cracked Cup Knight. “No matter our fates, my knight - I love you. Aloud “Guild master Grauf, we are not spies. I am the Lady Odette. You knew me, once. My house, and yours, was the Verne Family. “I, this knight my protector, and you your father’s son – we are all that remains.”
The memory of that painting flashes in your mind again. It seems as if the knights, indeed the entire scene before your eyes, is a painting. Motionless.
Only one thin trail of smoke breaks the illusion. It slithers forth from the pipe of a tactician. He stands beside Great Wyrm Grauf, staring with one good eye at your Lady. The shield planted at his feet reflects your own image; stripped of your Polished Steel and Pinecone Crest Shield, armor rusting.
The reflection moves, as the tactician pulls the shield up to his arm. He draws his own sword. He tells the Great Wyrm that you and your Lady must be beheaded, and the march to war begun.
You see that this foster son agrees with his advisor. He pulls there at the corner of his mustache, as if in contemplation. But his eyes have decided your Lady’s fate. He is a knight. A commander. The Road demands an oath from him. Would he incur the Red King’s Curse through the slaying of the swordless? He will challenge your Lady. He will challenge you, her champion. You must win. But if you slay him, you slay her last relative. You kill her only link to this Roadbound order. How will you win when the two ways ahead-
Grauf’s palm raises, breaking your thoughts, checking his subordinate’s step toward your Blue Lady.
“Stop. “Whether or not this Lady’s telling the Dragon’s Truth or the Erl’s Lies, we’d be painting this army’s first footsteps in crimson dishonor, if we severed their heads that way. “You know what they say about Rumor. A real zippy business. “Think of what the millers and the cobblers would whisper. ‘Those Dragons? Scarless from picking choice foes, not from quickness and power of arms.’ That’s what they’d say. “We can’t be disappointing the millers and the cobblers. “You Old Wyrms, take our knights across the bridge. Do a little clearing-by-fire. You know our foes. “Meanwhile, I’ll give these two agents some ‘honors of address.’”
The Afthimmel
The wide tower at the top of the Leather Dragon keep leans into the nearness of a wound-colored sky. Black smoke climbs the blushing hill of sunset. The smoke billows from a dozen of Hornwater’s burgs. It is strange, to see a city on the water, beside a vast tract of reflective lake, burning.
The knights of The Leather Dragon are making their war.
Over one distant burg hovers a dome of painted glass. A palace. You watch as, like a volcano, the top of the dome explodes. A new mushroom of smoke joins the drifts. Glass paints the sky, falls like rain. Even atop The Afthimmel, you feel a draft of that heat.
On a table near the parapet, your Steel waits for you. Your Lady sits nearby, sunken on her knees, her cloak pooling all around her.
A herald in a robe like puffy steel vapor unwinds a terrific parchment, till it touches his shoes.
“…may by the grace of a blest sword slay his foe. “By such he shall preserve the life of this woman, Lady Odette, of the family Verne. “Or if it is the will of the seven necromancer-gods, then Great Wyrm Grauf may by the grace of his blest sword slay his foe. By such, he shall decide the fate of that same Lady. “Moreover, a Leather Dragon shall neither show mercy, nor suffer to be scarred. The guild demands one life from…”
Your Blue Lady buckles one of the sere, cracked pieces of leather that hold your breastplate tight across your chest. You hear a mutter pass her lips. A prayer. You do not know to which god or spirit, but she begs some way out of this duel.
Grauf’s apprentice laces the Grand Wyrm’s own shining leather. The armor is scratchless, and often used.
You set aside your whetstone. Taking up a dark-stained cloth, you run it over your Polished Steel Longsword. There is no rust on your Steel, no nick or scratch to mar its shine. As you hold it up and examine it through your visor, the flat of the blade catches dusk’s last hints of mellow slate.
Grauf’s Dragon Eye Longsword needs neither stone nor polish. The hateful drake soul trapped within keeps the weapon sharp enough to cut through wet boar hide like cheesecloth.
The Guild mancer - one of few in Hornwater - examines you both. Great Wyrm Grauf meanwhile watches you with a fixed eye from beneath the leather horns of his helmet.
“Our mancer says you’ve been raised? More than once? “And yet there is no surplus necromancy thickening your marrow. “Not very smart, if you ask me. But I can’t understand. No Leather Dragon’s soul is ever raised. No Leather Dragon serving suffers to be scratched. And, obviously, not killed. “I’m sorry to hear that old Lord dad’s dead. I dreamed his face once. Half-chewed by the worms, skull shining. “All mens’ fathers die. I’m not that child. Your Lady isn’t my mother.”
You sweep your arm, holding your blade horizonal, the flat facing out. Your foe does the same.
This battle will not transpire like your many others. Without your shield you’ll need to rely on parrying, dodging, and the limited protection of your rusted armor.
