A Fate Worse Than Dragons Read online

  “I’ll be waiting for you,” George promised. He finished lacing up his breeches, gave his boots a quick dust-off, and looked around for his sword. It was hanging on a rack beneath his hat. He checked his look in a mirror. He was wearing a loose shirt with ruffles on the front and blouson sleeves. He didn’t care for it much, but he’d heard that girls thought pirate shirts were sexy.

  Jennifer gave her hair a final pat, slid back the bolt on the heavy door, and opened it a crack. She didn’t want to be seen leaving a man’s room, so she peered out the door first to see in anyone was around. She saw a gryphon trotting down the hall.

  She wasn’t afraid, because it was just too hard to believe. She shut the door, shook her head twice, as though to clear it, and opened the door again. This time she stuck her entire head out. This time she became afraid.

  It was huge. It was as big as a dragon. It had the body of a lion, but bigger than any lion she’d ever heard of. It filled the corridor. Its powerful shoulders brushed against both walls. All four feet had great, curved claws, and the great beak was clearly designed for ripping chunks of flesh. The wings were folded close to the body, and the feathers looked sickly for some reason, but it was undoubtedly a gryphon. It stopped. It looked directly at her. The great beak opened, revealing a slimy black tongue. A column of fear rose up inside her, and through the column bubbled a memory, something from her school days, something about the diet of the gryphon.

  In one continuous blur of movement she slammed the door, shot the bolt, turned, and leaped on George. Astonished, he stumbled backward and sprawled on the loveseat, where she hiked up her dress and straddled him with lithe thighs. Her small fists grabbed his collar and ripped his shirt open. “Georgie,” she yelled, “let’s do it!”

  “What?” said George. Her hands were fumbling at his trousers. “You just said you wanted to wait.”

  “I changed my mind. A girl can change her mind, can’t she?” A sniffing noise came from outside the door. It was followed by scratching. “I need you right now. How do you get these off?”

  “You have to unlace . . . what’s that noise?”

  “Ignore it,” yelled Jennifer, grinding her pelvis against him. “Here, play with these!” She put both hands on the front of her bodice and ripped.

  “Jennifer, there’s something out there . . . wow!” said George as her breasts sprang free among a shower of small pearl buttons. She shoved his face between them as her fingers fumbled frantically with the cord on his breeches. From behind the door the gryphon gave an ugly growl.

  “I can’t get them off! Georgie, I can’t get them off.”

  “You’ve got the laces into a knot,” said George. His voice was muffled by her breasts. “Just take it easy. I’ll get them.”

  “I can’t wait,” yelled Jennifer. “I’ve got to have you inside me right away!”

  I need to get more of these shirts, thought George. “Hey, that’s really flattering, Jenny, but it will be better if you relax and take it slow. What is that?”

  The scratching turned into a scraping. The heavy door was shaking on its hinges. Jennifer spotted George’s dagger lying on the end table. She scrambled over him and grabbed it. George flailed away at petticoats and velvet skirt until he could surface for air. His head came up just in time to see a dagger descend toward his crotch. “Yaaah!”

  His ardor evaporated as he scrambled backward in horror. The dagger missed its intended destination and plunged between his legs, into the love seat upholstery. “Gah!”

  “Oops. Sorry. Hold still, will you?”

  “Jennifer, what are you doing? Are you crazy? Put that down!”

  “I’ve got it now, don’t worry.” Jennifer sliced through his waistband and tossed the dagger aside. “Just get it out.” She fished around in his underwear and grabbed.

  “Ow! Not so tight! Let go!”

  Crack, went the door, followed by the sound of splintering wood. The center panel split open. A foot the size of a hand basket, with four long claws, came through. Jennifer screamed and dove over the love seat, curling herself into a ball behind it. The claw withdrew, ripping a splintered hole on the way out. George stared at it with complete bafflement, his mental transmission still trying to shift gears. The gryphon shoved its head through the door and snarled.

