The Dragon Bone, Chapter 4

Chapter Four, Myrion

Myrion whirled around to face the intruders, her back to the sidewall of the cramped room. Two guards advanced on her, their short swords drawn and glinting wickedly. Myrion’s face showed surprise, then shock. Her stomach seemed to drop to her feet, but she tried to cover her fear with a grim purpose, which showed in her narrowed eyes and clenched teeth.

She quickly measured her two opponents and decided that the tall one with one ear missing was the more dangerous. She ducked under their clumsy charge, reached down with her left hand and picked up one of the three-legged stools she had kicked across the room. With a yell, she leaped into the small gap between the fireplace and the wall.

“Well, gentlemen, what are you waiting for? Come and get me,” she invited in a cool, high voice that belied the terror welling in her throat.

At her words, One Ear bared his teeth and attacked, and the wisdom of her dangerous scamper became apparent. Only one guard had room to attack her at a time. The second guard, a stout older man, stood back near the door, and One Ear rushed at Myrion, lashing out with his sword. Instead of cleaving the impudent girl’s head in two, as he had intended, the broad three-foot long weapon bit deeply into the stool Myrion used to parry his blow. As she raised the stool, her blade licked out at One Ear’s chest.

Meanwhile, Thorlin was in much more desperate straits. With four guardsmen bearing down on him, swords at the ready, he had no corner, no stool, and no fireplace to use to reduce the odds against him. They advanced slowly, showing a cruel anticipation of an easy kill.

Their slight hesitation gave Thorlin the opportunity he needed. With his double-edged sword already in his right hand, his left darted across his ample belly and returned with a deadly heavy-bladed war ax. As he reached for the weapon, he spun in a blur to his right. The guards let out hoarse shouts of surprise as they pushed aside the overturned table and charged into the empty space where the stumpy man had just been standing. Their looks of amazement showed that clearly they never expected him to move so quickly. A grin spread across Thorlin’s long face.

Now, for just an instant, the one guard unfortunate enough to have been on the left side of the charging line faced him. He was half turned away from the old man’s new position, his sword in his right hand. As he adjusted to meet Thorlin’s attack, his eyes showed a sick realization that he was too late. Even as he turned, he heard the vengeful hiss of Thorlin’s sword through the thick smoky air as it sought out the flesh that showed between his helmet and chain mail shirt. His last conscious thought was to marvel at the screech of metal on metal as the ax parried his own sword’s swing.

At the same instant, the three other guards heard the dull chunk of steel on bone, and their companion’s head toppled neatly, landing at their feet. The headless torso remained standing for an instant, bright red blood pumping from the severed neck. Then the corpse crumbled to the ground and twitched, covering the floor with slippery blood to mix with the dirt and filth already there.

While the guards stood mesmerized by the scene, Thorlin was not content to await their reaction. The room reverberated with a fierce war scream as the old man hurled himself at the group, ax poised to parry, his sword stained red with blood.

Too late, Thorlin’s victim realized his peril. Trying to meet sword with sword, he was soon sinking to his knees with the old man’s ax protruding from his belly. Thorlin’s throat swelled again with his war cry, its ancient wavering notes penetrating into the very wooden walls of the hut as he wrenched the ax free, opening the man’s belly and left him to die on the floor amidst the coils of his own intestines.

The two remaining guards now charged Thorlin together, knowing they must fight for their very lives against a crazed berserker. Thorlin never stopped moving. He dodged, he spun about, he danced in and then back out, his weapons an ever moving haze of steel in motion. Try as they might, neither guard could penetrate the curtain of steel before them, and had to use all of their skill to keep the shrilling blade from their own necks. Their opponent no longer appeared fat and clumsy, but somehow lean and graceful, with fierce green eyes flashing hate and death.

The ringing of steel surrounded the battling men, nearly drowning out their gasps for breath and curses as they swirled around one another, each seeking a fatal weakness in the other’s defense. Thorlin’s face was streaked with sweat as he maneuvered his attackers away from the center of the room. The guard to his right slipped in a puddle of blood and was over-balanced for just an instant. Deflecting a vicious swipe at his face from the antagonist on his left with his ax, Thorlin lunged forward, throwing all of his weight behind his locked elbow, driving his sword through the neck of his staggering target. He didn’t try to recover his sword, but continued past the dying man, pulling a dagger from the top of his right boot.

