A Fate Worse Than Dragons Read online

  “Get outta here,” said Sir David.

  “No kidding, I mean it. There’s always some trouble-maker out there wanting to start up another revolution. We can’t let them have a legitimate heir. She’d make it too easy for them to rally support.”

  “She’s dead, Al.” Sir David and the king had fought side by side and this put them on a first-name basis. “It’s been a year. Even if she made it to safety, she’s bound to have starved to death by now.”

  “That’s why you gotta bring back her bones. With this damn silly story going around that she survived, there’ll be imposters popping up for the next fifty years, claiming to be the rightful heir. We have to positively identify her as dead.”

  Sir David frowned. “Can you do that with just bones?”

  “She’ll have jewelry and rings and things that can be used to identify her. She’ll have the royal hairband.”

  “The what?”

  “She had a solid gold hairband. She was a sorority girl.”

  Sir David looked doubtful. “I don’t know, Al. She’s guarded by a bunch of dragons, according to the story.”

  “Sure, but that’s got to be an exaggeration. You know how dragons are. They’re too mean to live with each other. There’s probably only one dragon.”

  “Oh, thanks a lot.”

  “Tell you what, Davey,” said King Al. “You bring Gina’s corpse back, you can have the hairband.”

  It took two months for Sir David to locate the mountain redoubt—he traced it through construction records. From her vantage on the cliffs, Princess Gina saw him before he saw her. She had been living for fourteen months on rainwater and ravens she had snared with the yarn from her needlepoint bag. She immediately sprang into action. From her handbag she took the last of her carefully husbanded soap and cosmetics, so by the time the sun made its way into the chasm and backlit her with golden rays, her hair was clean and brushed, her lips and eyelashes were perfect, and from a distance she looked as beautiful as any other princess of the Twenty Kingdoms. Except that she was half-starved, but that was okay. The waif look was in that season. Sir David fell in love with her at first sight. No kidding, he really did. Don’t be so cynical.

  There only remained for Sir David to slay the five dragons that guarded the fortress, and here Gina had not been idle either. During the year she had carefully tracked their habits and located their hiding places, and by means of the mirror in her compact was able to signal this information to Sir David. It was still a tremendous feat of bravery and skill to slay the five dragons—to slay even one dragon of any kind is impressive—and Sir David well deserved the accolades that were given him, but nonetheless it was a team effort. And then the two rode back together, to the cheers and adulation of the entire country.

  Except the king.

  “For God’s sake, Davey,” he said. He put his head in his hands. “You weren’t supposed to bring her back alive!”

  “Couldn’t be helped, Al.”

  “I was just about getting everyone back to working together. She’s been here three days and already the court is splitting into Termagant and Arrogant factions again. Why couldn’t you have pushed her off a cliff or something?”

  “Wouldn’t be chivalrous, Al.”

  The king snapped his fingers. “I got it, Davey. You marry her.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, it’s great. You’re a Termagant, she’s an Arrogant. Oh yeah. The two factions are unified by love, everyone’s happy, the press is gonna love this.” King Al stood up. “Sir David, for your bravery, gallantry, and all that stuff, I’m rewarding you with the hand of Princess Gina. What a story.”

  “I don’t know, Al.”

  “What’s the problem? You said you loved her.”

  “Oh sure. I do. But, you know, when I first saw her I was just an ordinary knight. Now that I’m a big hero, I’ve got babes lining up around the block to spend the night with me. This isn’t a good time to get married.”

  But when the king gives a reward, a knight really can’t turn it down. King Al called Princess Gina in for a secret meeting, where he generously offered to not execute her, and even to name her as his heir, provided she would not contest his right to the throne. He gave her a contract to sign. Princess Gina read it over carefully, took the pen he handed her, and stabbed him through the eyeball with it. He had killed her family, after all, and fourteen months of living on water and raw birds can make a girl a bit testy. Then she married Sir David, reunited the country, and they both lived happily ever after.

