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  Copyright ©2008 by Palmer, Wendy

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  After the Dragon

  Wendy Palmer

  BooksForABuck.com

  January 2008

  After the Dragon

  Wendy Palmer

  Copyright January 2008 by Wendy Palmer, all rights reserved.

  No portion of this novel may be duplicated, transmitted, or stored in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this

  copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the

  FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and locations are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people is coincidental

  Published by BooksForABuck.com

  ISBN: 978-1-60215-063-8

  Map of Bourchia and Lavania

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  Chapter One

  The inn is almost empty, for Dragons mate in the sunset sky over Port Told and humans may never see such a wonder again. Even the barmaid loiters in the doorway to watch and the barkeep must face his DarkElvish customer alone.

  'Poor stuff, this,’ says the DarkElf in perfect Bourchian. She pushes her glass back across the bar.

  'The strongest we have,’ the barkeep says, his voice threatening to fail him. ‘Imported from Livania.'

  Expensive, that means, and his face says he does not expect her to pay. But she tosses a gold coin onto the polished wood of the bar. The coin spins and spins and he cannot tear his eyes away.

  'A room,’ says the DarkElf.

  'Yes.’ He raises his voice. ‘Marle.'

  The barmaid at the door twitches and backs into the room. ‘Not now, Joshe,’ she says, still craning to stare out at the sky. ‘Dragons.'

  'And Elves,’ says the DarkElf. The coin has never stopped spinning.

  Marle turns but the DarkElf stares over her shoulder. The two humans follow her gaze.

  A LightElf stands in the doorway, gold hair and one gold-flecked eye shining in the red light of the dying day. The other eye is covered with a patch, giving him a rakishness at odds with his stern demeanour. He folds a parchment and puts in his pocket but he does not look away from the DarkElf.

  Her coin stops spinning. The clink as it falls flat echoes in the hush.

  'Cheap trick, goblin.’ The LightElf speaks Ancient. ‘This is what you are reduced to.'

  'It speaks,’ the DarkElf says, still in Bourchian. She does not move as the LightElf puts hand to sword hilt and stalks towards her. ‘It speaks of reduction and yet DarkElves do not feel the need to consort with humans.'

  'Scoff,’ says the LightElf, softly, standing before her, his sword half drawn. ‘You will learn.'

  'You propose to teach me?’ She insinuates with a silken tone to her voice and a sinuous twist to her body, and still insists on Bourchian.

  The LightElf takes a breath, recoiling from her allure. He rallies. ‘I need teach you nothing. Our treaty with the humans heralds your end.’ He says this in Bourchian, her tiny victory.

  'Ah,’ says the DarkElf. ‘You give over half of Wyvern and think an alliance with these short-lived creatures will help you?'

  'Your words come from rancour.'

  'You have allowed the humans to establish a foothold, their little kingdom Ardmore—they will drive you out and cut down the trees and dam the rivers.'

  She turns suddenly and her look sends Marle scurrying up the stairs, presumably to prepare her room.

  The LightElf leans forward. ‘This is why they ally with us. They fear you.'

  'Peace,’ the DarkElf says then. ‘I am Jacoby NightSword, here for rest and recovery. I wish no trouble.'

  The LightElf sits at the bar a few stools from her, still fingering his sword. But he replies. ‘I am Kintore OneEyed, once SureBlade.'

  The scar snaking from behind his eyepatch is red and fresh. Jacoby's gaze flicks over it but she says nothing.

  He half-turns his back and calls Joshe over. ‘I will hire a room.'

  Joshe's gaze darts between the two Elves. ‘Yes, sir.'

  'I am not here with that creature.’ He is vehement.

  'No, sir.’ Joshe takes a step back.

  'He is confused,’ Jacoby says from behind her glass. ‘I also take lodging here. Such a glamour of Elves he has never seen.'

  Joshe flushes.

  'Give me water,’ says Kintore.