He crouched on flexed knees facing the last of the four, with a hungry grin that reminded the guard of some monstrous predator. The man facing him was young and agile, but the smell of his fear hovered strong in the air.

A quick glance towards the door shocked Thorlin into action. He saw Myrion’s sword reaching for the chest of a tall man, but more frightening still was the stout man in the doorway, winding a crossbow.

The scribe was creeping across the floor, one hand reaching out for the scroll lying forgotten beside the table. Thorlin’s battle cry shrieked out directly into the face of the young swordsman, who flinched as if in pain, while Thorlin launched himself into the air, crashing down on top of the stunned guard. Before he could move away, Thorlin stabbed downward.

As Thorlin’s dagger plunged into the young man’s throat, Thorlin heard the death-dealing snap of the crossbow, followed immediately by a searing pain across his lower back. He quickly looked up from the body under him to see the crossbow man advancing towards him with a spear braced under his right arm, his crossbow thrown on the floor just inside the open door. As Thorlin stood up to face this new threat, his eyes blurred and he felt himself falling. The sensation of floating, or flying through wisps of fog felt familiar and comforting as he crumbled to the floor so far away. His last clear vision was of Myrion’s sword about to bury itself into One Ear’s chest.

Myrion expected to feel the jolt of her sword cutting through bone and muscle in One Ear’s chest. Instead, her triumph turned to terror as her sword clanged and skidded off his body. With a sickening realization, she knew he was wearing a steel breastplate under his surcoat. Her only advantage over this seasoned campaigner, twice her age and experience and half again her size, was that her unarmored body would allow freer movement than his heavy one.

She knew she was alone as she had seen the bolt strike Thorlin – had witnessed his collapse from the corner of her eye – and had seen the scribe reach the scroll. She was out-numbered three to one. Tears of anger and frustration threatened to blind her. She didn’t care about her own imminent death, but she did feel a twinge of remorse about crazy old Thorlin, and sadness that she had failed all the people relying upon her. She never dreamed such a fat old man could have fought so well. But, as she thought of those trusting people whose lives depended on her mission, her soul plunged into an icy pool of despair. She didn’t want to fail – she couldn’t fail!

“Oh, Mother,” she prayed silently, “don’t let it end here!”

One Ear was grinning now; a nasty yellow-toothed grin, like the wolves just before they tore out the throats of the deer they hunted.

“What a shame to kill one so young and fair.” One Ear’s voice was like gravel in a jar. “A girl with so much spirit,” he continued. “Be reasonable, my little one. Throw down your weapon and I promise you will live – probably a fine life for one such as you,” he purred.

As he spoke, he wrenched his sword free from the stool, tossing the useless wood out the door behind him.

Myrion’s despair turned to pure, unreasoning rage. One Ear’s meaning could not be missed, and she far preferred death to being sold into a local house of pleasure. For a moment she hesitated, then gripped her sword in both hands and slowly lowered it, point towards the floor at One Ear’s feet, two arms length away from her. She swallowed her rage enough to force the words past her teeth, “What terms do you offer me, city warrior?”

His sword and long arms out-reached hers by over a foot. His grin grew wider.

“Well, I see the little kitten is smart as well as brave,” he said in amusement. “Just put down your pretty little sword so we can discuss this matter in a more friendly way.” His voice positively dripped calm and reassurance, as if trying to coax a wild rabbit into a snare.

“But how do I know you won’t kill me when I do as you suggest, sir,” she asked, making her voice sound as small and as scared as she could. The plan that had come to her was crazy – insane, but she had no choice.

As she spoke, she managed to slide half a foot closer to the man, silently measuring the distance separating her sword from his head. One Ear relaxed just a fraction. His dark eyes gleamed in anticipation of the fun she would provide and the profit he would make from the House of Desires. After all, the Captain of the Guard had only demanded the fat slug that was about to have three feet of steel rammed through his guts as he lay dying with a bolt in his backside. This pretty little bauble would be a welcome change from the stale wares offered at Gustoph’s whore den. He was so busy counting his pleasures that he failed to notice Myrion’s small move.

