Dragons Gather

The trouble started in a tavern, of course, just as it always did. But, for once, it wasn't our fault - "our" being collectively the motley members of the Circus of Dragons.
Jacobi, our resident fire-eater, was already slumped over his brew at the oak table where Shellia and I sat, her sipping that nasty orcish ale and me choking down what The Laughing River Inn called wine. Shellia rested a hand on my leg but wasn't drunk enough to have become demanding. Huerta and Feathen had already returned to our wagons. Our tumblers, Nina and Opel, were not with us, another reason that the inn was peaceful.
It had been a good day, and I felt comfortably drowsy. Warmth from the stone fireplace filled the room, but not enough to be stifling. Several of the farmers had raised a tankard to us earlier and now smiled at us whenever they happened to glance our way. The small village of Duntann was far enough off large trade routes that the villagers rarely received entertainers of any sort. They welcomed us as if we were the Empericus instead of a brokendown carnival with a grand name. Once the Circus of Dragons had been more, but that was years before I joined and I had traveled with it for nearly ten myself.
Not that we had lost all of our glory. We still had a small dragon, of which, in my opinion, beast master Kassler was overly proud. Old Manjarous could spin a tale of adventure and romance with his gravelly voice that would catch me and any audience away. Shellia danced the Veils sensuously and gracefully, although she left a few more on to hide the middleaged thickening of her waist. As for me, I manipulated coins and pulled paper flowers out of the air with enough grace to impress most folk who didn't understand the difference between a prestidigitator such as myself and a Mage who could channel magick and speak the Words of Power.
The thought of Mages turned my mood sour. I took another swallow of the socalled wine and began to mentally total our taking for the day. Shellia had received three pennies and two orcish halfpennies. The villagers rewarded Nina and Opel with a couple of pennies and Jacobi with a copper mark. I got a copper mark, also. Manjarous, our main moneymaker, got four pennies, a copper mark and, of all things, an elven star. Kassler hadn't delivered his take to me yet, but since he wasn't with us, I knew he had bought a bottle and was drinking away some of our profits. No matter; Huerta would collect from him and subtract out for his liquor. Feathen, our knife-thrower, garnered one penny and three halfpennies. At the current exchange rate - not including the star since I didn't know what it was worth if anything - I estimated that we had the equivalent of an Imperial talon, another month of substance for the Circus of Dragons. Huerta would be pleased, although our scowling circus master would never admit it.
The inn door slammed open, startling Jacobi awake and making Shellia grip my leg convulsively. The cool early autumn wind blew in and raised an eddy of straw and dirt. Wiping his hands on his stained apron, the innkeeper started to hustle to the door and then stopped.
I felt magick tingle across my Othersenses, a flaring of energy that made me flinch. I looked around for other exits. I saw stairs leading to the rooms above and a doorway behind the bar leading into the kitchen, neither close enough to allow us to slip away unnoticed.
Three Dreadmen entered. The noise in the inn drained away like ale out of a leaking barrel as the farmers took in their black armor, maroon cloaks and scabbarded swords. I didn't spare the soldiers more than a glance; I was focused on the wizard, standing in the door, invisible to the rest of the inn, but glowing like a torch to my Othereyes. A woman, also cloaked from sight, stood with him.
The wizard dropped his invisibility spell. To those in the tavern, it looked like he and the woman had appeared. The farmers gasped. The plump wife of the innkeeper uttered a small cry of dismay and fear. Dreadmen and now a wizard. I looked down and hunched over my wine like a drunk. Perhaps he wouldn't notice me, and then I could get up and stumble-
"What have we here?" the wizard asked. I could feel his Othersenses probing me. He was puzzled by the amount of magick pooling in me, pulling back in surprise at first and then continuing when I didn't block or challenge him. His senses tried to trace my main Channel and find the smaller Channels that would tell him of my Talents. He, of course, found none. My stomach tightened.
Bile rose in my throat as he silently moved to my table. Farmers drew back as if the touch of his maroon cloak would burn them. Shellia breathed rapidly, and her hand pulled away from mine and sought the small knife that she carried on her wrist. Jacobi sat still as stone, his brown eyes staring at me helplessly. He knew the danger the wizard presented; he had scars on his back to remind him if he ever forgot.