  Of course, these days every one in the Twenty Kingdoms thinks she died of starvation back in the mountains. That’s because they only know the story from the famous opera, Princess Gina—score by Antonio Rosinetti, libretto by Jake McGurk—where she expires in his arms after singing the haunting aria “Perché Siete cosí Ritardati?” (What Took You So Long?). But that’s opera. Opera is supposed to end tragically. The truth is that they both lived happily ever after AND set a legal precedent. When a knight slays a dragon, he gets to marry the next available princess. Nothing to it.

  “A gryphon,” repeated Alison.

  “A gryphon,” said Muchluck again. “They’re big.” He spread his arms in a gesture meant to indicate bigness. “Big enough to carry off a horse. They’re mean. And they eat girls. That was part of the deal that Count Bussard had with the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains. Even a sorcerer needs to buy things and make investments. The Count was his local agent. He kept things quiet for Bussard and Bussard kept things legal for the wizard. Or at least made sure the law looked the other way.”

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “The sorcerer? No. He likes to stay on the sidelines, so to speak. He uses go-betweens, like Count Bussard, to deal with the general public. The Old Man of the Mountains worked the same way.”

  “Except for the girls he kidnapped. I expect they saw him.”

  “Perhaps. You can’t count on anything with a sorcerer.”

  They had all left the roof and gone back inside, downstairs to the Count’s library. It was well designed, with lots of tall windows for natural light, club chairs, and glass-fronted barrister bookcases. Roland searched the shelves, while Muchluck and Alison stood at a window and looked up at the sorcerer’s peak. His mountain redoubt was shrouded in clouds, but Alison had seen it many times before. She felt a sinister chill just thinking about Gloria being taken there.

  She shuddered and lowered her gaze to ground level. Bussard’s force of guards had ridden away. Everyone was leaving. The servants were streaming away, walking swiftly down the graveled drive, or just cutting across the meadows, their belongings hastily packed in whatever container was available. “They’re going back to town.”

  “We shouldn’t be here either. It’s not safe. Who knows what the sorcerer is up to? We going to have the king coming after his daughter on one side, and the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains on the other side, and we don’t want to be caught in the middle.”

  Alison had told the two guards that they had kidnapped the Princess Gloria, daughter of the King of Medulla. It took a little time to convince them, but hostilities had ended. Muchluck and Thursby were now more than eager to be cooperative. They were also eager to get the hell out of the castle. Even though Muchluck gave the impression he’d like another chance to mix it up with Sir Terry, he was willing to let a rematch wait for another time.

  They both started at the sound of breaking glass. Roland came away from the shelves with a pair of thick books under each arm. “I only found a few things.” He put them on a table. “They were all shelved together, and that shelf was locked.” Alison stood next to him while he opened the thickest book. Although all the books had been dusted regularly, this one still looked very old. The leather over the spine had peeled away from the binding, and the rest of the cover had a pattern of fine cracks. “The earliest reference is by Aristeas, in his epic poem the Arimaspia . He says they originate beyond the Issedones, and continually war with the Aris
maspians for their gold, which they dig up out of the ground and hoard in their mountain fastness. Give me that book, please.”

  Alison handed him the next book on the stack, a copy of the Indika. This one seemed newer on the outside, but the paper inside was yellowed and brittle. It had probably been rebound. Roland opened it to a marked page. “Ketesias the Cnidian places them in Scythia. He says they are extremely vicious, giant four-footed birds with claws like a lion and a head like an eagle. They have black feathers except for a red breast.”

  “Well, if this man is correct,” Alison said, indicating Muchluck, “they are not in Scythia or the Issedones. There is one right here in Medulla.”

  “The sorcerer could have brought it in. Or hatched it from an agate egg.”

