Dragonhunters Read online

  Dragonhunters

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. (But may I say, you lead an interesting life if you are wondering...)

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form, with the exception of brief excerpts for the purpose of review.

  Copyright ©2014 by Sabrina Chase

  http://www.chaseadventures.com

  Cover art by Les Petersen

  http://www.lespetersen.com.au/

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to the fans who insisted on knowing what happened next. Thanks also to the glorious members of STEW (Nisi Shawl, Michael Ehart, Mike Canfield, Doreen Mitchum, Robert Kruger, Victoria Garcia, Elizabeth Coleman, Kristen King, and Yang–‌Yang Wang), amazing editor Deb Taber, beta readers Karen Meyers and Karl Gallagher, and supreme proofreader Roger Ivie. I couldn’t do it without you, guys!

  And special thanks to Roy Chapman Andrews of the Central Asiatic Expedition, who really did hunt dragons.

  S. Chase

  Chapter 1

  It was a spell of great power. Even Sonam could tell that. The master’s face was contorted with effort, sweat beading on his lined forehead, but Sonam made no move to help, obedient to the master’s command. He glanced away from the dusty, rocky trail to the green valley below, and saw a little blue kai–‌ling fly up and then tumble back down with a high–‌pitched shriek. Sonam smiled with relief. The barrier was working!

  “There.” The master wheezed and reached up a shaky hand to the cliff wall to support himself. Foreigners were always pale, but now his face had no color at all. Sonam quickly ran to his side. “It’s done.” A cough wracked his frail body, followed by another, and another. Sonam pulled out the flask of medicine tea and raised it to the master’s lips. The coughing stopped, but the man could barely move. “Good lad,” he whispered.

  “Sir should rest,” Sonam ventured.

  “The dead rest, Sonam. Have you warned the people?” Sonam nodded. “The ward should hold for a year at least, but it will grow weak before then. They must be ready. That magician will return eventually.” He pressed a hand to his chest, wincing. “No time…‌” He turned his glance to the young man. His eyes were hard and bright blue. Sonam ducked his head, not presuming to meet the gaze of such a powerful shaman. “Show me your disguise.”

  Sonam caught the threads of his soul together and spun them in the proper way to bend light and divert the eye—‌what the master spoke of, in his own chopped language, as “magic.” He had no metal mirror, but he could see his hands were now pale instead of brown, and his worn tunic, stuffed with silk floss for warmth, was now a thin blue jacket with narrow sleeves.

  “Good enough. I’d be wary of bright sunlight and direct looks, if I were you, but it will serve. Do you have the card?” Sonam took the small piece of pasteboard from his sleeve and held it out. It read I am mute in Alban and Gaulan. “Remember, Aeropans do not carry things in their sleeves as you do here. You are to be commended on your fluency in Alban, but you still retain enough of an accent to be marked as a foreigner. A pity, but it can’t be helped. Once you get to your destination, it won’t matter and you can speak freely.” He moved slowly, leaning on Sonam, his labored breathing loud in the thin air.

  At last they reached the mouth of the cave. Long ago someone had sketched the outline of a Bon warding spirit on the wall inside, perhaps intending to return and paint it later. The red lines were faint, but the tusks and wild, rolling eyes were clear.

  A mat lay in the back of the cave with the rest of their supplies. Sonam helped the master lie down, then gave him another sip of the medicine tea.

  He grimaced. “I won’t miss that, at any rate. Tastes like bog water. Ah, but I should not complain. It’s kept me alive this long. Now, the satchel by the entrance has all my money, some letters that may help you, and the passport I altered. I’ve told you as much as I can of the way you must travel and how to avoid being seen by the enemy. Do you have any questions? Do not let your notion of respect prevent you. As my apprentice you have the right to ask, and given the difficult task ahead, the necessity. Do not fail your people.”

  Sonam could not help the tears that formed. “Must it be this way, sir?”

