The Age of the Dragonslayers - The Finding

AGE OF THE DRAGONSLAYERS1

Troth Rakinr leaped down lightly off his coal black stallion and shook the dust out of his eyes. He ran a hand through his coarse hair, grimacing at the feel of the powdery dust particles enmeshed in his thick hair. He had ridden hard and fast for two days, and his whole figure showed it. 2

His clothes were travel stained and worn, his tunic faded and creased, girded about his waist by a leather belt, holding pockets and various tools, a light leatherhide coat covered his torso until his knees, and a dusty sable cloak was slung across his saddle. His boots were coated with the dirt of many journeys, and his eyes, exhibited an uncanny sense of seeing more than just the mundane surroundings. Dark blue, they surveyed the panorama before him.3

The town was like any other town he had seen during his travels. In fact, it barely qualified to be classed as a town. It was a collection of wood and thatch houses, looming out of the low fog in the morning cold, built by the hands of the people who lived here, an occasional stone dwelling marking the abode of the Mayor or an important merchant. A square lay in the centre of the town, marked with a pond in the centre, on which a pair of ducks swam and quacked at any one who came near. A few people were visible up and about at this time, a couple of traders setting up shop, a farmer saddling a horse to check on his flock and relieve the shepherd, old women taking down the washing. 4

Rakinr turned to his stallion, Jer, who whinnied softly and nuzzled his master. “Well, boy?” Rakinr murmured to his horse as he busied himself with the saddle-bags. “Doesn’t look like much, eh?”5

The horse made no comment. Rakinr took off his worn leatherhide coat, and put on a new tunic, fresh breeches, a gilded coat, a light covering of mail – though he didn’t need it, he could move faster than a flying dagger – and a clean cloak, dark red this time. He splashed water on to his face, and shook his hair into some sort of order. 6

In five minutes, he looked less like a travelling drifter and more like a purposeful knight-errant. Which he wasn’t of course, but that was the impression he wanted to create. People simply didn’t respect a poorly dressed man these days.7

Brushing off Jer, he gathered the horse’s reins. A flutter of his heart surprised him. He wasn’t normally nervous of anything. He chanced a glance behind him, back the way he had come. Bleak desert broken by a few solitary bushes, the fog rising from the ground. Rakinr swallowed. He needed to do this. If the future of the land were to be guaranteed.8

Rakinr strode into the town, the coal black horse behind him. His cloak swished along the ground, and his boots crunched softly on the littered gravel. He made his way into the centre of the town. He could have picked a better moment, he thought ruefully, as more people ventured out and the first of the curious looks were directed his way. Maybe sometime earlier.9

But there was no helping it now. Rakinr led the horse through the meandering streets, in the general direction of the inn. A large wood house, he could see the firelight flickering inside and the first low voices of the customers.10

An old woman peered up at him from sunken eyes, her face lined and wrinkled with age, almost papery. He forced himself not to shudder. 11

Rakinr tied Jer to the post outside the inn. Three other horses were tied there, he saw. A gelding, a reddish mare, and another stallion, this one white. The gelding was wearing a saddle even more worn out than his, whereas the stallion was pure white, and saddled with a fine leather saddle, meant for style rather than practicality. The gelding, however, was built for speed. Well bred, fit, and outfitted for fast and hard riding. He grinned to himself as he made a few more deductions from the state of the horses’ hooves. He had nurtured his observation skills to the point where he could look at a horse and tell if it had eaten that morning, or look at the ground and say who or what had travelled over it recently. It was a necessary skill in his line of work. 12

He pushed open the door of the inn, and stepped into the semi-darkness. The door swung shut behind him. He stood for a moment, waiting for his eyesight to adjust, and saw around maybe ten or so patrons, come to start the day with a pint of good ale.13

Rakinr made his way to the bar. He sensed people turning to look at him, and he guessed that not many outlanders must have come through this sleepy little town. He reached the bar, and the innkeeper sidled toward him.14

The innkeeper was a grizzly old man, around fifty or so years of age, with a sizeable belly and a growth of stubble on his chin. His beetle eyes quickly scrutinized the stranger, and smelt money.15