  Lord George, literally caught with his pants down, demonstrated remarkably good instincts for such circumstances. Without quite knowing what he was doing, he grabbed a lamp from the end table and flung it at the gryphon’s beak. His aim was little high, but no matter. The glass lamp hit the doorframe above the beast’s head and exploded with a soft whooomp, showering the gryphon with burning oil. Most animals react negatively to fire. The gryphon was, thankfully, no exception. It gave a screech of pain and anger, long, drawn-out, and chilling, and twisted its head, trying to shake off the oil. Unable to do so, it pulled its head out of the door. Jennifer and George could hear it screeching and screaming, banging against the walls and ceiling, and then the clicking of claws on the floor and the rustling of feathers as it moved away. The noise faded off into silence.

  Burning oil had ignited the wool carpet. Varnish was already blistering on the doorframe, and the room was filling with smoke. George grabbed his coat off the rack. He hastily beat out the flames with one hand, while holding his pants up with the other. Jennifer knew enough to wait until fire was out before she opened a window, then she fanned in some fresh air. This helped to clear away most of the smoke, along with the acrid smell of burned fur and burned feathers. With the flames gone, George threw the remains of his coat on the floor and gave Jenny a questioning look. She was about to explain when they heard more movement in the hall.

  Quickly His Lordship fumbled his sword belt off the coatrack. His trousers fell down around his ankles. He kicked them off in frustration, pulled his blade from the scabbard, and stood ready. Jennifer ran to the love seat again and crouched behind it. Gloria poked her head in through the shattered door.

  “Oh hi, Lord George. Hi, Jenny. I’m back. Nice place you have here. You didn’t happen to see a gryphon go by, did you? A big one, kind of scraggly, with a bad attitude?”

  Jennifer rose from behind the love seat. Dazedly she pointed down the hall. George used his sword to indicate the same direction.

  “Thanks, Jenny.” Gloria put an arm through the hole and plucked the sword from George’s hand. “You don’t mind if I borrow this, do you, Lord George?” He shook his head. “Thank you so much. I have to run. See you later.” Then she, too, disappeared into the smoke.

  George, totally confused, sat down heavily in the love seat. He looked at Jennifer. She was leaning over the love seat, trying to cover her bare breasts with her hands, while the light from the remaining lamp threw a soft glow on her skin. Proof that hope lives eternal, George held his arms out to her. “Okay, darling, I’m ready now.”

  “No!” said Jennifer.

  Alison looked terrible. Her long brown hair was windblown into a mass of knots and tangles, her dress was spattered with mud thrown up by galloping hooves, her shoes were little more than cakes of dirt, and beads of perspiration carved channels in the road grime on her face. Her eyes were twin mirrors of exhaustion and stress. She looked like a madwoman who had escaped from a lunatic asylum by hiding tunneling under a compost heap. Nonetheless, she had no trouble getting past the doorman in the second apartment block. In fact, he took great pains to get out of her way. So did everyone else she encountered. “People respect a girl with a crossbow,” she told Roland. “I’m going to have to get myself one of these.”

  “The first step is to raise an alarm,” said Roland. “Alert any guards you can find. Then search this floor and work up. I’ll go to the top floor and work down.” He left her and ran up four flights of stone stairs. It opened onto a long, narrow corridor. It was lined with apartment doors. He found the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains right away.

  I should have known he’d go up here, he told himself. Why do sorcerers always like th
e high places?

  All the doors on the fourth level were closed and dark, indicating that their owners had not yet returned home to light the lamps. Except for one door, which had a thin gleam coming from near the floor, and a faint glow at the keyhole. Roland silently edged up to it. Cautiously, he knelt to the keyhole. Looking through, he saw a furnished sitting room. It had an armchair, a sofa, an end table, and a small round table with two chairs. A middle-aged man was sitting at the table. In back of him were two large casement windows.

  Roland straightened up and put one hand on the hilt of his sword. With the other hand he tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. Ever so gently he twisted the knob. It made no sound. He eased the door open an inch and put his eye to the crack.