  'Myself the same.’ Jacoby puts her empty glass upside down on the bar in the traditional Bourchian manner. ‘But make mine your alcoholic variety.'

  The two Elves drink almost in unison. Kintore puts his cup down, shaking his head. ‘Another,’ he says, leaning on the bar, hair hanging in his face.

  Jacoby holds her glass out too. Again they drink together. The cup falls from Kintore's hand. Jacoby catches it as it rolls across the bar and sets it upright and inverted.

  'We will take that room now.'

  Kintore makes an incoherent sound. If Joshe has misgivings, he does not voice them to the DarkElf.

  * * * *

  Trick held his sword lengthwise against his leg and kept walking. He knew he was being followed. He even knew who was following. This had been coming for a long time.

  First I'll be slammed against the wall, he thought. Then they'll say something clever, and then—

  They took him from behind and spun him into the wall. He went off it lightly but Randulf grabbed his shoulders and shoved him back against it.

  'Don't you know it ain't safe to walk the streets alone at night?’ Randulf said.

  Not particularly clever after all. He rolled his eyes and got his head thumped into the wall. A bright explosion of light behind his eyes blinded him.

  'We're sick of you thinking you're too good for us, mate.’ Randulf looked behind him and the pack of men made a mutter of agreement.

  Trick looked over at them as well and brought his sword up between Randulf's legs. He saw them recoil, felt the bigger man freeze and suppressed a vicious surge of triumph.

  'Where did you get the idea I'm the victim of bullies?’ he asked, the blade of his sword sharp and hard in his attacker's groin. Their eyes met. ‘You need to back up, soldier.'

  Randulf eased backwards until he could get off his toes. Trick waited, knowing he should have castrated the man. Red in the face and breathing hard, Randulf drew his own sword. His little gang shuffled into a circle enclosing them.

  Trick sighed and pushed off the wall. His first swing glanced off the other man's blade and he danced away. He had given Randulf his chance and now he wanted to end it quickly. He dropped his sword back beside his leg and raised his left arm defensively in front of him. In the dim lamplight he looked unarmed, though Randulf knew intimately that wasn't so.

  If he had underestimated the man, he would lose the arm.

  He had taken worse bets and won.

  Randulf went for his upraised arm—too tempting a target. Trick turned with the blade, coming under and past the swing, and then chopped his own sword at Randulf's defenceless back. A great gush of blood spurted o
ut and Randulf shrieked.

  Trick turned on the other men, but they grabbed their leader and ran down the street, clattering on the cobblestones and splashing through puddles. When the noise faded, Trick sat down in the empty, blood-splattered street, holding his sword loosely between his knees. His head hurt where it had bounced off the wall. He touched the spot, finding a lump and maybe blood.

  'You're just not a nice man, are you, Trick?’ he said. His words hung in front of him. He might have used the flat of the sword rather than trying for a kill. But then he'd still be fighting, and who knew when the others would have joined in. He had done the right thing. It didn't make him feel any better.

  Footsteps disturbed him, echoing in the quiet street. He was not alarmed. It was late, but Port Told never slept and it was only one set of footsteps. Not alarmed, he still took a tighter hold of the sword hilt.

  They stepped out of an alley a little way down the street. He had been wrong—there were two of them, a man and a woman. The woman was almost as tall as the man and wore a heavy black hooded cloak covering her body and face. But he knew she was a woman, from the fall of the cloak over her body and the way she moved. She walked so quietly that the steps of the man beside her drowned any noise she might have made.

  The man watched him as they walked towards him. He looked familiar and Trick for a moment thought he knew him. He realised his feeling of recognition came from the man's pale and icy blue eyes and blue-black hair. He was an Ullwyn.

  Trick turned his head, closed his eyes and pushed the tips of his fingers into his eyelids, taking his hands from the sword until he choked back the impulse to cut the Ullwyn's throat.

  'Let it go, Trick, let it go,’ he said under his breath, willing calm.

  'Hello, cousin.'