“My sweet child, surely you see I mean you no harm,” he drooled. “We only need your plump companion for our Captain. If you are reasonable, there is no need for the commander to know of your existence. No need at all for you to be drawn and quartered, as will happen to the other thief.” He smiled at her wide-eyed expression of horror.

“I am no thief,” Myrion piped up. “I am âÂ?¦” she bit the words off, as if reluctant to disclose her true identity.

One Ear’s heart leaped with avarice. Could she be the daughter of a nobleman, caught in a treasonous circumstance, perhaps? Bags of gold and luxuries gained from years of blackmail swam before his eyes.

“Who are you, little one? What is your name,” the oily voice prompted.

“My name is âÂ?¦ Myrion,” her voice trembled. “Daughter of âÂ?¦” her voice seemed to catch on a sob.

One Ear could not catch all of her words. Entranced by her performance, he instinctively leaned forward.

Myrion slashed at his face with all of her strength! He was quick, not yet beyond his prime. He twisted his head aside fast enough to escape most of her blow, but not all. His head exploded in pain as her blade severed his remaining ear and it flew across the room to land beside the crouching scribe.

The scribe’s eyes fixed on the grisly object as it plunked to the ground, beside his hand and he screamed and screamed again. One Ear bellowed in pain and frustration and lashed out with his sword. Its chiseled tip caught the girl, tearing her garment from the top of her right shoulder down across her chest. An instant welling of blood soaked her shirt as she felt a tracing of fire across her body.

“Mother help me,” she prayed as she gathered her strength for his next attack. She swung with both hands, feeling the impact of steel to steel as he blocked her strike. Again she attacked his midsection, and again he neatly blocked her blow. Now, he aimed a stab at her chest. She saw his blade driving straight at her, growing larger by the instant. At the last moment, she somehow knocked the sword away, but not before it sliced her left arm.

Even though he had drawn blood again, One Ear’s tactic was a poor one, he realized. It left him open for a counter strike, and he was fast becoming tired from loss of blood. Without hesitation, Myrion recovered from her blocking move and slashed at his left knee. He screamed and collapsed on the floor with his left leg twisted beneath him. He rolled over to the wall and levered himself upright, just as Myrion’s savage blow caught him at the base of his neck.

She twisted around to defend herself against the second guard, and took in a bizarre scene.

Standing in the doorway was a slender youth dressed in gray woolen clothing. He had the guardsman’s crossbow to his shoulder, aiming a newly loaded bolt across the room. As she watched, frozen in her tracks, he calmly released the bolt, which buried itself in the back of the spear-wielding guardsman poised to end Thorlin’s devious ways forever.

Myrion tried to move forward to rescue the scroll from the gibbering scribe transfixed by the bloody ear between his knees, but her legs turned weak and trembling. It was all she could do to ease herself to the floor, keeping her sword on her lap.

The youth moved over to the scribe, neatly tapped him behind the ear with the hilt of a slender dagger. Then he turned to Myrion with a smile and said in a soft voice, “Good evening to you. I am called Kril.”

~ * ~

“And, by the Mother, we’re happy to make your acquaintance, boy,” said a weak voice from the floor.

Myrion glanced in amazement as Thorlin tried to pull himself into a sitting position against the wall.

“I am Thorlin, at your service. That moon calf staring at me in such a lady-like manner over there is Myrion,” he continued. “Child,” he said to her, “shut your pretty mouth and make the lad welcome. Do you suppose any wine survived that unexpected intrusion? I think I could use some.”

Myrion snapped her jaw shut, dropped her sword and scrambled over to the old man, but not before grabbing the scroll and stuffing it into her belt pouch.

“I should have known you’d be too mean to die like any decent man,” she grumbled as she reached him. Taking the dagger out of his bloodstained fingers, she placed it on the floor beside him.

Kril shut the door and stooped to pick up the bottle that had rolled close to the hearth. “I’m afraid there’s only a swallow or two left,” he said as he handed it to the wounded man.

“Ah, a pity,” said Thorlin before tipping his head back to down the gulp.