"One of the Dammed," the wizard said. His magick forced my head up to meet his gaze. "I have always wondered how it would feel to be able to sense the magick and not be able to Channel it. Tell me, what is it like?"
I swallowed anger and fear and told the wizard what he wanted to hear. "It is terrible, Lord Mage." I gave him a higher title than he deserved. He was probably not more than Fifth Rank, an Undermage answerable to many other Mages, but that was enough to make him deadly to those such as us.
He smiled at me. "I believe if I was one of the Dammed, I'd kill myself. There is no cure, you know." His malicious and unspoken question hung in the air between us and made me burn with anger. I thought of lunging for him and of the quick and terrible ending of my life as his magick seared away my flesh.
Because I wanted to survive, I bowed my head and mumbled, "I do the best I can, Lord Mage."
His contemptuous gaze took in my companions and then returned to me. "I'm sure that you do." He laughed and turned from me. "Innkeeper, the House of the Wizard Galekarn requires the best food and drink that you can offer. Serve it to us now."
The innkeeper bowed and hurried to the kitchen.
The wizard moved closer to the fire and said, "I wish to be alone."
Almost as a man, the farmers and villagers rose and scuttled to the door. Jacobi, Shellia and I also needed no urging. As I rose to follow them out, I suddenly noticed the woman. She was standing in the center of the room, her black cloak covering all but her face. Her eyes met mine, emeraldgreen fire that sent shocks up and down my spine. My vision tunneled for a moment with her at the center.
A farmer stumbled, falling against one of the Dreadmen. The soldier pushed him against a wall, slapping him, his gauntleted fist making a bloody mess of the hapless man's face. The wizard barked a short laugh. A fleshly thud, and the wizard dropped to his knees, stunned by the skillet wielded by the innkeeper's wife. Several villagers roared and attacked the Dreadmen.
I wanted to shout, "Stop," but I choked on the words. The room blurred as if I were seeing it through a sheet of water. Someone kicked the wizard in the face and then jumped on his chest repeatedly
The surprised soldiers rallied almost immediately and began to fell villagers with well-placed blows. One of the Dreadmen pulled out a strike pistol and for some reason shot it into the fireplace. Burning logs exploded across the room. The dry straw on the floor ignited in a river of fire.
"Come on, Stefean, oh please, come on," Shellia pleaded with me, pulling on my arm. I looked at her. I looked down. The wizard was lying before me, his unseeing eyes reflecting the flames. My boots were bloody.
Shellia pulled me out of the inn. Villagers were running everywhere. Someone was trying to start a bucket brigade. A Dreadman ran out of the burning inn. He had his sword and strike pistol out and was shouting. We stumbled off into the dark.
It seemed to take candlemarks to reach our camp. By the time we arrived, Huerta had the wagons half-packed, heeding Jacobi's warnings who arrived well before us. The circus master yelled at me, his words a senseless rumble. I made my way to the wagon I shared with Manjarous and tried to help the old man hitch up the mules, but Manjarous did most of the work. I couldn't focus my thoughts. I saw Jacobi pushing a drunken Kassler into his wagon. Manjarous pushed me into the wagon seat and climbed up beside me. His faded blue eyes met mine, and he shook his head.
"Look," Manjarous said, pointing a gnarled finger. The burning inn lit up the sky with a reddish glow.
Huerta stopped beside our wagon and looked back toward the village. "Fire will be the least of their worries when the Dreadmen show up," he ground out, glaring at me. "We're moving out. Haul your asses!"
A half candlemark later we were on our way. The road was clear with ruts that showed plainly in the moonlight. The mules pulled our wagon steadily. Some time passed, perhaps a couple candlemarks or so. Manjarous swayed, drowsy. I took the reins, and he went to the back.
My mind slowly cleared. What had happened? I was not a violent man. In fact, it had been years since I had actually fought anyone and more since I had killed a man. Had I actually attacked the wizard? He was dead when I left. Had I killed him? Or had the innkeeper's wife swung too hard? But why would I attack him? What could ever make me do such a thing? To take such a chance? If the wizard had not been stunned, he would have killed all of us easily. A sweep of a Boneburn spell and we would have been at his mercy.
"What went on, boy?" Manjarous asked. He moved up to sit beside me and offered me a drink from his flask. The brandy burned down my throat.
