The Last Dragon: Book Three

CHAPTER ONE

Damon

After the battle on the mountain pass between Trager and Vin, we were bound and taken to the desert where the fat Slave-Master growled in my direction, sounding tired and twice his apparent age, “You. The pretty one standing alone. Your name?”

“Damon.” I used my polite voice and offered a weak smile as if that would help my situation as his newest slave ready to be sold on the blocks of Kaon. I ignored his comment on my pretty looks because objecting was like saying I’m ugly.

“Family association or former occupation?” he snapped as he gnawed on a skewer of braised meat and fruit.

I hesitated, then answered as truthfully as far as I knew how, in an imperial tone to let him know I was not his regular slave, “I labor for the royal family of Dire as one of the two personal servants for Princess Elizabeth. You would do well to release me or face her wrath.”

A huge man stood at the Slave-Master’s side, a Kaon warrior by his dress. He snorted angrily and began slowly drawing his blade from where it was tucked inside his wide blue sash. The action was more than an idle threat. The long, curved blade was too massive to swing quickly or with agility, but one two-handed swipe would split an opponent into equal parts to bury. As a defenseless slave who had both of his feet tied together and held no weapons in his bound hands, I had little question as to the outcome if I didn’t soothe him.

I spoke quickly as I spread another false smile on my face, “Perhaps I should have said that I used to work for the princess and I’m certain she would appreciate my release or pay a small ransom. Now, of course, I belong to you and am at your service until you decide what I’m to do.”

The sword returned to its normal position in the colorful sash at his waist without any change in the Kaon warrior’s expression. He stood and glowered as before, his face a crosshatch of scars. I ignored him and kept my attention focused on his overweight boss.

“Negotiating ransoms is tedious and rarely profitable enough to waste my time. Have you any skills of value?” the Slave-Master asked me in a tired tone as dead as his eyes. “Skills that might allow me to sell you for more silver than these other wretches will bring at the auction blocks?”

That was a question worth thinking about—if my remaining time alive permitted. The skills that first came to mind included me skulking around Crestfallen Palace searching for tidbits of palace intrigue or rumors of interest that might be used to blackmail or sway royal opinion to agree with Princess Elizabeth.

I also poured wine for the princess at official gatherings, always keeping her goblet full but not overflowing, and watering it enough so she wouldn’t be affected by the alcohol while negotiating. I also functioned as her bodyguard. And truthfully, I was a foil for her wicked sense of humor in private, her messenger, and often a friend. None of those were likely to increase the price a new owner would pay for me.

There was also the matter of performing small-magic, parlor tricks such as changing the spots on blocks to those more favorable when gambling, splashing wine on a lap across the room to embarrass an enemy, making a floor slippery, so someone fell at the appropriate time causing them maximum humiliation. There were other magic tidbits, most of which were little more than tricks, and some that were simply clever sleight-of-hand. I’d keep the newly acquired mental communication with the waif Anna to myself.

Were any of those skills of value to the dead-eyed Slave-Master or to a potential buyer? If sold, my new owner would have to make that determination without knowing about those magic skills. If I were ever sold, was the operative phrase. I contained my humor while the man with the dead eyes and his minion with the large sword assumed a sale of me would happen at the slave auctions in Kaon. They were probably wrong—if I convinced them of my value, so they didn’t kill me in the next few moments.

“I asked you a question,” he growled.

“Sir, as a former personal servant to a princess, I was educated nearly as well as any royal, and better than many. I am adept at reading, writing, math, history, and the other usual subjects a buyer might enjoy. My real skills lie in providing services to those born above me in social rank.”

“Would I be one of those? One born to a higher social rank?” His double-chin lifted as if encouraging my answer to be positive and praise him.

But there had been the slightest movement around his cold eyes, a twitch at the corners, either amusement or threat. It was hard to tell. My normal rule was never to lie unless I knew for a fact someone didn’t know the truth—and wouldn’t find it out. Getting caught in an obvious lie causes a distrust that is never fully repaired. Not that I was against lying—I was against getting caught. The Slave-Master was getting impatient for my answer.

“Sir, I regret to tell you that no, you are not highborn,” I said, then quickly added, “To your credit, you rose high above that humble birth-station to the exalted heights you now enjoy, probably due to your hard work, ambition, and perhaps a bit of luck.”

To the surprise of all, he threw his head back and roared with laughter.