“Hold still!” Myrion tried to get a close look at Thorlin’s wound. “Lay on your side. I can’t get a good look so I can bind it. You – Kril is it? I need cloth to staunch the blood. Take the tunic off that man over there. He won’t be needing it.”

“Before you plug my wound, I suggest you cover yourself and tend to your own cuts. You’re bleeding all over my best vest,” said the old man, taking in an eye full of Myrion’s exposed neck and shoulder. The pain of his wound cut short a delighted laugh as the girl turned her back in confusion and fastened her shirt closed with the brooch she wore at her throat.

Myrion scowled at Kril’s impudent grin. He handed her the clothing from the dead man, shrugged his shoulders and returned to the body. Quickly, his deft fingers emptied pockets and pouches as he methodically inspected each guard.

“Here, boy! What are you doing?” she asked, watching his business-like attention to detail.

“As you said, they won’t be needing these anymore, and I have a hunch I might.” He continued his work without a pause.

Myrion turned her back on the grisly scene and bent over the old man. Ignoring his protesting groans, she rolled Thorlin over and tenderly probed the wound.

“I think it’s only a graze, but this vest will have to come off,” she told him. “No, I’ll do it. Don’t you move,” she commanded when he tried to sit up and remove the article of clothing. Myrion drew the dagger from her belt and proceeded to cut the greasy vest from his broad shoulders.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve had this vest?” whined Thorlin in a small voice. He gasped sharply as his flesh was suddenly released from its prison.

“If smell and amount of grease have any bearing on the subject,” she replied matter-of-factly, “at least fifty years. Don’t you ever wash it?”

Myrion quickly ripped his linen shirt and exposed the wound. Swabbing the area with the cloth, a nasty jagged cut, about nine inches long, revealed itself. It was fairly deep, and by rights required some few stitches.

“If I washed the grease out, I’d let the rain in. Where’s your common sense, girl?” the man choked out between gasps. “Is my wound very bad?”

“You were lucky that bolt missed your spine. As it is, I’m sure you’re going to be in bed for days and sore as many weeks. Now, hold still.”

Myrion emptied a small pouch from her belt and measured out a few dried leaves. Crumbling them on the wound, she chanted a quick prayer under her breath and placed a wet cloth over it. Ripping strips from his shirt, she tied the dressing in place, across his massive back.

“Leave that compress on for two days,” she ordered.

“You have a gentle touch, child,” said the man, and then sucked in his breath sharply as she tugged the knot tight. “It is easy to see you are versed in healing, as well as martial arts. Such a vast knowledge in one so young.” He winked at her and continued, “You must tell me how you came to understand so many things at such an age.”

“The only thing I must do is get out of this city before your pranks get me arrested or killed.”

She sat back on her heels and frowned at the clownish man. The color was beginning to come back to his face, and the twinkle in his eye reassured her. Although she had an inborn talent for healing, he seemed to be making a remarkable recovery.

“How do you feel?”

“Oh, I’ll do. If you happen to have anything to eat, I’ll do even better.”

“For a man who was close to the Arms of the Mother, you seem to be making a fast recovery.” Suspicion laced her uncertain voice.

“‘Twas your gentle hands and kind heart, my dear,” he said, not quite looking her in the eye. “And it’s true I’ve always had the constitution of a dragon. There’s that, I suppose,” he added with a chuckle.

Kril finished his pillaging of the bodies and had even managed to tie the scribe with strips of cloth. He’d also gagged the man as an extra precaution. The youth now came across the room and stood behind the kneeling girl. He held one of the guard’s heavy swords in his unskilled hands. If he wanted the dagger so much, now might be the time to take it, he thought.

The girl was busy fussing about the old buzzard, and with a wound like that, he was certainly in no position to stop Kril from taking what was, after all, his property. Slowly, the boy raised the heavy blade with both hands.

Suddenly, Thorlin looked up and met the boy’s eyes squarely with his. Kril’s hands stopped, and his heart pounded so loudly, his slight body shook from its force. The old man smiled very slightly and held the startled boy’s gaze.

Slowly, Kril’s tongue peeked out and moistened his dry lips. The color had drained from his shallow cheeks, and his eyes were wide with fear. However, the man remained silent and still, except for his strangely compelling eyes.

