Realm of Dragons

He hopped onto the battlements, quickly took in the locations of the patrolling guards, and smiled to himself. All was exactly as he’d thought it would be. Of course, if he stood there congratulating himself on his genius, they would probably spot him anyway, so it was best to get moving. Now he just had to remember the timing, as perfect as any song. Had he decided that this worked better to “The Seven Lilies” or “Tinker’s Gig”? The notes of “A Harpist’s Lament” came into his head. Ah, that was it…

In time to the rhythm of it, Renard dropped down from the wall, rolled, came up, and sprinted in a burst to the wall of the keep. He paused there, counting the beat, waiting while another set of footsteps passed by. Silent as a shadow, Renard climbed again, looking for the window he wanted.

There was an art to getting through a window without making a sound. Quiet as the growing darkness around him, Renard started to remove pieces of glass, depositing them in a small sack he’d brought to catch them. With the glass gone, it was relatively easy to cut through the lead and bend it back, giving enough room for his muscled form to slide through. It didn’t matter what kind of locks Lord Carrick put on his doors when there was a window to the room. Renard started to take a step forward, then stopped himself just in time as he saw a tripwire set there.

He lit a thief’s lamp, the hood over it providing a small circle of light directed downward so it wouldn’t show beyond the room. He bent, looking along the wire and seeing the crossbow it was connected to. Very, very carefully, he disconnected the wire. Even though he was sure he did it right, he still breathed a sigh of relief when the crossbow didn’t go off.

Renard looked up and his eyes lit up almost as much as the lamp at what he saw in the room. The sailor he’d talked to at the Broken Scale hadn’t been lying about what they’d been carrying. There were chests there that, when opened, gleamed with the shine of gold. There was enough here to last a lifetime, maybe, if he were able to take it all.

“And how would I do that?” he muttered to himself. “Enlist the guards?”

Better to stick with the plan. Taking a bag from his shoulder, Renard opened it, trying to decide what would be the easiest to carry, and to dispose of. Coins, definitely. He knelt by the chests, scooping them into his sack the way a farmer might have gathered potatoes. He kept going, wanting to take as much as he could get away with, because a chance like this only came along once.

That was roughly when everything went wrong.

Renard heard the snick of locks being opened, but there was nowhere to hide in a room this size, and no time to get back out the window. He tied off the end of his sack of stolen coins, but by then, the door was already swinging open.

A pair of guards came in, accompanying a man who might have been a clerk of some kind. The guards took one look at him and reached for their swords, while the clerk opened his mouth and let out a cry that could probably be heard two villages away.

“Thief!”

With no time to run, Renard knew he had to go the other way. He barreled into the first of the guards, smashing him back into the door frame with his shoulder. The second had his sword out by now, but in such close quarters, there was no space to swing the weapon. Renard grabbed the guard’s arm and pinned it back as the man tried to find an angle to swing at him. He knew that at any moment, the second guard might be there at his back, ready to kill him. He did the only thing he could do in that moment: he drew his dagger and thrust up, around the side of the man’s breastplate and into his lungs.

As the guard collapsed, Renard spun just in time to try to block the swing of a sword. He only partly managed it, and felt the blade cutting through the layers of his leathers, wounding the flesh beneath. Renard cut back, slicing across the man’s throat. He paused, trying to make sense of the chaos, and then cursed himself for doing it. You couldn’t make sense of chaos like this; you could only ride it and hope for the best.

He grabbed the sack he’d filled, flung it over his shoulder, and leapt through the window he’d come through. Renard rolled as he landed, but even so, it hurt, the clink of the coins against his ribs knocking the wind out of him. He forced himself to his feet, saw people staring, but he was already running.

A crossbow bolt flashed past him and he ducked instinctively, but what good was ducking when the bolt was already past? He wove as he ran, heading for the patch of wall he’d come over.

“No time,” he told himself. He ran for the castle stables instead. Another bolt flashed past him, but Renard ducked into cover, hiding behind a door, then scuttling low to duck in behind some hay bales. The guard who had fired at him came in, loading a fresh bolt, and the germs of a plan formed in Renard’s mind when no more followed.

“Don’t think,” he reminded himself. “Ride the chaos.”

He waited until the man’s back was turned, lunged up, and wrapped a meaty arm around his throat. Renard squeezed, and kept squeezing until the guard went limp. Then he dragged him back behind the hay and started to change.

The disguise that resulted was a long way from perfect. Renard had the man’s surcoat with Lord Carrick’s insignia, and he had a helm that would disguise some of his features, but they were built too differently for Renard to steal the other man’s armor. He would just have to hope that confidence was enough.

Going through the stable, he selected a mount and saddled it, throwing his ill-gotten gains into the saddle bags. Renard mounted up, trying not to think of all the ways that this could go wrong, then, very deliberately, he rode out into the middle of the castle.