  Trick uncovered his eyes and looked up at him. The man was plainly suicidal. ‘You're no cousin of mine, lordling.’ Don't touch the sword, Trick.

  'Your mother misses you, Patrick.'

  He bounced to his feet, sword at the Ullwyn's throat before he knew what he was doing.

  The Ullwyn went ashen and the woman leant over and pushed the blade away. Her fingers were long and pale. Trick followed them up to her cloaked face. ‘Are you another one of them?'

  She pushed back the hood. Trick froze, his mind a dichotomy. One voice, rimmed in panic, said, That's a DarkElf, that's a DarkElf female. The other voice said, She can't be, you would already be dead.

  He lowered his sword and stared at her, barely aware he was staring. Black hair like silk streamed down her back, and her silver eyes were startling in her white face. Like all Elves, her eyes were all iris, no whites. The pupils were like black cracks in two mirrors. She looked back at him, silent and aloof from anything human.

  He felt it, the powerful attraction that made these creatures so dangerous.

  Then the Ullwyn pulled him away, though not deliberately. ‘What was all that about?'

  Trick forced himself to look at the Ullwyn and away from the DarkElf. He thought this reputed cousin might just have saved his soul.

  'Other soldiers.’ He shook his head, stole a glance at her and then set himself once and for all not to look at her again. ‘They don't like me.'

  'I wonder why?'

  Trick's eyes narrowed but there was no real hostility in the Ullwyn's voice. ‘You think you're going to get some points by bringing home the maverick cousin?’ He thought he'd better sheath his sword.

  'Guess again, Patrick.’ The Ullwyn smiled at him. ‘You're going to help us get down to Ardmore.'

  Trick clasped his hand together, knowing it made him look stupidly demure and also knowing he wanted to throttle this man. He let a sly smile slip over his face, the one that had made Randulf and his friends so angry with him.

  'Don't tell me you're eloping? Maybe I misjudged you.'

  That wiped the self-satisfied look off the Ullwyn's face. He looked scared instead. Trick watched him glance aside at the DarkElf but didn't follow that temptation.

  'Don't be ridiculous,’ said the Ullwyn, his voice sharpening. ‘She wants to go to Wyvern Forest.'

  Trick felt her watching him and it made his stomach twist. ‘Does she? And is she assassin or spy?’ He expected her to strike him down but he saw no movement from the corner of his eye. Maybe you never saw movement when they struck.

  The cousin said, ‘Shut your mouth, Patrick.'

  Good, thought Trick. Got to him. ‘Name's Trick.’ He rubbed at his eyes. Her gaze made him more and more unsettled and his head hurt badly now.

  He turned, dazed, and started to walk away. As always when he was tired or stressed, the ghost of his dead wife tried to wrap him in her arms. He shook off the sudden wish to throw himself on the blades of the DarkElf. ‘Time enough for that later.'

  He didn't know he had spoken aloud until the Ullwyn said, ‘What?'

  They were following him. ‘Look—’ He stopped and looked at the other man.

  'Faustus,’ said the Ullwyn. ‘And this is—’ It was his turn to falter on the edge of words.

  The DarkElf spoke for the first time. ‘Mizuasobi—’ She hesitated, then added, ‘DarkChild.'

  Her voice was honey and cream and smoke. Trick saw the way Faustus stared helplessly at her and realised no one had been around to save his soul.

  For his own soul, Trick still wouldn't look directly at her. He caught moonlight glinting off her hair—like silk, another part of him continued to insist.

  'Mizzle.’ It wasn't right but it was as close as he could come. He addressed her but did not quite look at her. The very traditional personal name was a clue, but her clan name betrayed her entirely. ‘Child of the Dark, and you're running away from Daddy, is that it?’ He thought it more likely she acted under orders from the Dark, leader of the DarkElves.

  'Patrick.’ Faustus breathed the word, hugely upset.