Some of the Great Wyrm’s blows will land no matter your prowess. Grauf has no discernable attack pattern. Your only option is to fight reactively. Watch your foe for any twitch or tell, and pray they’re not feints. Landing a cut of your own is almost out-of-the-question. Grauf’s seemingly supple leather armor is in reality hard as stone. (It was made to keep the dragon both scratchless, and bruiseless).
You will make mistakes against this enemy. Your rusted armor will start to chip and crack.
If you can survive till the sun flashes between the merlons of the tower crenellation, and lights on Grauf’s Dragon Eye Longsword, you’ll see your only chance. Grauf’s collar is dark with sweat, his breath comes in gasps. He is not trained for endurance.
By this stage you yourself will have several wounds, possibly broken ribs. You must ignore the pain. Start some of your own attack routines. Focus on low blows. Nothing you do will land a scratch, but Grauf will grow more and more desperate.
It is at this moment that you will make a fatal mistake. Perhaps you have grown complacent in the wear-down strategy of your many battles against deadly foes. Perhaps it is just bad luck. Whatever the cause, Grauf will land a deep cut to your waist, through a gap in your rusted breastplate.
Back off and keep fighting - you have no other choice. But you will become aware of a sickening, warm, wet feeling beneath your leather.
Fight on a little longer…
A little longer still…
You’ll spot a sudden opening. The neck, beneath the helmet. Your Polished Steel is rightly positioned.
You have only the smallest fraction of a second in the endless Time of Dying in which to make your choice.
The Dragon Eye Longsword clangs to the tower stone. Grauf clutches his neck; crimson paints his fingers. You hear your Lady cry in distress. You aren’t sure for whom.
Your knees buckle as the sun’s last arc slides under the distant loam.
You hear the churring music of crickets in the night.
A moist breeze breathes across your neck.
Your heart beats slow, at once supple and heavy, like the slow-beating wings of a swan.
The tower is gone. You kneel amidst a field of coarse, short grass, beside the shore of Hornwater Lake. The water is purple with dusk. On the far side you can see the black glow of burning Hornwater. Your beach is far too distant for you to hear the battle.
Looking to your right, you see the embankment of The Road of Graves. Between you and the road, your Blue Lady stares all around, stunned.
Between you and your Blue Lady, Great Wyrm Grauf lies very still.
Your Lady looks from you, to her stepson. She runs to your side.
“My Cracked Cup Knight, your front is covered in blood. “Grauf- “What has happened to us? Some wind of dead souls has taken us in its many arms and carried us from the Dragon’s keep. “I led you thus. And him. “But, the Shelley Stone! Let me draw it from your pack. All will be well now, let me press it to your neck as Othelmedir- “…Why do you reject my touch?”
Do this. You know this is the right thing. So do it. Your body is a breaking vessel. That too was Othelmedir’s sentence on your last revival. Your Last. Your Time is over. You must refuse her this. This is your remaining duty. Make it a good one. There. She puts the stone away. She will not disobey you, look at her eyes. Have you left any task unfinished? You wanted to see The End. The end of That Road Familiar and Strange. But… perhaps… Why does she pull your helmet? She must not see your disfigured… Banished from service… No matter… Cannot stop her… That lake air does… Cool on your brow… And She… Blue Lady… Not frightened… Long since your head… Felt Her… Kiss…
“Thy service is done, my Cracked Cup Knight. Go toward that purple western sky. “Go with no misgivings; I will find your place on The Road. Follow that Road, and see- See if you can find its end. Did you not say to me once that was your dream? “I take with gladness, back into my own hands, my fate. “Farewell…. “… “There. The Stone works its magic, just as the mancer said. “Grauf, it is Odette. Breath slowly. Let your heart catch up. Be still, everything is going to be okay. “I will hold your hands.”
Sunrise
Rays of slate color, like cathedral glass, shine down from an eastern dawn, breaking through patchwork clouds. One ray catches and reflects off of a tiger’s eye gemstone, in a mancer’s charm necklace hanging from the spruce mast of a Hornwater fisherman’s boat. A moment later the eye darkens; the boat passes under the shadow of a ruin. The ruined castle of the Leather Dragon.
Woodcart in the Field
A Lady with blue-black hair walks beside a rolling cart pulled by a one-horned ox, through a field of rye. The back of the cart is filled with unsawn timber, and an axe. The ox is led on a rope by a young man with a scar on his neck.
The Epitaph
The Time is one that is Dying. The Road is paved in Graves. Each stone on its winding and indefinite route wears the name of a soul that is buried below it. One curl of this Road passes under the umbrella of a low, thick-trunked oak. Between one of the oak’s twisting roots, propped against the bark, a Polished Steel Longsword sleeps in its scabbard. One root laces through the soft, short grass. Through the Time of Dying it has stretched. It touches one stone on The Road of Graves.