  The middle-aged man was working by the light of a table lamp. He had two shot glasses in front of him, a dropper, a folded towel, and a bottle of amber liquid that Roland guessed was whiskey—Roland couldn’t make out the brand. The Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains poured whiskey into each of the shot glasses until they were half-full. Then, as Roland watched, he removed a tiny vial from his pocket. With the dropper, he added a single drop of red liquid to one of the shot glasses. Then he very carefully corked the bottle and put it back in his pocket.

  Roland started to draw his sword, but stopped when he realized that he couldn’t pull it from the scabbard without making a noise. He looked at the door. It opened inward. He stepped back, took a deep breath, kicked the door open with one booted foot, and drew his sword at the same time. The door swung open and hit the wall with a crash that startled Roland, but didn’t seem to alarm the sorcerer in the least. Stepping inside, Roland pointed his sword at the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains and shouted, “Don’t move.”

  He had no idea if this was the correct procedure, but that was how they did it in the theatre. The Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains took it calmly enough. He leaned back in his chair, and said, “You’re out of shape. You’re still panting from climbing the stairs. I ran up four flights, and I wasn’t even breathing hard.”

  “Yeah, great. I suppose next you’re going to brag about how much you bench-press. Save it for the courts.” Roland waggled the point of his sword in what he hoped was a threatening manner. “I’m bringing you in.”

  “My, what a pretty sword.” The sorcerer casually pushed his chair back from the table. “All those nice jewels, and silver filigree. A custom job?”

  “Yes, and so what?” snapped Roland defensively. “I appreciate good craftsmanship, okay?”

  “So do I, my young friend. That’s why I carry this one.” The Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains drew his sword in one motion, so quickly it hissed in the air. He did this without even rising from his chair, which is not an easy thing to do. It caught Roland by surprise. He involuntarily took a step back. The sorcerer smiled.

  “I took this from a royal courtier in Angostura. Apparently one of my little projects displeased him, and he felt constrained to make noises about bringing me to face the king’s justice and so forth. He was an arrogant sort of fellow, but he had quite a reputation as a duelist. Skilled in all the arts of defense, they said. Younger than myself, but very experienced for his age, they said. I rather liked the idea of taking his sword as a trophy. He was the fourth man I killed.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Roland. He didn’t know how to respond to this. It didn’t sound good, though.

  “But there’s no need to rush into a fight. We still have a little time.” The Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains stood up and sheathed his sword as quickly and smoothly as he drew it. “Come to the window.”

  Roland moved cautiously forward, staying out of sword’s reach. He edged around the sofa until he was able to look out one of the windows, down at a gated courtyard, protected by a wrought-iron fence. To one side was the palace, with its brightly lit windows and balconies, and ahead of him was a small square with a lamppost in the center, surrounded by four cast-iron benches. It was the square that marked the beginning of Couture Street. A gaggle of teenage girls had gathered under the street-lamp. They were chattering gaily, oblivious to the chill, damp, autumn weather. Somewhere a band was playing. Strains of music wafted from the street up to the window. “Good band,” Roland said absently.

  “They’re too damn loud,” said the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains. “And all their music sounds the same.”

  The window was misty with condensation. Roland rubbed it with his sleeve and peered out. More girls were approaching the square.

  “Come to sell the day’s needlework,” said the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains. “I kick myself for not thinking of this sooner. My pets like the mountains, so I located myself out there. That’s where I’ll find the gold, after all. Except that out in the country it was taking years to harvest the odd stray girl. I don’t know why the peasants think their children are so valuable, they breed replacements quickly enough. But no matter. Here my beast will find enough in one night.”

  “So what? Good Lord, mister, there’s a whole city full of guards and policemen and knights and soldiers out there. By morning, your animal will be captured and killed. Call it back while you still can.”

  “You will be amazed at how quickly the transformation takes place. In less than an hour it will be able to fly, and we both will be away.” An avaricious gleam formed in the sorcerer’s eye. “And then the pair will mate and build their nest of gold.” He sighed longingly. “Such a simple idea. I’m surprised no one thought of it before me.”