  Thursby entered the library, lugging two heavy pigskin valises. He gave one to Muchluck. “The maids took off with the silver plate before I could get to it. His valet got his rings and gold shirt studs. Of course the silver spoons were the first to disappear. I got a bunch of the silver candlesticks, and a silver cow creamer. The other guys already emptied the cashbox.”

  “If you’re intent on looting this place,” said Roland, “the artwork here is worth far more than the silver.” He pointed to the opposite wall, which held a painting of a young woman holding a glass with ice cubes. “That’s Madonna on the Rocks by Ambrosia Pesce. It will bring a good price at any auction.”

  “Bought with money torn from the starving mouths of the oppressed masses,” said Alison.

  “Too hard to fence,” said Muchluck. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Go back to his bedroom and get his silk hose,” he told Thursby. “They’re easy to carry, easy to sell, and they’ll will fetch a pretty penny. Silk shirts, too, if you can fit them in. Then let’s get out of here.”

  “Right,” said Thursby. He looked at the books on the table. “You told them about the gryphon?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you tell them what they eat?

  “Girls,” said Alison.

  “Virgins,” said Thursby.

  Alison clucked her tongue in exasperation. “Again with the virgin thing? What’s the big deal about virginity? Dragons, unicorns, sorcerers, priests—are they all obsessed with virgins? Why isn’t the sadder-but-wiser girl ever considered for their nefarious schemes?”

  Muchluck gave the young woman a speculative look. “There must be something particularly valuable about virginity, since so many girls are so reluctant to give it up.”

  “Enough of that,” objected Roland. “I will appreciate it if you will refrain for lowering the tone of the conversation.”

  “Boys can be virgins, too,” continued Alison. “So how come evil sorcerers never try to kidnap them?”

  “Girls are probably easier for him to catch than boys,” explained Muchluck. “They can’t see him. When a man gets to middle age, he becomes invisible to pretty girls.”

  “What?”

  The library door opened and closed again as Terry came in. His mouth was set in a hard, straight line. Without saying anything, he looked around the room until he spotted a vase of flowers. He picked it up, threw the flowers on the floor, and splashed the water on his face. Crossing to a window, he dried his hands on the draperies while he looked grimly across the valley, to the steep peak that housed the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains.

  “Terry.” Roland interrupted his thoughts. “Where have you been?”

  “In the stable. I had to secure our horses. The guards took the Count’s horses when they deserted.”

  “Damn,” said Muchluck. “I didn’t think of that. We’ll have to walk.”

  “First you’ll show me to the armory. I’ll need a lance and a long sword. And an ax will be good also.”

  “Battle-ax or chopping ax?”

  “Either one will do.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Alison.

  “We have to bring back soldiers,” said Roland. “You can’t attack the sorcerer alone. There must be a military outpost in the region.”

  “Not in this valley,” said Muchluck. “The Count took care of security.”

  “How far away then? A day’s ride? Two days’?”

  “Too far,” said Terry. “There’s no time.” He pointed out the window. “It’s a four-hour ride to the base of that mountain. Half a day to scale the peak. I can reach the summit before dawn tomorrow. Animals in zoos are fed once a day. In the wild they might eat less often than that. Assuming it ate Count Bussard today, and the beast feeds once a day, there’s still a chance to save her.”

  “Save her how? These things are big, Terry. They fight dragons. Have you ever seen one? Do you even know what they look like?”

  Terry glared at Roland, then crossed the room and pushed past him, over to the bookshelves. Scanning them only briefly, he selected one, put out a hand, and pulled down a thick handbook, which he brought back and laid in front of them. Fielding’s Guide to Birds, Butterflies, and Monstrosities. Terry flipped through the index, then riffled through the book until he found the page he wanted. “Look at this,” he said, handing it to Roland. “There it is.”

  The others crowded around Roland to look at the book. “I don’t believe this,” said Thursby. “It says the Gray Warbler is native to the woods of Medulla. I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve never seen a gray warbler.”

  “Other page!” snapped Terry.

  “Gryphon,” read Roland. They all fell silent, looking at the illustration.