I managed to take a deep, relieved breath. The stench of his unwashed body gagged me as much as that from the chained slaves at my sides. Fortunately, he believed I had joined him in the laughter, and that made him laugh all the more as his men, and the other slaves looked on in confusion. The two slaves nearest me edged away, probably fearing the worst and not wanting to suffer whatever punishment might come my way, or get blood splattered on them.

The Slave-Master settled himself after our shared laughter and adjusted the long tan robes that perfectly matched the color of the desert behind him. If he chose, he could tuck the red scarf inside his tan robe, move off a few steps and all but disappear against the rocky desert background, a tactic long used by people of the Brownlands. It was said that the Kaon could disappear at will, but most considered it more of a skill than magic. He leaned closer and examined my face closer, then spoke as if puzzled, “You do not fear me.”

It was a flat statement and the manner in which he said it was its warning. I responded with respect, “I do fear you but hope you will not harm a valuable slave and cost yourself a purse full of silver.”

His eyes shifted from me to another slave, one down the line from me who began to chant in a strange language. The man was emaciated, filthy, and sores covered his skin. A guard arrived at his side and ordered him in the Common language to be quiet. The slave lifted his chin high, exposing his neck and prayed aloud in Common for death, raising his voice even louder instead of stopping.

His prayers were swiftly answered. The massive sword moved far faster than I’d believed possible. The guard wiped his bloody blade on the man’s clothing, which didn’t help much because of the filthy shirt the slave wore, and the blood soaking into the material had turned it wet-red. A few steps away the head of the slave had rolled to the base of a tree and lay there looking at us with blank eyes. The guard grabbed the next slave in line and used his shirt to clean the blade further, leaving a red smear across his chest and ignoring the corpse at his feet.

A metalsmith arrived to pound the locking pins from the iron leggings and wrists of the dead slave. Iron and copper are expensive and not to be wasted. Free of the chains, he rolled the inert body aside with a callous kick as if it was a bundle of worthless straw.

Beyond the metalsmith stood a familiar figure, shoulders slumped, fists balled, and our eyes locked. My friend was called Flier, a former cripple who had been captured at the mountain pass with me. Before that, he’d been a messenger in his King’s Army. When we first met days ago, an arrowhead embedded in his knee had made walking almost impossible. It was an old wound, but an operation and my intervention with small-magic had removed it, and he now moved almost as well as when he was young and served the King of Vin, a minor province in Kondor.

Being newly captured at the Vin Pass only last night, Flier and I still wore ropes on our wrists and ankles instead of irons. Our captivity had lasted from the middle of the night until this morning, all of it spent marching to catch up and join the caravan of other slaves. Despite the short time we’d been with them, I’d had about enough of being a slave.

My sister, Kendra, and the two orphan girls, Emma and Anna, that we traveled with had escaped capture because the dragon Kendra freed in Mercia had managed to get between them and the slavers. It protected them, and not even slavers wanted to fight a legendary dragon. The slavers had settled for taking Flier and me. They had lost several of their people in the battle to capture us and didn’t want to lose more in a fight they couldn’t win.

With the flick of a mental touch to Anna, I confirmed the women of our group were safe, thanks to the intervention of the dragon, and it was almost time to return to them. The Slave-Master before me would disagree, but we had different agendas. He wished to sell me for profit. I wished to learn all I could about this new land we found ourselves in, and he was to be my teacher.

The Slave-Master turned his full attention back to me and said, “Convince me you are trustworthy.”

He kept pushing me for the truth—or to tell him a lie and provide him an excuse to punish or kill me. He was testing me. Probing. My problem was that I didn’t know which he wanted of me, a lie or the truth. No, he was smarter than that. He expected me to lie, as the other slaves would. But he seemed to want the other. That settled my approach, risky as it might be. “I am sorry to inform you that I’m not trustworthy. Not in the least. If you remove my ropes, or if I manage to free them, you’ll never catch me again.”

The guard at his side reached for his sword again. He didn’t appreciate my repeated impertinence. The Slave-Master laid a hand on his wrist to restrain him. “If our situations were reversed I would do the same, but I’d lie about it, so I didn’t piss off my new master. Are you very smart or stupid?” He turned back to the guard, who now attempted to harm me with his fierce stare after being rebuked by his boss, no matter how gently.

The Slave-Master saw the flush of anger in the look the Kaon warrior sent my way and said to him, “This one may be worth a dozen others at the auction block, maybe more. Hell, I might keep him for myself. Guard him with your life—for if he dies or is harmed in any manner, the same fate will befall you.”