"I don't know," I said. "I'm not sure what happened. A wizard came in with some Dreadmen. We were all leaving and then …" I shrugged helplessly. "Everything is a blur. The villagers attacked the Dreadmen. The wizard was knocked out. Killed, I think." I was afraid I had killed him, but I said nothing about that.
The old man took another drink of his brandy and coughed. "The Dreadmen will put them all to the sword. And us, too, if the bastards catch us." He paused. "Do you think they will follow us?"
I didn't have an answer. It would depend on what the villagers said ( if they said anything. Most of them, if they had even half the brains of dirt, would be packing up and leaving for other parts as soon as they could. Assault on a Dreadman was punished by death. Wizards supposedly had no more protection than any other citizen of the Empire, but you could build mountains with the bones of those who had tested that. What was the wizardling even doing in Duntann? It certainly had no attractions. How soon could the Dreadmen who survived make a report? What would they say? Were their minds as cloudy as mine?
Manjarous was still waiting, his silence heavy.
"Probably not," I finally said. "He was a low rank wizard. If his family doesn't demand more, they will most likely be satisfied with hanging a few villagers." I hoped. Perhaps I was callous to not care more for the villagers, but if they were wise, they would scatter into the woods. If they were not wise, then the gods have mercy on them.
Manjarous glanced at me thoughtfully, nodded and went to the back again. We drode most of the night, finally reaching the Finarl trade road near dawn. Huerta pushed on for another candlemark or so and then led our seven wagons off into a clearing. I helped Manjarous unhitch the team and staked the mules so they could feed.
Shellia and Nina were working on providing a breakfast of porridge for us when Kassler and Huerta sought me out, Jacobi following behind. They all looked weary, Jacobi white-faced and withdrawn. I grimaced at the memories that this had probably brought back to that usually jolly man.
"Well?" Huerta asked, his thick arms across his chest, his black brows almost touching as he frowned at me.
I faced him, trying to meet his dark eyes. "It wasn't our fault. It was the villagers." I had half convinced myself of that. Who knows? Perhaps those farmers had lost sons to the Dreadmen press gangs or had daughters fouled by soldiers. Anything could have caused the outbreak of violence.
I went over what happened. Huerta listened, scowling. Kassler's face radiated disgust and disapproval, his mustache twitching at parts of my story. Jacobi said little, only verifying what I had said. I left out my attack on the wizard ( if that had even happened as I remembered it. It was hazy now like a dream fading at dawn. Jacobi glanced up at me as that omission became obvious to him, but he said nothing. He had no love for wizards.
Finally I ran out of words.
Huerta grunted. "How much trouble are we in?"
"The wizard was lower rank," I said, making the best case that I could. "His family is not prominent or they wouldn't let their son be posted out here. Or perhaps he is in disgrace. His death could be a boon to some ( if he died in the attack." And I was certain now that he had. Otherwise, he would have healed himself and followed us. The wagons would be smoking ruins, and we would be dead or huddled in the woods or in chains.
"He could also be the favored son of a High Noble," Kassler sneered. "Maybe even the son of Galekarn himself. In which case, our magician has made our lives worth about as much as dragon droppings." He stared at my face, daring me to argue.
A short silence. It was finally broken by Jacobi who asked, "Aren't dragon droppings good fertilizer?"
Kassler glanced sharply at the impassive face of the flame-swallower.
Huerta snorted. He looked at me and sighed and looked down at the ground.
"The villagers started it," Jacobi said. "It's not out fault."
I nodded, appreciating his support. I waited. He would be well within his rights to cast me out. While it would not be first time we had ran from what passed for the law out here, what had happened in the inn could carry a more fearful result - although being dead from hanging is just as dead as being burned alive by Magesfire.
"We rest until midday and then go on," the circus master said. "The more miles we have 'tween there and us, the better."
Kassler turned on his heel and strode off, muttering, his contempt plain.
Jacobi smiled uncertainly at me and then went over to Nina and Opel who had to have been bursting with questions.
Huerta studied me for a long time. "We take care of our own," he said. "That's the way of the circus. Has been, always will be. But Stefean, don't push it." He turned and then said over his shoulder, "Clean your boots." He walked off.
