3

  Aboard Deathstroke, later:

  The dreadnought was huge, compared to Falcon, and reaching its open weather deck took over a quarter candle-mark (without resorting to magic). Valerian arrived to find a surly Filimar and anxious Miri already present, along with Lady Faleena and pretty, fierce Anneka, Filno’s odd sister.

  He shot through the spiraling hatch and out of the passageway, onto a spotless teak deck that spanned the width of the vessel. Three smaller airships were secured there. Two lighters and a scouting craft, but these did not interest Val. He meant to escape using Deathstroke’s manna, not by stealing some easily traceable boat.

  Faleena nodded to Val, trying to smile through tears that were too near the surface to hide. Turning back, she pressed a bundle of food and “comforts” onto her son, murmuring,

  “Take it, Fili, in case you get hungry or… or…”

  Faleena was a very beautiful wood-elf with brown hair and green eyes that shone in the morning light. She looked very strange in that stiff blue uniform, thought Valerian.

  Filimar had leaned into her kiss and embrace until he spotted his friend. Reddening, he twisted away, growling,

  “Mum, stop!”

  Too late, not that Val cared overmuch, beyond feeling envious. His own mother showed little concern for her sons, generally evolving a headache whenever Lerendar, Val or small Benny needed… well, anything.

  Filimar hastily pocketed his mother’s farewell gift, scowling at Valerian as though daring the blond northern elf to make fun of him. But Val had been raised better than that. He bowed to the females (one of whom was the airship’s third mate).

  The weather deck was well astern and heavily bulwarked. It sat lower than the rest of the dreadnought, alongside a gleaming brass manna tank. Its shadow moved as the airship banked, casting everyone there into sudden gloaming… but Lady Faleena and Anneka stood out, even so.

  “Miladies,” Val greeted them. “Good day and glad tidings.”

  He was just rising from his bow, when Anneka hop-strode forward in that curious way of hers. Like Filimar, Ob Tormund had long, jet-black hair. Unlike her younger brother, Anneka’s eyes were bright gold, a reminder that she’d spent her childhood as a hawk.

  Now, the girl came to stand less than a foot away from Valerian. She tiptoed and levitated, next, pushing her face at him, holding something in her mouth. Ship’s biscuit, as it turned out.

  Val had spent time around griffins. He knew that feeding and mutual preening were signs of affection. Ought to have side-stepped, maybe, but just accepting that half-eaten biscuit was faster than trying to dodge a very determined food-wielder.

  “I think she likes you,” observed Filno, smiling for the first time since their match with the Raptors, and the emperor’s feast.

  “Mmph,” grunted Val, around a too-large lump of soggy way-bread. He managed to swallow the mess, ignoring Miri’s stifled giggle.

  “She wants you to give her something in return, Valleck,” said Lady Faleena, beginning to smile. She’d called him “little tree” since childhood, just like Aunt Melly did.

  Valerian couldn’t reply very well. Anneka leaned forward, staring hard. If he was a griffin and the hawk-girl’s nestmate, Val would have coughed something up for her, feeding his friend in return. But Anneka wasn’t a griffin, nor was he trying to tame her.

  Pressed for time and needing to leave before the end of the watch, Valerian fished a ginger-man out of his faerie pockets, then bit it in half, leaning forward to offer the treat to Anneka, who accepted his gift with a happy, overall shake. (The remainder, he passed off to Miri.)

  “If you’re quite done trifling with my sister,” grumped Filimar, cocking a slender eyebrow.

  “What? I haven’t been…”

  “Poor thing believes that you’re life-mates, now,” the Imperial’s wretched team center went on, with unconcealed relish.

  “That’s not fair and you know it, Filno!” snapped Valerian, feeling Deathstroke’s porting magic swirl up all around them.

  Captain Tormund had come to stand at the rail of the quarter deck just above, pretending to scan the horizon. His son never noticed.

  “So, you’ve seduced the girl and abandoned her?” challenged Filimar, half seriously. “Must we cross blades again, Valno?”