The guard didn’t seem thrilled by the task assigned to him. His scowl deepened. I decided to cheer him up with a friendly little wink, just between him and I. The Slave-Master saw me do it and laughed again as he stood and sauntered towards a huge tent where three beautiful young women dressed in sheer, revealing, clothing anxiously waited with false smiles that were on their lips but did not reach their eyes. Another guard walked a single step behind the Slave-Master, his hand on the hilt of his sword. I suspected his hand was never far from it.

At the touch of my mental urging, the guard tripped over his own feet and lunged ahead, his shoulder striking the back of the Slave-Master, who spun and growled, “Clumsy oaf” for all to hear.

That action meant my small-magic was working, which further meant the last dragon alive was somewhere nearby. Without the Essence provided by the last dragon, or to a lesser degree by the Wyvern, magic wouldn’t work. If the dragon was near here, Kendra and the girls were with it, all of them probably situated high in the wooded foothills where they could watch Flier and me without fear of discovery. I resisted the urge to wave at them and turned my attention to the other slaves at my sides. They wore only enough filthy rags for minimum modesty and scant protection from the sun.

All were dark-skinned like me, adapted to the Brownlands. Our black hair was worn long and thick. Our features were thin, our eyes dark. We were people of Kondor, as any could plainly see.

Of course, my sister Kendra and I were raised in luxury in the Kingdom of Dire and considered it our home, where we served Elizabeth as her servants. We hadn’t even known of Kondor a lunar month ago, so didn’t consider ourselves one of them, despite the obvious connections. The guards and the Slave-Master were even darker-skinned than those of Kondor, their bodies heavier and more muscular than our thin and willowy frames, although we tended to be a little taller. Also, since my capture at the Vin Mountain Pass the night before, we traveled with Kondor at our backs, the opposite way we wished to go.

With my small-magic intact, that would present few problems if I chose to leave. I was no mage but convincing a guard at night to fall into a deep sleep presented few obstacles to one with my abilities. Concentrating on using my magic while untying the knots on my wrists would be easy. The leg irons would be hardly more difficult.

Not that I didn’t want to escape, but the problem was that I had no plan for staying free. Escaping and being caught again was far worse than not escaping at all. The guards carried whips and swords for a good reason. The time would come to leave but on my terms.

I’d demonstrated my skill with the knots last night to Flier during a rare break in our forced march. When the guards were not looking, I’d loosened the ropes and scratched my head with my free hand, an act of telling my friend not to worry, and also one of extreme stupidity. The guard might have turned at the sound of an insect or reacted at a bat flying too close and seen me. To satisfy both of us that I could communicate with Anna at any time, I’d mentally asked her to have my sister fly the dragon in a few circles above our camp. It had.

I could have *spoken* to her, but seeing the dragon raised my spirits. Kendra controlled her dragon, and I had my small-magic. Life was good. All but the part about being a slave in a foreign land.

We were ordered to sit in the dirt and when I didn’t move fast enough, the Keon warrior elbowed me in the stomach. I sat with a thud and determined to move faster next time. The metalsmith returned with the unique clanking of prisoner chains tossed over his shoulder. He knelt in front of me, chose a set of leg-cuffs the approximate right size and snapped them in place. A few strikes of his hammer set the brass or copper pins. A short length of chain between them prevented me from running. He then placed smaller cuffs on my wrists, all without saying a single word or so much as grunting in my direction.

A single chain dangled from my left arm, and the metalsmith used a soft-link to attach me to the last slave in line. It was my friend, Flier. I couldn’t have asked for a better outcome. We were the last two in line, and when we departed, perhaps the man in front of me would be sleeping so soundly he wouldn’t notice our departure.

I gave Flier a confident nod of my head. Two guards were watching us closely, the one that normally guarded those prisoners last in line, and the one recently assigned to keep me from having ‘accidents.’ There were ten emaciated and filthy slaves in the line in front of me, and through the underbrush, I’d caught sight of another ‘chain’ of slaves. There might be more chains and more slaves.

While escaping was foremost on my mind, there was a reason that it was not of the highest importance at the moment. The slavers were Kaon, a race that lived deeper in the deserts of the Brownlands to the west and north of Kondor, and they were raiding Dagger and Vin for slaves. Kondor was rumored to be ruled by mages and sorceresses instead of a proper king. It was a powerful kingdom, far larger and more prosperous than Dire despite much of it being Brownlands. That made me wonder why the Kaons were ‘allowed’ to take slaves there. It seemed in direct opposition to the rule where those in charge dealt in magic. A few lightning bolts appropriately directed by any mage would end the slave caravan and leave behind steaming, burned bodies to rot in the desert sun.