Myrion began to pack up her herbs and turned to see Kril’s raised sword. Her heart leapt with fear, before he began to slowly lower the blade. A look of confusion spread across his pale face.

“Oh, a brace! Thank you, my boy,” Thorlin said, motioning to the sword. “I think I’m able to stand and walk if I use the sword as a crutch, so I suggest we get out of here before somebody comes looking for these guards.”

“I didn’t know what to do with the scrawny script maker,” Kril said, color retuning to his cheeks, “but he’s safe enough for now.” He tossed his matted head in the general direction of the unconscious scribe and held the sword, point down, out to Thorlin, a bewildered look still on his face.

Myrion collected herself and began tidying the area. Careful not to expose her back to Kril again, she tried to cover the wounded man with the remains of his vest. She had tucked the dagger into her belt again. Its heavy presence reassuring and comforting as she worked.

Kril watched the dagger’s handle protruding from her belt, his eyes delighting in the jewels as they flashed with her movements. He licked his lips again, and unconsciously inched closer.

“Quit picking at me, child,” complained Thorlin. “Here lad, help me up. She’ll have me expire with all her fussing.”

He held a beefy hand out to Kril and the boy reluctantly stepped over to help him up. He gave a grunt as the man leaned on his slight shoulder for support.

“Your timing was most opportune, Kril, my boy,” Thorlin glanced sideways at the youth as he struggled to the remaining overturned stool, using the sword as a crutch. Kril righted it with his foot and helped Thorlin lower himself onto it.

“Tell me, what made you happen by at just that moment,” the old man continued. “Not many venture into this part of Pelicarus.”

“True, sir,” said the boy as he retrieved Thorlin’s sword and ax for the man. “But I was born and bred in these streets and live not far from here. I was on my way home when I heard the scuffle.”

“And being a lad that enjoys a good fight, you thought you’d lend a hand,” Thorlin finished for him with a chuckle.

Kril’s eyes were on Myrion as she still knelt on the floor. In her right hand was the dagger she had found, a thoughtful look on her face. She turned the knife over slowly and inspected both sides. The hilt was fashioned from some type of bone. Set into it, and protruding slightly from both sides, were four gems; a green, a red, a blue-green and a large blue, all set in gold.

Feeling hostile eyes upon her, she looked up and caught the boy’s stare. She rose slowly, the dagger now held as a weapon.

“Twice I’ve caught you looking at me in a strange way, boy,” she said. “I don’t trust him,” she said to Thorlin.

Thorlin had watched Kril closely as he answered the questions. He noticed the boy’s eyes followed Myrion as she had moved around the small hut gathering possessions and supplies.

“Be that as it may, my dear. Most would not have taken our side in the past unpleasantness. We should be grateful for his timely entrance.”

“Timely indeed,” she muttered.

“I told you, I was on my way home.”

Thorlin was sure the boy wasn’t telling the entire truth, but time was short and to prod further would be a waste of good travel time.

Casting his glance around, Thorlin took in the scene of Myrion’s handiwork. The tall man who had been her adversary lay in a crumpled heap against the wall, bone protruding from his left knee. His head, minus both ears, tilted at an impossible angle. Blood splattered the wall where a severed artery in his neck had pumped out a red river.

“Messy,” he said with distaste, “but effective in its way.” Looking at Myrion, he continued, “I suppose I should give you a lesson or two. A good warrior deserves a clean death, not butchering.”

“Don’t worry about lessons, old man,” she returned. “I can take care of myself, and you and I are parting company right now. Since you’re so grateful for his ‘timely entrance’, you and the boy should get along fine without me.”

She bent and picked up a slight bundle she’d been gathering.

Kril watched the exchange between the man and girl with dismay. The dagger was slipping out of his grasp again.

“I bid you both a good evening,” she said as Myrion came over to the old man.

“I thank you for the scroll, Thorlin, and for the evening’s diversion. I don’t know what you did to get the city guards after you, and I don’t want to know. As for what we were discussing before our guests arrived, I doubt you’re in much shape to interfere with my plans.”

She shouldered her small pack and walked to the door, into the night.