  The younger elf was generally three-quarters mischief, the rest being sheer, exuberant murder… but enough was enough. As Deathstroke faded away around them, Val stooped a little to hoist his apprentice into his arms. Glaring at Filimar, he said,

  “You already have a duel ahead, as soon as we’re back in Karandun, you absolute arse! Heinril’s going to live forever if you try fighting me.”

  A great flash of reddish-gold light flared. Faleena blew a last kiss to her son. Anneka screeched aloud. A violent sense of spatial disruption came over Val, but the argument didn’t stop when he, Filimar and Miri arrived on the main deck of Falcon.

  “Granted, I’d have to spend at least a month mourning the loss of an idiot heart-friend,” Filno agreed, barely seeming to notice their changed location. “And there’s the matter of raising your blood-price…”

  Valerian thumped Miri down on the deck, mussing her curly brown hair with distracted affection. She reached across to scribe protective runes on his uniform tunic, her small face screwed up in deep concentration.

  “First,” growled the blond, pointing a finger, “you wouldn’t defeat me. You fight like a sock-puppet swinging a wooden prop sword. Second, you’ve probably gambled away all your money, again. You’d have to take out a loan to afford my blood-price, and no one would front you the coin, for fear that you’d waste it all whoring and dicing again!”

  Those were definite fighting words. Both young elves reached for their swords, but then red-haired Hallan got in to part them, followed closely by Captain Varric, his brother. (Also, by both of Falcon’s gliding blue eyes.)

  “No blood on the main deck,” laughed Hal. “Not when I’m the one who has to swab and holystone it all up again!”

  Nightshade and Handy were slammed back into their scabbards, still glowing fiercely like torches. After that, introductions had to be made, for no one on Falcon knew the young, scornful Arvendahl lordling but Val (who’d begun to regret it, just then).

  Valerian got himself sorted and bowed to his waiting captain. Rising, he jerked a thumb over one shoulder at Filimar.

  “Captain Gelfrin, this donkey’s arse is Filimar Arvendahl ad Tormund,” he grumped. “Filno excels at quarrels and wasting money… he is also my heart-brother for reasons that escape comprehension. We were most likely drunk and in trouble. Anyhow, he is the son of Lord Captain Tormund Arvendahl dan Ferris…”

  “Of Deathstroke,” finished Varric, nodding. Having a close relative serve aboard ship could be tough, although Hallan was too sunny and energetic to cause much chaos. “Welcome aboard, ad Tormund,” said the captain. “Your honored sire has explained your presence here on… um… detached duty. We are bound for the mainland, and we can always use another hand.”

  Then, turning to smile at Miri,

  “Cookie, your galley awaits.”

  The girl bobbed an awkward curtsey.

  “Yessir,” she chirped, giving Valerian’s tunic-hem a final last tug. “I’ll go get the mid-meal started, Captain.”

  “Looking forward to it,” said Varric, with genuine feeling. Breakfast had been a sorry affair, mishandled by aerrior Chess, who cooked nearly as well as he sang.

  The half-elven girl scooted off, planning a feast. Varric watched her go, then turned his attention to Val once again.

  “Well done dispelling that storm, Wizard,” he said, smiling broadly. “I shall expect a full report in my office, over the mid-meal. For now, take the rest of the watch to work on your magical studies. Hallan will assume charge of young Arvendahl.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Next, as an aside to his smiling kid brother (all copper hair and bright hazel eyes),

  “Show him the ropes, Hal. We’re two days out, and I expect constant hard work from both of you, for the duration. Move!”

  The younger elf grinned, pleased beyond telling at having someone to order around.

  “This way, Tormundsson,” he laughed, beckoning. “We’ll start at the rudder and work our way forward.”

  Filimar commenced to scowl, then gave up, muttering,

  “I suppose it beats polishing silver.”

  Casting a single ‘This isn’t over yet,’ look at Valerian, the fractious elf-lord slouched after Hallan.

  ...And that was how Filimar came to be with his teammate, when they finally caught up to Nalderick.