I stared after him. Shellia must have told what happened. She avoided looking at me as she joined the others around the porridge pot. Who could blame her? I had killed a man right in front of her. I started to shake.
Manjarous placed his hand on my shoulder. "Steady, Stefean, steady on," he said. "What is done is done. Do what he says and do it well. I hear wizards can use blood to trace people, but you probably know that." I could sense that he wanted desperately to ask me why I had attacked the wizard, but his natural reticence kept him from it. Trouble was, I didn't know. Most Dammed did kill themselves. Was this going to be my way? Get some wizardling to kill me? Was I so much a coward that I couldn't do it myself? Or did I hate wizards that much deep in my heart?
True, I was bitter about magick. After all, I came from a long line of wizards. My father had thought I was meant to wear the maroon and gold. After I failed at that and he sent me to warrior training, I could have at least had the decency to die in some border war. When I ran away from fighter school, he could have found me easily with his power. He did not. Perhaps I was like I had imagined the wizardling in the village to be - such a disgrace that he would consider it a boon if I vanished forever.
The world was filled with those who aspired to be Mages, wizardlings who scrambled for the scraps of knowledge that fell from the tables of the Mages. It is not enough to be able to Channel the magick; you must know the spells and the Words of Power to harness its power. I could learn such arcane language - and in my father's house, he had trained me as if I would be not Dammed one day - but it would never be anything except gibberish on my lips.
Shellia walked by, carrying a large bowl of porridge and a cup of tea. She glanced at me and deliberately looked away. I stood there for a moment and then went and cleaned my boots.
We traveled the next few days. Shellia continued to ignore me, taking her meals in her wagon. She would respond to my greeting, and that was all. Huerta and most of the others treated me no differently, although sometimes I felt a wariness that had not been there before. Jacobi was more friendly, perhaps showing the others that he trusted me, perhaps enjoying a revenge of a sort on the wizards that he hated. Kassler showed his usual contempt toward me, the same he showed to everyone other than Huerta and Feathen. We kept up a steady pace, putting in as many miles as we could. The Empire was large. Even the Dreadmen couldn't patrol it easily, nor would they want to devote too much time to search for us, at least that was my fervent hope.
Eight days after we left Duntann, we reached a small village that didn't have a name, just a cluster of shacks by a small spring. We needed water, food for ourselves, grain for the mules, and some rest. Huerta traded an evening's entertainment to the village elders for vegetables, a couple of sheep, and a place to park our wagons away from the road. The villages were excited to see us and would talk about us for months, even years, afterwards, the stories becoming larger, our feats grander, until it would seem as if the Empericus itself had descended on this tiny place. We would put on our best for these people even though they had no money for they were something we valued - an appreciative audience. They reminded me of unfortunate Duntann, a sobering thought that I tried to ignore.
Shellia started the show with a vigorous dance while I and Jacobi beat the drums for her. As she twirled, her face alive and laughing as it always was when she performed, her blonde braids tracing a path of gold in the air, I realized I missed her, even her drunken friendliness. Soon after I joined the circus, I shared her bed a few times before I realized she wanted something I couldn't provide, something that I felt no one could give her. At night, she would dream things that she wouldn't discuss during the day, but whatever they were, they tormented her. You could love her many times, make her sigh with pleasure repeatedly (and she would for she was lusty) but when she slept, she would toss and turn and wake whimpering. What she wanted and needed was someone who could take her nightmares away. Eventually she and I decided that we were better as friends. She sometimes forgot that when she was drinking. I sometimes forgot it when I was not. The villagers eagerly applauded her, although I noticed some women elbowing their too-enthusiastic husbands and boyfriends.
Jacobi took the stage between acts as we set up for each performer, swallowing fire and using a strong liquor and a punt to send out gouts of flame. He could breathe a flame almost as tall as he was. He showed once how he did it. He said it was not dangerous as long as you kept your clothes and hair out of the way. On the former, he always wore a sleeve-less shirt. On the latter, he was bald. I still thought him somewhat mad.
Nina and Opel came next, their bodies tumbling across the dirt, flips and handstands bringing appreciative squeals and screams from the village children. Nina and Opel were sisters, both muscled and flexible with broad smiling faces and close cut brown hair. Manjarous had told me their act used to include a brother, but he had died of a fever a year before I joined. They were good, but their act always seemed to be missing something, perhaps that brother. They were wild and full of energy and could drink better than most men. They made me laugh with their sheer enjoyment of what life offered.