  The master closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “Yes, Sonam. I beg your forgiveness and understanding. I ask much of you, but I have no choice. I am spent…‌one last thing. You will need to prove what you say is true.” He took a green velvet bag from an inside pocket. “You may open it, but never give it to anyone else until you reach your destination. Only show it to another magician, and then only in great need.” Sonam took the bag and stowed it away carefully. “Now I must leave you. May you have a safe journey and a quick return.” He closed his eyes again. The master’s face tightened, his lips opening, and then the air about him went hard and clear and his body froze, motionless. The spell that Sonam knew as the Uncorrupting Way would preserve his master until he could bring help.

  Still Sonam had to hide him, to keep him safe from the evil stranger. Sonam bowed, picked up the satchel, and hesitated at the sketch of the spirit. He knelt and prayed, pleading that the spirit would guard his master. Once outside the cave and a safe distance away, he called to his soul again and the spirits of the stone. A few pebbles fell, then a stream of dirt, and finally a thundering rockslide completely hid the entrance of the cave as if it had never been.

  Sonam hurried down the narrow mountain path, whispering his master’s instructions like a meditation chant. In the country of Bretagne, near the town of Baranton, at the house called Peran. Tell the mage Oron that Alastair MacCrimmon begs his aid.

  As soon as the carriage came to a halt, Gutrune von Kitren reached for the door handle and jumped down. She gathered her skirts and hurried up the stone steps to the front door. Muller opened the door before she reached it, and she had just enough time to notice how his face had aged before she saw her mother in the foyer. The light was dim, and for a shocked moment she thought her mother was wearing black. But there was no telegram…‌ Then her mother stepped out of the shadows, wearing the same grey she had for years, and Gutrune’s heart started beating again.

  “I left the instant I could obtain leave,” Gutrune said. “How is he?”

  “As well as can be expected.” Frau von Kitren gave a tremulous smile. “The burns trouble him greatly, so the doctor has prescribed morphia. Sleep is a blessing.” Her eyes were red–‌rimmed, and Gutrune wondered how much sleep her mother had been able to get herself.

  “Is he out of danger?”

  “So the doctors believe. It is a miracle he is alive…‌” Frau von Kitren’s voice faded. “There was some concern when his leg was removed, but now it appears to be healing as it should. Enough that he could be moved here.”

  Gutrune embraced her mother. “Have you had the entire burden of nursing him yourself all this time? You must rest. It is even more important you guard your health now. I will change, and then go straight to his room.”

  “But your journey…‌”

  “I am not at all fatigued. I only wish I could have come sooner.”

  Gutrune eventually persuaded her mother to lie down for a few hours, and she made her way to her brother’s room. It was dimly lit; only one well–‌shaded lamp behind a screen gave light, and the blinds were drawn. The air carried the sharp scent of arnica and other medications. Heinrich was asleep, and she stood for a moment by his bed looking down at him.

  She had read the report of the incident and the extent of his injuries, but it was still a shock to see the masses of bandages and the missing leg. It was not clear if the explosion had been caused
by poorly cast metal or an excessive load of powder, but the result was not in dispute—‌a shattered cannon sending flame and metal shards everywhere. The side nearest the cannon had the most severe injuries, including the burns, but Heinrich’s horse, mortally wounded, had also fallen, trapping him and breaking his already injured leg so badly it could not be saved.

  Heinrich turned his head restlessly, as if he were trying to avoid the pain. A large brown glass bottle of tincture of morphia stood on the table beside his bed, but Gutrune compressed her lips and did not reach for it. No amount of drugs would dull the real pain troubling him. And to ease that, he needed to be awake and alert.

  “Only for a little while, Heine,” she said softly, reaching for the one hand that was not swathed in bandages. She felt his fingers tighten briefly. After a few minutes his eyes flickered open and closed again, and Gutrune rang for cold water. By the time it came Heinrich was drowsily awake.

  “Tru?” he asked, his voice rough.