  “I guess the rest of us just don’t have your creative mind.”

  “But to the matter at hand. You don’t like my methods, you disagree with my goals, you’ve been chasing me for days, and you intend to kill or capture me, is that correct?”

  “Um, right.”

  “Fine, fine. I could kill you in an instant with my sword, and even more quickly with magic. But you appear to be a rather bright young man. So I propose instead a test of wits.”

  He waited for Roland to make a sarcastic reply, which is usually what happens when anyone anywhere offers a test of wits. But Roland looked at the sorcerer speculatively and seemed to be sizing him up, so the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains went on. “You have heard of idogain extract?”

  “No,” said Roland, although he had.

  The Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains took the vial from his pocket. It was a tiny bottle, half the length of his little finger, and half the width, stopped with a small cork. The remains of a wax seal still clung to the glass. He made an elaborate show of waving the bottle around, passing it from hand to hand, and holding it so lamplight shone through the red liquid inside. “The deadliest poison known to mankind. There is no antidote, nor can a person develop a tolerance for it. It can be taken orally, or absorbed through the skin. Death is immediate, which is very nice. You don’t have to listen to all that whining and moaning about stomach cramps that you get with the vegetable alkaloids. And a single drop is enough to kill a man ten times over. So even though it is the rarest of poisons, and consequently very expensive, it is also economical.”

  “Because you don’t need much.”

  “Exactly. The cost per victim is low, so you save money over the long run. I have mine imported by a specialty firm in Illyria. They bring it in by . . .”

  “The test of wits,” Roland prompted.

  “Oh, right.” The Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains waved his hand at the table. “You see these two glasses?”

  Roland looked at the table. “I assume that’s a rhetorical question.”

  “Don’t be a smart aleck. One of them contains poison, and one does not. We will drink at the same time, although of course I will let you choose your glass first. The test, you see, is of your knowledge of people and the human mind. You must decide if I am the sort of person who will put the poison in the glass that is before his opponent or the glass before himself.”

  “And if I decline to drink?”

  “We can fight it out with swords, and you are welcome to choos
e that option. But unless you have a great deal of confidence in your ability with the court sword, I’d advise you to try the glasses. At the very least, you have a fifty percent chance of survival.”

  Roland nodded. “That’s a pretty convincing argument, sir.”

  The Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains winced slightly. “You don’t have to call me ‘sir.’ I’m not yet old enough to be treated with respect.”

  “Sorry. It’s just that you kind of remind me of my dad.”

  “Just pick a damn glass already!” the sorcerer snapped.

  “Right,” said Roland. Without hesitation he grabbed the glass nearest him and drained the contents, which tasted like scotch, in a single swallow. He coughed a little and slammed the glass back on the table. “Your turn.”

  He was surprised. He expected the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains to come up with an excuse for not drinking. Or that the sorcerer would try some sort of trick. Perhaps he would pretend to spill the glass, or dash it in Roland’s eyes and try to flee. Roland got ready to draw his sword again. But the sorcerer simply nodded, confidently picked up the other glass, held it toward Roland in a mock toast, and calmly drank it. He put the glass down, smiled at Roland, and said, “You are surprised?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you think I just drank the poison?”

  “I know you did.”

  “And how do you know that, may I ask? Could it be because you saw me add poison to this glass before you entered the room?”

  The sorcerer saw the expression on Roland’s face. “Yes, I knew you were skulking out there, watching me, before you kicked the door open. And therefore I drew your attention to the window. While you were looking outside, checking out the girls, I switched glasses.”

  “I know,” said Roland. “I saw you switch them in the reflection from the glass window. So I picked the glass without the poison.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said the Middle-Aged Man of Mountains. “I saw from the corner of my eye that you caught me switching them, so when you returned to the table I switched them back, with the help of a little misdirection. Your attention was diverted by the bottle of poison I was waving about.”