Two dragons, guided by helmed and armored riders, swooped in low over the heads of the mob, sending them ducking into doorways and dashing down alleys. A call from their leader, still wheeling high overhead, brought the dragon knights back into formation. He descended and his knights followed him, the dragons’ wingtips clearing the buildings on either side of the street by barely a hand’s breadth. Wings rucked neatly at their flanks, their long tails lashing wickedly behind, the dragons alighted near the cart.
The knights’ captain, a paunchy middle-aged man with a fiery-red beard, urged his dragon closer. The tier-terrified at the sight and smell of the dragons-was heaving and howling and going through all kinds of gyrations, causing its handler no end of grief.
“Keep that damn thing quiet!” snarled the captain.
The tiermaster managed to catch hold of the head and fixed his beast with an unblinking stare. As long as he could maintain this steady gaze, the stupid tier-for whom out of sight was out of mind-would forget the presence of the dragons and calm down.
Ignoring the stammering, babbling sheriff, who was hanging on to the captain’s saddle harness as a lost child hangs on to its newly found mother, the captain gazed sternly at the bloody, vegetable-stained prisoner.
“It seems I arrived in time to save your miserable life, Hugh the Hand.”
“You did me no favor, Gareth,” said the man grimly. He raised his shackled hands. “Free me! I’ll fight all of you, and them too.” He flicked his head at the remnants of the mob peeking out of the shadows.
In the wild, these enormous birds are a dragon’s favorite prey. Tiers’ wings are large and covered with soft feathers and are almost completely useless. They can, however, run extremely fast on their powerful legs. They make excellent beasts of burden and are extensively used as such in the realms of the humans. Elves consider the tier repulsive and unclean.
The captain of the knights grunted. “I’ll bet you would. That death’s a damn sight better than the one you’re facing now- kissing the block. A damn sight better and a damn sight too good for you, Hugh the Hand. A knife in the back, in the dark-that’s what I’d give you, assassin scum!”
The curl of the Hand’s upper lip was emphasized by a feathery black mustache and was clearly visible even in the failing light. “You know the manner of my business, Gareth.”
“I know only that you are a killer for hire and that my liege lord met his end by your hand,” retorted the knight gruffly. “And I’ve saved your head merely to have the satisfaction of placing it with my own hands at the foot of my lord’s bier. By the way, they call the executioner Three-Chop Nick. He’s never yet managed to sever a head from a neck at the first blow.”
Hugh gazed at the captain, then said quietly, “For what it’s worth, I didn’t kill your lord.”
“Bah! The best master I ever served murdered for a few barls [1]. How much did the elf pay you, Hugh? How many barls will you take now to restore my lord’s life to me?”
Yanking on the reins, the captain-his eyes blinking back tears-turned the head of his dragon. He kicked the creature in the flanks, just behind the wings, and caused it to rise into the air, where it remained, hovering over the cart, its snakelike eyes daring any of those lurking in the shadows to cross its path. The dragon knights riding behind likewise took to the air. The tiermaster, his own eyes watering, blinked. The tier once more trod sullenly forward, and the cart clattered over the road.
It was night when the cart and its dragon escort reached the fortress keep and dwelling place of the Lord of Ke’lith. The lord himself lay in state in the center of the courtyard. Bundles of charcrystal soaked in perfumed oil surrounded his body. His shield lay across his chest. One cold, stiff hand was clasped around his sword hilt; the other hand held a rose placed there by his weeping lady-wife. She was not among those gathered around the body, but was within the keep, heavily sedated with poppy syrup. It was feared that she might hurl herself upon the flaming bier, and while such sacrificial immolation was customary on the island of Dandrak, in this case it could not be allowed; Lord Rogar’s wife having just recently given birth to his only child and heir. The lord’s favorite dragon stood nearby, proudly tossing its spiky mane. Standing beside it, tears rolling down his face, was the head stablemaster, a huge butcher’s blade in his hand. It wasn’t for the lord he wept. As the flames consumed its master’s body, the dragon which the stablemaster had raised from an egg would be slaughtered, its spirit sent to serve its lord after death.