Around it, he could see guards milling about, clearly trying to find him. How long would he have now? Minutes? Seconds? In the voice he normally reserved for quieting rowdy crowds when he played, Renard called out to them.

“Quick, he’s over the wall! We need to get after him! Open the gate!”

For a second, he thought it wouldn’t work. It shouldn’t have worked, because he knew just how flimsy this disguise was, and how stupid it was to open a gate when a thief was inside. Yet it seemed that these men were too afraid of losing part of Lord Carrick’s spoils to think properly, and the gate swung open.

Renard charged through it, bellowing more nonsense about getting after the thief. Men came out with him on foot, but Renard surged forward, outpacing them with what he hoped looked like his eagerness for the chase. He rode for what must have been half a mile before he grabbed the saddlebags and hopped down from the saddle, striking the horse to send it off in a fresh direction in case the guards had worked out his ruse by now.

Renard went the other way, to the spot where he’d left his own horse. He could feel the pain of the sword blow he’d taken, and the ache in his ribs from the fall, but as he mounted up it seemed worth it. He’d done it; he’d actually robbed Lord Carrick. With the sounds of the hunt for him still in the distance, it would be easy to ride clear.

Now, it was just a question of celebrating.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Brother Odd was working in the gardens when the call went out around the monastery. “Ships!” one of those meditating on the walls called out, echoed seconds later by more of the brothers, and still more. The sheer number of those calling out told him that this wasn’t some cluster of merchant ships come to bargain, or a noble aiming to give a grand farewell to a son offered up to the monastic life.

Even so, he had to see it for himself, had to hope that everything he suspected in that moment was wrong. Still clinging to the rake he’d been using to gather leaves, he climbed the stairs to the walls, looking out.

A trio of ships stood there on the horizon, enough to be called a fleet, enough to carry a whole company of men. They were surging forward from the sea, and by now they were already close enough that Brother Odd could make out the banners of the Southern Kingdom.

“What’s happening?” one of the brothers asked, even though it must have been obvious.

Another beside him looked hopeful. “Maybe it is a procession, or a royal expedition.”

Brother Odd couldn’t help laughing bitterly, and caught himself. That was the kind of thing the man he had been did. He gripped the rake tighter. This was the man he was now.

“Those are not trading ships, brothers,” he said softly. “That is an attack.”

“An attack?” the first brother said. “But why would they attack us? This is a holy place, a place of peace!”

“Perhaps that is why they have sent so few ships,” Brother Odd said. “They know that they can take the island easily.”

“But why would they?” the second brother demanded.

Brother Odd shook his head. “Because that would give Ravin easy access to the Northern Kingdom? No, don’t say anything else. I have no time to explain the evils of the world to you, brother. I need to find the abbot, and you need to get out of the monastery. Tell everyone who will listen that they need to run, now!”

He didn’t wait for a reply, but hurried instead down from the walls, seeking out the abbot and hoping he wouldn’t be too late. It was too easy to imagine the progress of the ships in toward the shore, the lowering of small boats or the throwing of ropes over to the docks. Brother Odd found himself imagining how he would organize the capture of a place like the monastery, and it was all too easy. Maybe if they’d had a company of soldiers here to defend those solid walls that cut them off from the world, it would have been different, but as it was…

He found the abbot in a cloister near the main gate, other senior figures from the monastery there with him. The precentor and the sacristan were both there, the head of the lay brothers and the librarian. Around them was a ring of other brothers, all waiting for information.

“Brothers, brothers,” the abbot said, making a placating gesture. “Calm yourselves. I am sure it is not as bad as you imagine.”

“It’s as bad and worse,” Brother Odd said, stepping forward. “The ships there have Ravin’s colors, which means that they’re probably the head of a larger invasion force to follow.”

The abbot turned to him. “Brother Odd, this is a matter which the senior monks must discuss. You must calm yourself. Seek the equilibrium that our home offers.”

“That’s going to be hard to do with a blade in me,” Brother Odd said. “And have no doubt, there will be blades. You need to evacuate while there’s still time, or at least shut the gates so that they can’t get in.”

“Brother Odd, you overstep your bounds,” the abbot said. “This monastery welcomes those who come to it. I and others will go down to the docks to meet our visitors. I will discuss things with them. I am sure they will see that we offer them no threat.”

“Men like that like it when the people they attack aren’t a threat,” Brother Odd snapped back. “They’ll cut you down, and—”

“That is enough, Brother,” the abbot said. “You are still thinking like the man you were; the man you claim you do not wish to be. I want you to kneel here and contemplate that. In silence, please.”

Brother Odd wanted to argue, but he couldn’t see a way to do it, not with every other eye there on him. To say anything more would be to defy the abbot openly. A monk did not do that. Seeing no other choice, he knelt, the rake before him, forcing down the waves of frustration and anger that threatened to overwhelm him.

The abbot turned to the others there.

“You will come with me,” he said to them. “We will greet our visitors in peace and remind them of the holy neutrality of our isle.”