  'And you've settled on poor besotted Faustie to take you off to Wyvern Forest where the LightElves will slaughter you.'

  Mizzle said nothing.

  Faustus said, ‘Nonsense. She picked me because I'm Ullwyn—All Friend. They'll listen to me.'

  'You were All Friend two hundred years ago, cousin,’ said Trick. ‘Now you're just a pack of inbred overfed soon-dead nobles who the Elves don't remember and don't give two—’ He contained himself. ‘They're not going to fall on their knees to you while she acts against them.'

  'You know nothing.’ Faustus was coldly furious but Mizzle remained impassive.

  'You know less,’ said Trick, temper threatening, keeping his hand well away from his sword. ‘Ask yourself why, by the blue eyes of Fortune, a DarkElf would want to go to Wyvern?'

  The DarkElf moved suddenly, catching his eye. ‘My reasons,’ she said, ‘are not your business. You will do as your cousin asks.'

  He looked away sharply. ‘Look, both of you—’ but speaking entirely to Faustus. ‘I don't know what you're doing but I'm not getting involved. So go find yourself another puppy to play with.'

  'Patrick.’ Faustus was apparently regaining his composure. ‘You help us or you'll be conducting tomorrow's morning service.'

  'Big threat, Ullwyn,’ said Trick, pleased to hear only scorn in his voice. The thought of being made High Priest of Fortune gave him the night sweats but Faustus didn't need to know that. ‘What're you going to do, drag me back to the manor yourself? Try, I'd like that.’ Faustus had seen the blood on his sword when he had held it to the arrogant bastard's throat. ‘Or run and fetch some house guards, Faustie. I'll wait, I'm sure.'

  'You're not hard to find, Patrick.'

  Trick turned his back and kept walking. Faustus was smug about it, and so Trick was concerned about how they'd found him. He suspected they might have been shadowing him since he had left the inn, hidden by Randulf's noisier gang. As to how they found him at the inn, a few judicious questions at the barracks, perhaps. It didn't matter. He could be damn hard to find and damn harder to hold on to. Just ask older and wiser Ullwyns.

  The
y trailed along behind him. He felt the DarkElf's eyes on the back of his neck and it made the skin between his shoulder blades itchy.

  'It was clever, cousin,’ called Faustus. ‘Hiding under our noses like this. We've been looking in Livania for you. Who knew you'd join the Bourchian army?'

  Trick smiled, knowing they could not see his face. Even he had not known he'd join the Bourchian army. He had come to himself some time after Linnet had died—was murdered, said the whisper of his dead wife—and found himself in the Port Told barracks. His smile faded. Faustus was being very smug about finding him. Fine. He asked at the barracks and found him at the inn. But—

  'How did you find out I'd joined the army?’ he asked, turning. Did not want to enter into further conversation but had to know.

  Faustus gave him an insufferable smile and Trick's hand twitched on the hilt of his sword. ‘Fortune told me.'

  'Fortune?’ Trick did not hide his disbelief.

  'Yes.'

  'The Goddess Fortune appeared to you in a vision just to tell you where I am.'

  'Yes.'

  Trick looked at his boots and back up. Fortune was an important part of the power and influence of the Ullwyn dynasty but She did not pop up to share gossip with minor twigs in the family tree.

  'Right.’ He walked on, thinking.

  The city gates were closed but he knew of other ways out. It would be difficult to take Bet and Skye with him, but he could get another horse on the road if he had to leave them behind. Was it worth returning to the barracks at all? He had his sword and a few coins, and—he was Lucky but it never hurt to give Fortune a nudge—his marked cards and loaded dice in his pocket. What else did a soldier and a thief need?

  A hand on his shoulder stopped him dead. He started to turn, instantly enraged at Faustus, and came face to face with Mizzle just as he noticed how cold that hand was. Their eyes met and locked. He could not look away. He found himself not really wanting to try.

  'Stop it,’ he said while he could still speak.

  'You will help me,’ she said, all smoke and mirrors.