  “Yes, it’s me.” Gutrune removed the outer bandages from his face and began to bathe it with cold water. He winced a little, then sighed. When he opened his eyes again his gaze was more clear and intelligent. “Mother says you are healing well.”

  He grimaced, his jaw hardening. “To what end? It wasn’t even in a battle, Tru! Now I’m a useless wreck, and for nothing! How can I live like this?”

  “You can still serve, in the tradition of our family, as long as you draw breath.” Heinrich made a strangled noise of frustration and looked away. Gutrune paused a moment. “I told Mother that I was delayed seeking permission to return home. You will not tell her this, but the King granted me permission to leave immediately when the news came. My delay,” she said, leaning closer to speak softly in his ear, “was to seek a private audience—‌to petition His Majesty to allow you to take my place when you have recovered.”

  Heinrich stared at her, his sharp blue eyes wide with shock. “No, Tru. You can’t! You fought so hard for that place…‌how can I take that away from you? Even if I could? It is too much. We can’t both lose what we wanted so badly.”

  “You must not think I intend giving up my service.” Gutrune wrung out the cloth and dampened it again in the cold water. “Recent events, which I am not at liberty to discuss, made me realize I prefer taking a more…‌active role than can typically be found at court. Still, His Majesty relies on me—‌and if you accept, it would free me to serve the King elsewhere knowing that there was a reliable person taking my place. And with that condition, His Majesty has agreed.”

  Heinrich was silent for a moment, thought deepening the furrows in his brow dug by pain. “You really want this, don’t you, Tru? But you say, more active…‌is it dangerous?”

  “Yes.” She met his gaze calmly. “I have already had occasion to be most grateful for your instruction in marksmanship and hunting.”

  “Tru…‌” he groaned. “Exactly what have you been up to?”

  “Serving Preusa. Defending Aerope. Soldiers are not the only ones who fight.” Gutrune lowered her voice even more. “I can teach you what you need to know of the court. You can teach me more of a soldier’s skills. The King needs us both, Heine.” She closed her eyes, thinking of the dangers ahead. The horrors of the Mage War, flaring to life once again. “He needs all the help he can get.”

  Markus Asgaya unfolded the small brass telescope and rested it on the lichen–‌covered stone wall they were hiding behind. “How long has this been going on?” he asked, looking through it at the mansion. It was built in the Graeco–‌Roman Revival style, an architectural form appreciated by those whose activities required a great deal of peering through other people’s windows, since it generally had a lot of them.

  The Ostri magician detailed from the secret police to assist and, more likely, spy on him, narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Several months. First they claimed he was conducting complicated research, now they say he is unwell.”

  One of the other Ostri agents was ringing the bell at the door. Marcus watched as a liveried servant walked through the foyer and opened the door, speaking briefly before closing the door and returning.

  “When was the last time Baron Kreuzen was seen in person?”

  Another stare. “The baron attended a Philosophical Society meeting a year ago.”

  Well, the timing was right. A little over a year ago, the first of the Mage Guardian deaths directly attributed to Denais had taken place. Markus doubted the baron was currently among the living, but why the air of secrecy and concealment?

  “I’m going to try a light probe.” Markus sent the magic as he spoke. There was the inevitable protest, but it was too late. Besides, he had informed the man, just as protocol required. He wasn’t stupid enough to think asking permission would work. The Ostri officials still suspected a subtle insult in being sent a Preusan schutzmagus of his unusual appearance and had only reluctantly agreed to allow him to help.

  The probe reached the mansion wall before reflecting. Markus raised an eyebrow. For a mage–‌level ward, that was practically nonexistent. “I thought you said the baron had students with him. How many?”

  “Five.” A faint glimmer of intelligence surfaced in the man’s eyes, and he added slowly, “they have not been seen recently either.”

  Markus closed the telescope with a snap. “I think you will find there are no magicians in that house now. The ward is weak. Even an apprentice would be able to cast something stronger. It looks to me as if the ward has not been renewed since the baron’s last appearance. We should force entry and find out what has transpired there.”