  XXXXXXXXXXX

  Out in Longshore, near morn of that very same day:

  The former prince had spent a very long and uncomfortable night at the edge of Deepwater Tarn. Running away from a shouting mortal constable, Derrick had snatched clothing and footwear from porches and lines as he fled, stealing whatever the townsfolk had set out to dry then forgotten.

  Wound up… puffing and limping… with a baggy, shapeless grey sweater, breeches of stained orange linen, and a pair of small boots that did not grow to fit him, at all. There was an eel pie, too, that some goodwife had left on her windowsill, out of the sleet. It was still fairly warm, dense with fish, prawns and gravy under a shingle-like crust. Best thing he’d ever eaten, crouched beneath the awning of a shuttered dockside tackle shop.

  Stuffing chopped eels into Kia’s wide beak, Derrick looked out at the water. At sheeting ice that sparkled in lamp-glow and rising dawn-light.

  “I need a bath before I change raiment, Wind-rider,” he said. “I… erm… reek of garbage and can’t seem to manage a cleansing spell.”

  Kia gobbled the lump of stewed prawn that he fed her. A few slimy clams followed that, bringing a series of happy peeps from the eaglet. She didn’t care how he smelled, but the stench was making Nalderick’s eyes water, and his injured foot was filthy with road-slime and blood. The bandage he’d torn wasn’t helping much.

  He’d have done anything at all… sold his honor and service… for a hot bath, but he didn’t want to knock on a random door in the night. Could just picture the likely result.

  Knock-knock

  Ker-reeeeak…!

  “Pray excuse me, good woman. Have you by any chance got…?”

  “Arrgh! Got off my stoop, you verminous thug!”

  Punctuated by thundering swats of a twig-broom, wielded by strong, meaty arms, no doubt. Derrick shook his head, dislodging a halo of flies.

  “No,” he decided aloud. “I shall not approach these simple, bucolic folk until I have bathed and re-garbed myself, Kia. That means the lake. You stay here, while I nip in for a quick and refreshing wash. I’ll be clean as Oberyn’s priest in no time at all.”

  The notion seemed perfectly reasonable to one who had never drawn his own bathwater and had only physically dressed himself once. His situation might have been better, but he’d escaped from the Last Gasp Inn and defeated (sort of) a monster. Things were definitely looking up for N. V. o K. Prospects brightening, and all that sort of thing.

  Derrick finished the last of the pie, then made a comfortable nest for small, sleepy Kia out of his stained and reeking old clothes. He’d be rid of his curse soon, after helping a few of the local peasants with… whatever concerns a fishing village might have. Leaky boats. Torn nets. Bad ale.

  Point being, the curse would end just as soon as he did something mighty and selfless. Then, he’d be an elf and a prince once again, with fresh clothes, warm baths, willing beauties, and plenty of food. Why, the deed was practically done!

  Unfortunately, Nalderick failed to account for his weak and ale-puffed new body. Limping determinedly forward, he cannonballed off a rickety wooden wharf and into the lake, breaking a scrim of ice, going down. That chunky black water was cold and terribly deep.

  Derrick plunged fifteen feet to a bottom of slimy rubbish and mud, so shocked by the frigid lake that he gasped all the air from his lungs in one big and wobbling bubble. It felt like knives were stabbing him all over, while pressure hammered his ears like dwarves at a forge. Silt swirled around him, confusing Nalderick’s sense of direction. Half blinding him.

  He managed to kick off of a sunken wreck, then shot back up to the surface, screaming, gulping and flailing. Nobody came to investigate. Not in Longshore. Not after dark, in foul, dirty weather. The drowning fellow would keep, or he wouldn’t; probably thrown out for debt, anyways, and no business whatever of theirs.

  Nalderick couldn’t… Had never occurred to him that swimming wasn’t simply an innate gift; that mortals had to learn how to move through the water, keeping their heads held up so they could breathe. Had he still been an elf, Derrick would have levitated up and out of that freezing lake. Had he grown up as a human, he would have learned how to swim. (And shouldn’t that copious body hair, the layers of wobbling ale-flab drekking insulate?)