Kassler came next, first having his birds swing on trapezes in their cages and hang upside down and even sing a slightly naughty version of the Maiden and the Impolite Boy. The birds looked tiny on his huge, hairy hands, but they could take a good bite out of you if they were so inclined. I had helped him feed them before. Then his two dogs jumped through rings and balanced on a ball. Finally he brought out our dragon, who looked at the crowd sleepily. It was always drugged when it was out of its cage. It was young, barely thirty years old, standing about waist high with long black claws, violet eyes and a dark red tongue. Its hide was a mottled green that could change colors as it adapted to its environment. I had seen it change to brown in the winter and green in the summer. (Kassler claimed at up north, the dragons turned blue white to match the snows. Ours never had, but we tried to avoid the snows.)
In another fifty years or so, our little dragon would regurgitate a liquid from its seven stomachs that it would make into a cocoon. It would then sleep for a season or two before clawing its way out with a new set of wings, a spiked tail, and the ability to shoot a geyser of stomach acid that would ignite and burn hot enough to shatter rock and melt iron. It would want to seek out a mate in the mating grounds beyond the desert sands of the Burning Forever. But when it cocooned, it would be sold to a Mage or zoo or perhaps a circus like the Empericus which could afford the reinforced cages and magicks necessary to contain an adult dragon.
The villages drew back from the warm-blooded creature. They all knew how dangerous the adults were, and a young dragon could kill a man easily and would if hungry enough. They applauded strongly, but I noticed their clapping got louder as Kassler put it back into its cage.
I was next. I pulled half-pennies from behind the ears of urchins and produced a few paper flowers for the maidens and goodwives. I joined large metal rings and made coins disappear and reappear, my hands running through their endlessly practiced routines. Finally, I used two burly villagers who helped me "cut in two pieces" a village elder by apparently pulling two ropes through his body. The elder acted frightened, the burly boys pulled hard when they were supposed to, and it went off well.
Feathen followed. A small, intense man who favored black clothing, he was a true knife thrower, not using a clever device to make people think he was throwing the knives around a pretty girl. As a result, he didn't use a human target even though Shellia had volunteered, saying she trusted him. One slip, he told her, and she could die or be scarred for life. He wouldn't do that for entertainment. Accordingly, he didn't bring in as much coin as some I had seen, but he was still good, hitting his target with double throws, throws from behind his back and then using a small bronze mirror while his back was turned. He finished by being blindfolded and spun around by a village boy. Naturally he ended up facing the villagers and made as if to throw at them, making a few girls squeal, before turning sharply and hitting a dragon's-eye.
Manjarous finished the night as he did most times. He told the tale of Vermilion Knight, a crowd-pleaser with its old jokes, gentle and funny love story, and, of course, the terrible and dark dragon that threatened the Knight's love. His rough voice changed as he acted as first the brave knight and then the knight's love. With his flowing gestures and expressive face, he drew his audience in until they forgot they had heard the tale a hundred times. He could make more coin in a larger show, but he stubbornly stayed with the Circus of Dragons. It had been his home for more than thirty years, and he was the closest that Huerta had to a friend.
Usually I enjoyed Manjarous, but I was restless that night. I glanced across the crowd, the children and their parents held captive by only the magick of the storyteller's words. I noticed Shellia stood at the back of the crowd, standing near a woman who was in the shadows. Shellia appeared to be talking to her.
Suddenly apprehensive, I rose and made my way through the crowd. By the time I reached Shellia, the woman was gone. I looked around. Shellia gave me a quick glance and then headed back the way I came. I touched her arm. She looked at me. I dropped my hand. She searched my face as if she had never seen me before.
The crowd laughed as the knight's love revealed that she was actually a man and then roared when the knight revealed she was a woman. They applauded Manjarous loudly as he bowed.
"Come on," Shellia said. "Time for our bows."
Huerta was on stage, letting the crowd applaud us once more. Shellia twirled across the stage, Nina and Opel rolled across, Kassler came out with a white bird riding on his shoulder, I produced another bouquet of flowers, Feathen juggled a couple of his knives as he walked up, and Manjarous told a final joke.