As for our situation, the brass pins holding together the iron cuffs were the weak link, in both fact and literary pun. They were not hardened, as were the iron of the chains. The metal worker’s hammer flared the ends of the brass pins, holding them securely in place. A smaller rod of iron was used to drive them out when required, usually either at the sale of the slaves or with their demise.

However, in my case, with a little help from magic, and knowing that metals contract when cooled, freedom was only a magical spell or two away. I just needed something to push the copper pins free once they were cold and smaller in diameter, perhaps a piece of a stick would do. The same problem arose as before. I could get us free. Getting us away and staying that way, was the real problem. Besides, I wanted to learn from the Slave-Master about Kaon, the desert, and most of all, about Kondor.

The fed us a pitiful handful of grain, less than I’d feed a small donkey, and then we were allowed to lie down on the bare ground to sleep. However, as I made myself comfortable, the metal worker arrived at my side again and drove out the pin that attached me to an unknown slave in front and to Flier in the rear. He motioned for me to stand. Then he drove home another pin, replacing Flier where I’d been.

I was alone. The Kaon warrior, the one appointed to guard and care for me, strode in our direction, caught my eye, and jutted his chin at the tent where the Slave-Master had entered. I still wore leg irons with a short chain between my feet, and his shove from behind as I passed by him, which forced me to fall forward awkwardly. My chin struck the ground as he chuckled.

Had I thought more quickly, I might have used my fingernail to draw a line of my blood to see if the Slave-Master was good to his word about the guard sharing equal injuries. He pulled my arm to stand me up again and pushed a second time. I rolled with the shove and walked through the thick brush. A blackberry briar trailed across the path, and I stepped over it, but in doing so, I used small-magic to lift it higher as the guard stepped behind me. He tripped and stumbled forward, taking three or four long steps before falling. I dodged, and he missed striking me. As he sprawled face-first in the vegetation, I paused a step away from another guard, one laughing, but not at me. I didn’t dare laugh—or even smirk.

The laughing guard motioned with his hand that I should enter the tent. I pushed aside the curtain before the first guard could catch up with me again. The late afternoon desert light that reflected off the sand was blocked by the loose weave of the tent material the tent it was made of. Any movement of air flowed through the tent. Four tall poles the diameter of my wrist held up portions of the roof in peaks.

Layers of carpets, some large, others small, different weaves and colors, and all expensive covered the sand floor. I know about rugs. Some are for walking upon in dirty boots when returning from the stables; others are for feet in the finest slippers in the best houses in the kingdom. In front of me was the latter. No, more than that. They were among the finest I’d ever seen.

I pulled to a stop. My feet were filthy.

The Slave-Master sat on a stack of pillows as large as his biggest guard. He roared, “I sent for you. Why are you not approaching and kneeling before me? Have you no manners?”

“These carpets deserve respect. My dirty feet shouldn’t touch them.”

“I suspected you were telling me the truth earlier, but this was a small test. You have indeed served the wealthy. Others would have traipsed across the carpets without knowing the sin of doing so.” He pointed to one side, where a rack stood behind a small curtain. The dirty boots and shoes of others were there, and on another shelf, several pairs of soft slippers were waiting.

Since I wore no shoes, I found a pair of oversized slippers and put them on. From the corner of my eye, I noticed him impatiently waiting for me, so moved slower. Not to piss him off but because another trap was brewing, I suspected. I approached, but not too close, and bowed formally and deeply as if he was a royal member of the wealthiest kingdom. I didn’t rise until he cleared his throat to give me tacit permission. My rusty chains were dragging on the carpets as I moved, but that didn’t matter. I’d passed at least two more of his crude tests.

“How may I serve you?” I asked.

He had an arm around a plump woman with hair as white as any I’d ever seen. It might be real, but her eyes were dark, as were her eyebrows. My guess was she dipped it in something to make her appear exotic. For me, the effect was unsettling and not at all attractive. It was the opposite for the Slave-Master.

He said, “Did you learn to play blocks in Dire?”

“When I had the coins in my purse to lose.”

“Meaning you usually lose?” He snorted, a guffaw of sound without humor.

“No. Meaning, I only play when I can afford to lose what I have. Only fools believe they always win.”

“I always win.” He sat upright, all humor drained from his face. The single guard in the room tensed, awaiting orders to slay me.

But the Slave-Master had a ‘tell’ that I’d already spotted. A slight twitch high on his cheek. He was testing or prodding me again, however as his slave. I saw no profit in the continued action. Still, he wanted my reaction, so I told him the truth, “Then you either cheat, or your opponents allow you to win. Not much sport if you know the outcome before the first tiles are passed around.”