“What’ll it be?” he asked, in a hoarse voice.16

Rakinr perched on a stool. “Dunvotrian ale. Make it a pint.” The innkeeper sidled off to serve him. The other two men at the bar, a farmer and a trader by the looks of them, looked at Rakinr in some curiosity. No one in this town drank Dunvotrian ale except for the mayor and a couple of rich merchants. Who was this man? They wondered. Some sort of mercenary type?17

They could have wondered for years before hitting on the right answer.18

The innkeeper came back, bearing a mug full to the brim with beer. “Here yer are. Twenty sliver.”19

Rakinr wordlessly handed over the money. He was careful to keep the actual money bag concealed, and made to look like he had procured the money from up his sleeve. The men at the table looked a bit more puzzled.20

Rakinr glanced around at the other men in the bar, which had gone silent by now, all looking at the newcomer. Rakinr thought he saw a young man dressed in white and blue in a corner. Probably the Mayor’s son. The white stallion obviously belonged to him. The other men were all from the town, farmers, traders, cooks, miners, tanners and the like. Rakinr saw a silent slumped figure in the far corner, smoking a pipe. 21

The bar was still silent. 22

One of the men at the table, the farmer, took it upon himself to find out more of the stranger at the bar.23

“You not from around here, are you?” he asked, his country accent lending a burr to his voice. 24

Rakinr looked around. Almost everyone seemed to be listening. 25

“Nope,” he replied.26

“So you from ….?” The farmer asked.27

“Out south. Beyond the Maleria Mountains.” Rakinr took another sip of the deep brown ale. 28

“Outlander, eh?” wheezed another man from one of the table. “Why you here, leaving your fine cities behind?” 29

Rakinr took another sip. “I’m … looking for someone.”30

Interest sparked in the room. The rich outlander was looking for someone in this sleepy town?31

“Who?” asked the trader at the bar.32

“Why’d you want to know?” rejoined Rakinr, without looking at him.33

“Cause we’re from around here, is why,” wheezed the old man. “We know this place and its people. I been here all my life.”34

Some life, though Rakinr. He didn’t bother to answer. He had said too much already. He knew who he was looking for, and he didn’t need the help of all these old drunks. He was already angry at himself for coming here and drawing attention to himself.35

But then he corrected himself. That was the plan. Draw the pursuer out. For someone had been following him, through the Plains, and to this town. He knew that as surely as he knew that the sky was blue. It was possible the unknown pursuer was already in town.36

Rakinr drained his mug. He turned to the room at large. “It’s nothing, I thank you, folks. I can look this person up fine on my own. Be well.”37

“Be well,” echoed the wheezy old man.38

Rakinr came out into the square, and patted Jer’s flank. The sun was out now, and had chased all the clouds away for now. The bright warmth eased away his worries and gave him new hope. He would succeed. He felt it.39

He left Jer at the post and made his way further into the town. His feet followed a long-familiar path, one that he had beaten many times before when he had visited this town ten years before. A lifetime ago. 40

Through little alleyways where washing hung, and dogs played, houses with small gardens – brave attempts at cheating the desert. Children frolicked freely in the streets, playing with balls and mudpies.41

He slowed as he neared the house. It looked still the same. Nothing had changed. It was just as he had remembered it. Rakinr fought back a sudden upwelling of emotion in his heart. He moved on, and stood now before the door.42

A sudden hesitation seized him. What if he were wrong? Then he would have endangered this town for nothing. Not to mention a lot of wasted time. The dragons would be aware of him soon, when they came out of the Sleep. He drew his cloak closer around him against the sudden chill that had nothing to do with the weather. 43

He steeled himself and knocked on the door – noting the wreath of roseflowers that the occupant had hung there – once, twice. And he stepped back, and waited.44

A minute later, it was opened by a woman.45

She stood there, her dark hair falling into her eyes in the way that Rakinr remembered so well; her eyes reflecting the sun and turning a fey grey-green. She was still slender, and seemed full of life. She frowned in puzzlement at him, not quite recognizing him for a second.46

And it dawned. Comprehension spread across her face, and she half-smiled, her face creasing in delight. Rakinr gazed at her, unable to speak.47

She hadn’t changed a bit, either.48