The crowd disappeared to their homes. I wanted to talk to Shellia, but by the time I had put away my apparatus and helped the others put up the stage, she had already retired to her wagon. I waited, indecisive as to follow her or not, not knowing how to bridge the gap between us. Finally I went to my wagon and went to bed.
When we rose the next morning, we found the villagers discussing a troop of Dreadmen that had rode past in the night. A couple of farmers and their sons had seen them. The boys delighted in telling the story. The older men were not so happy. We also did not share their joy. Although we could not know with any certainty where that troop was headed, that road did lead eventually to Duntann.
We hitched up and left soon after. I worried all morning, but we reached the next crossroads with no pursuit. We drove on, not really pushing our mules, but not resting much, either. We took a side road to our next turning. Our meals were subdued.
Two days later, we turned south. The northern fringes didn't receive much entertainment so we were welcome there, but their winters were fierce. We had a fall and winter route which would see us receiving rain, but little snow. It kept us away from most of the larger towns and cities where we would not be seen as anything other than a run-down carnival, although we would perform at the city of Gottehemeh, Huerta's birthplace and his family's home. Our mood improved the more miles we covered. I slowly began to settle down. Manjarous hummed as he worked on a new tale. The mood of the circus lightened.
Shellia was more friendly at our stops for meals, but she ate in her wagon, seemingly avoiding everyone. I sauntered over to it, curious as to why. I knocked on the door with its faded star and moon. Shellia had done séances for gullible villagers for a few years before she abruptly stopped, saying it disturbed her sleep. We missed the coin some, but it had always made the local clerics mutter against us. Whatever god they serve, the clerics think the dead belong to them. You can't talk with the deceased unless you make a donation to their temple, and then that communication had better involve living according to their particular holy writ or you were looking at trouble.
I could hear Shellia moving inside in the wagon. I knocked again, wondering.
Silence for a moment.
"What is it?" she called.
"I was just going to see if you'd like to eat with me," I said, reaching for the handle.
"I'm changing, Stefean" she said. "And I don't feel well. I don't want any company."
I took a deep breath and let it go. Apparently only time ( if that ( would allow there to be any semblance of our former friendship.
"As you wish," I said, trying to not be angry, and walked away.
Only later as the mules pulled our wagons toward Riverbend Town did it occur to me that she seemed to be taking larger portions of the meals than usual. She would need more veils if she kept that up, I thought unkindly. Manjarous had opened the canvas windows of our wagons and was airing out our bedrolls as we drove. I could hear him muttering, rehearsing a tale as he worked.
The trees still held their over-ripe green of summer, but flashes of color showed that forests knew the seasons were changing. Soon the roads would be covered in leaves. The air was crisp and clear. As I held the reins, my body moving in the rhythm of the wagon's motion, my thoughts slowly faded away. In those rare moments, I could forget myself. I could be just a circus magician, traveling the open roads where there was no magick to invoke my useless Othersenses, nothing to remind me that I was Dammed.
Many times I had wondered why I still breathed. Somehow I had managed to avoid becoming a drunk or herb-addicted as so many Dammed do. Either I was inordinately lucky or perhaps that still awaited me. Years ago before leaving my father's house, I had looked up the Ritual of Valargena, not that I seriously considered Immolation then as I still held the childish hope that I would somehow be cured. I had nightmares for weeks afterward, terrified that I would mumble the Ritual while I slept. I finally wrapped a scarf around my mouth and slept that way for months. Many Dammed do turn to the Ritual finally. Some invoke it hoping desperately that they will be different, that it would not kill them. But most do it because they cannot stand living any longer. There is a saying that being Dammed means you are dead; the news has just not reached you yet.
I shook myself, irritated at my thoughts. That was not a way to survive, to dwell on something that could not be changed. I was Dammed, but I was more than that. I had keep reminding myself. Otherwise, one night I would steal a knife from Feathen and (
At first I was grateful when Nina and Opel's wagon suddenly stopped, forcing me to pull hard on the reins. Manjarous fell over. I could hear his curse. He poked his head out of the passway.
"Good gods, boy, don't you know how to warn …" His voice trailed away as he and I took in the reason we had stopped.
A troop of Dreadmen blocked the road.