“Ha, you believe you can defeat me? I am known far and wide for my game.”

“Oh, I can defeat you. If not tonight, then another, if you do not cheat. But I’m the better player.” I lifted my chin at the offer of that challenge, one I hoped he couldn’t pass up.

He raised a hand, and a small gaming table was rushed to be placed directly in front of him, too far away for me to reach, but he wouldn’t have to move from his soft perch at all. I remained at my distance as the tiles were displayed in the pre-game ritual, then his hand spread them to mix their locations. I was still two steps away. I didn’t move. He hadn’t invited me.

“Select your tiles,” he commanded.

“First, the rules.”

“The rules are always the same,” he roared.

“Not the game’s rules. Yours. Mine. If I am to allow you to win, like so many others, by how large a measure should it be?”

“You will not allow me to win. My skill at the game will be all I require.”

“How can I play if I have nothing of value to wager? No matter how good my hand, you can raise or call and eventually you will win a game as thin as air. Is that how you wish to play? Is that how you earned your reputation?”

He slowly shook his head in disbelief at my audacity. Slaves didn’t speak to their masters that way, and never to someone as important as a Slave-Master.

“I value my freedom,” I added. “You value me for what you can sell me for. Suppose we determine a fair price at auction and you ‘loan’ me that value for the sake of the game?”

He hesitated. “That would be a poor bargain on my end, I’m afraid. If you have a couple of good hands before I win any, you could buy your freedom with my money. If I win, it is my own money I win. That is not much of a wager.”

“Not so,” I argued. “I cannot buy my freedom with your money. First, I must win enough to pay you back all that you loan me, then win that much again to buy my freedom. In other words, I must be twice as good a player as you for that to happen. Are you scared that I may be twice as good as you?”

“But it is all my money we are playing with,” he argued.

“No, it is not. You loaned me money, and if I lose, I still owe it to you—or my future master does. That way, you can be paid twice for selling me. If you play well enough.” I still hadn’t moved closer to the game table but suspected the last taunt would earn me either a whipping or a seat at the game.

He relented. “You might be right. If you can defeat me, you are worth far more than all of those others huddling in the cold outside. The way you’ve put this is a challenge and a way for me to earn a gold coin or two instead of some small silver. Don’t think I don’t see your other game.”

“Yes, sir.” I hung my head respectfully. Inside, my feelings were the opposite. The gross man deserved no such treatment but it seemed the best way to manipulate him.

However, the Slave-Master was also conniving and scheming now, perhaps even more than me. He glanced up and snarled at his guard, “Get this man pillows and something to drink. Red wine, I think.”

I preferred white, but this was not the time to quibble. I wasn’t going to drink it either way. Wine and gambling are poor companions. While the dragon was close enough right now to share her Essence and give me my small powers, it might not remain so close, and I’d lose my magic when it went hunting in some distant place. Dragons eat a couple of large deer, elk, cows, sheep, or other animals every day. It might have to do a little hunting to earn a meal, or since the day was ending, sleeping. I didn’t know what happened to my powers when it slept, but I intended to play fair.

I said, before moving to sit, “There is one more thing we need to clarify. You said that if I defeat you, I’m worth more than all the others outside.”

“I did say that.”

“If I win, I’ll pay you twice the original loan, and I’m a free man. Is that what you said?”

“That’s not . . .” He paused and smiled evilly. “No, that is what we agreed to, I guess. You left the ending open if you win, and you twisted the wager to your favor. It’s my fault because I didn’t think you were so devious. I heard your words but didn’t look beyond them to your ultimate intent. No matter, I’ll agree with your silliness. Too bad none of my guards can provide competition for me, or you’d go back to the chains.”

I started to sit and pick up my tiles but paused and remained standing instead as a last thought came to me. “To know who is truly the best, we will pay a dead-man game, right? We will play until one of us is dead or out of money, as they say. Not who is ahead when you choose to sleep or end the game, but who is out of money. No matter how long it takes. That way, winning a part of the money on the table does neither of us any good, and we know for sure who is the better player.”

He laughed. “Sure, why not? It seems I have less to lose and more to gain. Besides, if one of us leaves the game because of death, it will be you.”

“As long as you win, that’s true.” I ended the conversation with a low, gracious bow sure to impress him, then moved to the table. When I glanced his way again, there was almost, but not fully a smile on his lips. Yes, he was a fool and believed he would win. I fought to control my grin. This would be fun.