  And if he had been in Preusa it would have been just that simple. But no, first the Ostri magicians insisted on confirming the state of the wards, and then they had to resolve their consternation when they discovered Markus was correct. That took up a full day.

  In desperation Markus began using a combination of stealth and surprise. He would locate an Ostri official that had not previously encountered him and suddenly appear with no warning, loudly demanding instant answers to questions in tones of outrage. The combination of his bronze skin with the crisp, perfect Preusan accent left his victims so confused and terrified they would inadvertently blurt out very useful information, or volunteer to assist—‌especially if the assistance could be rendered somewhere else. The jagged slash of white in his black hair, clearly the result of a magical attack, no doubt contributed to the effect, and the usual barracks gossip about his parentage did the rest.

  Sometimes he even overheard the gossip, which amused him greatly. Most mistakenly assumed his mother was the source of his Yunwiyan blood, and one story had her delivered to Aerope in a crate. Markus spent a brief moment calculating what manner of crate would be required to restrain his formidable mother for anything more than a day. More importantly, nothing would have protected the unfortunate individuals responsible for her imprisonment and subsequent wrath.

  Eventually he learned that very little food had been delivered to the mansion in recent weeks, and no one had gone in or out since the watch had been set. After a day of this, the Ostri officials were convinced—‌either that something nefarious had happened to the baron, or that Markus was insane and would not leave until they did what he wanted. With Markus standing behind them, the Ostri forces brought down the ward and forcibly entered the mansion. As he had feared, only the servants were found inside.

  The Ostri magicians spread out to search the mansion. When Markus made his next suggestion, the objections were loud and furious, and this time he couldn’t blame them. He was forced to show his royal authorization, reluctantly granted by the Ostri Emperor, and with great mumbling the agents allowed him to proceed. He did not know all of the steps needed for a geas, but he had been taught enough to detect them.

  All of the servants had geasi.

  “You are certain of this?” The Zauberamt in charge of the Ostri magicians scowled at him, looking suspicious. “How do you know of this forbidden magic?”

  “
I was trained personally by the Mage Guardian of Bretagne, who came to assist us. Have you found any sign of the baron or his students?”

  The Zauberamt grew grave. “Unfortunately, yes. We found the body of the baron in the cellars, but not his students or assistant.”

  Markus winced. “So, you have no Mage Guardian, no heir, and no suitable replacement at hand?”

  “Herr Asgaya, you are being completely unhelpful. We are in charge here, and you were ordered to assist us.” The Zauberamt gestured at the authorization document, his face darkening with anger. “I see no evidence of this assistance.”

  “Of course not,” Markus snapped. “You saw no evidence your Mage Guardian was missing either. If I had not arrived it would have taken you another year to do anything about it! Denais is a serious threat—‌he is powerful, dangerous, and completely without scruples. The Mage Guardians were the only force he feared. He also plans to start a second Mage War, conquer Aerope, and succeed where Guedoc failed in turning us all into slaves. This is his handiwork,” he said, gesturing at the servants. “Do you want more of this? I hope for your sakes he does not return here, because he would make short work of the lot of you.”

  This frank assessment was met with a great deal of angry shouting. No doubt official protests would be lodged, but at this point Markus was beyond caring. Diplomacy had never been a talent of his, and in the face of such institutional stupidity, how could they expect him to avoid giving offense? Besides, he and the Zauberamt were in complete agreement that he wasn’t helping here. Far better to return to Baerlen and report the bad news in person.

  The death of the Ostri Mage Guardian was not entirely unexpected, given Denais’s plan to destroy all of them, but it made the situation even more critical. Preusa still had not replaced their own assassinated Mage Guardian. Ideally, new Mage Guardians would be approved by the existing members. Since the entire membership now apparently consisted of one individual, whom the head of the Kriegsa loathed with a passion, it could hardly be expected that any candidate she approved would be agreed to. Not that suggestions from Preusa’s old enemy, Ostri, would have been much better received, he admitted to himself.