  “Oh my,” said Alison.

  Any competent fashion designer will tell you that there are certain combinations that don’t look good together and never will. Usually he is talking about patterns, but fabrics and textures are also included. Silk socks with a tweed suit, for example. Pearls and black leather. Fur and feathers. The illustration, which a snarling mass of fur, feathers, muscle, claws, and a sharp, dripping beak, was of a monster that blended frightening and hideous with tacky. It looked like something made by a creator with a demonic mind who also had bad taste.

  Roland cleared his throat. “Terry,” he said carefully. “I don’t want to question your professional competence, but I think this may be a bit out of your league. We should send for that other guy.”

  “What other guy?”

  “You know. The one who killed the dragon over in Oblongata. I can’t remember his name.”

  “Huggins,” said Alison. “Sir Huggins. I heard about him, too. Roland is right, Sir Terry. We need someone like that.”

  Terry glared at her. “Huggins didn’t . . . he’s not exactly . . . I don’t think . . .”

  “I’m sorry if I hurt your pride, Terry. You’re very strong and very brave. But we really ought to call in someone who has experience.”

  “Huggins doesn’t really have that much . . .”

  Thursby read the caption. “The diet of the gryphon consists primarily of young virgins.”

  “Just show me to the damn armory!” shouted Terry

  There was nothing frightening or intimidating about the lair of the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains. At least, not from the outside. In fact, with its overhanging gables and rough lumber walls, it put Gloria more in mind of a holiday ski chalet than the fortress of an evil sorcerer. She was not in a holiday mood, though. She regained consciousness on a bank of wet snow, shivering and cold, in a small courtyard. Her last memory was of the gryphon dropping her from roof height. When she looked up it was still above her, four clawed feet gripping the rocks above the chalet, and she clambered backward, hands and ankles sinking into icy slush, to get away from its hostile glare. Pure instinct brought her to the warmth of a doorway. From her knees she reached up to grab the handle, crawled inside the door, closed and bolted it, and finally pulled herself to her feet, leaning against the frame while she looked around.

  She was standing on a parquet floor that was badly in need of polishing. A few area rugs were scattered across it. They too were well-worn. There were windows, but they were misted over with co
ndensation and didn’t let in much light. At first she didn’t see anyone else. The focal point of the room was an overstuffed reclining chair. Next to it was an end table, with a lamp. When she was sure she could stand again without support, she walked over and looked at it. The table also held an illustrated book of back exercises, a scattering of pillboxes, and several empty bottles of low-calorie beer. The walls had several racks of shelves, mostly filled with old high school sports trophies

  The room had a fireplace, which became Gloria’s next destination. A small wood fire was burning with a steady flame. She warmed her hands and front until she stopped shivering, then turned around and warmed her backside until the wet material of her dress started to steam. Meanwhile she tried to develop a plan. She didn’t see the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains until he spoke to her. This surprised her, because he was sitting in the inglenook right next to the fireplace. Yet somehow she had looked right past him.

  He had her sewing bag open, with the contents spread across his lap. He examined a piece of lace, holding it so the firelight shone through it, and said, “Very nice.”

  “I made it myself,” said Gloria. The words sounded idiotic to her own ears, but she had to say something while she looked him over. He seemed to be in his midforties and in good shape, but with a small paunch that he would never be able to get rid of no matter how many stomach crunches he did. His hair, gray at the temples, had been artfully combed in a vain attempt to cover a bald spot the size of her palm. He was wearing a cardigan sweater and khaki pants with an elastic waist.

  As she had finished her examination of him, and he was apparently taking no further notice of her, Gloria decided to take the initiative. “I am the Princess Gloria, of Medulla, oldest daughter of . . .”

  “I know very well who you are,” said the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains. He carefully arranged the contents of her needlework bag on the hearth. Not until he was finished did he finally look up. “And you know who I am, so we can dispense with the formalities.”