  Whatever, he managed to flounder his way to the wharf, scraping himself nearly raw on clamshells and splinters. Reached the ladder, grasping its rungs with numb, shaking hands, then scrambled and lurched his way upward. Nalderick didn’t feel the impact when he collapsed onto the wharf’s icy surface. Too cold. Too badly numbed to sense touch.

  “Guh… huh… huh…” he gasped, rising enough to creep forward.

  Clothes. Had to get dressed and out of that wind and sleet. It was just fifteen feet to the pour-stone embankment, then ten more to the shop and Kia. Less, actually. The loyal chick had flopped out of her nest to come find him. Trying to help.

  Nalderick scooped her off the ground with hands that felt nothing at all. Staggered forward on feet that thudded like bricks, reaching the shop’s awning a few moments later.

  Then, cuddling the eaglet with one arm, Nalderick dressed himself with the other. He had to clamp his teeth to stop their violent chattering, clenching so hard that he broke an incisor in half. Tasted blood, spat out a tooth, and kept going.

  Clothes kept the wind off, but he was chilled right down to the bone and in serious danger of freezing to death. Nalderick looked around, searching for any help at all. There was a sparkle of reddish light further down shore. A fire, it looked like, with four silhouettes leaning close.

  Derrick crammed his torn feet into the stolen boots and then shuffled along the lake shore, keeping to awnings and thresholds as much as possible, eyes on that warm and beckoning glow. Kia nipped him whenever he slowed or paused to slump in a doorway. She kept him moving. Probably saved his life ten times on that long, chilly trek.

  Might’ve taken a candle-mark, but Derrick at last reached the blaze, which crackled and snapped in a low iron drum, spreading glorious, wonderful heat. A sort of plank roof on lashed oars held off the foul weather, while torn canvas sheeting rattled and snapped, trying to block out the wind. There were people around the fire, but they shifted position when Derrick came shivering up, willing to share what they had with someone worse off.

  “Hoy, there. Got a dunkin’, did yer?” laughed one of the mortals (a coarse, hairy fellow).

  “Fishes et up yer eye-tooth an’ half yer beard?” grinned an old woman, exposing her own rotted dentition.

  Nalderick cared not at all. He lunged as close to the flames as he could, before somebody hauled him back by his soggy sweater.

  “’Ere now, cobber. Ain’t no good settin’ yerself alight. Stand back a bit. Y’ll warm soon enough.”

  A frowsy girl pushed the communal grog bottle into Derrick’s hands, which had begun to sting something fierce.

  “Drink up,” she commanded, scowling at him. Thin as a bundle of twigs, with her pale hair twisted up into an untidy knot, and a badly puffed lower lip, the girl said, “The weather’s pure dirty, but Trixie’s grog ‘ll put heart in ya, stranger. Tip some on them cuts, too, afore they turn septic.”

  Nalderick drank. The stuff was tangy and sweet, and it slipped down better than anything had since the night of his grandfather’s funeral. Seemed like a shame to waste it on scratches and punctures, but maybe the girl knew more about being a mortal that he did, so…

  “We ain’t big on names, here,” said an old, one-eyed man, taking the bottle from Derrick. “Leave all that in the past, sez I… but we all have sumthin’ ter go by. You c’n call me Bert. This ‘ere’s Wenchie. Yonder be Curtis an’ Trixie. Whaddaya call yerself, feller?”

  His Royal Highness Nalderick Valinor ob Korvin, Prince and Jewel of the Realm… once. Now?

  “Erm… Derrick. You c-can c- c- call me Derrick,” he whispered, dabbing at blood from his broken tooth.

  Wenchie gave him a sausage roll that she pulled out of her greasy cloth apron.

  “Eat sumthin, Derrick,” she said, smiling as well as she could with a bruised, bloody lip. “Get yerself warm, but don’t fall asleep. We gets raided a lot, and its best ter have somewheres planned out t’ run to. Back alley, or such like.”

  “Raided?” blurted the former prince, chewing on the left side of his mouth.

  “Aye,” cut in Trixie (the nearly toothless old woman). “Them townsfolk all snug in their homes don’t like ter see ‘vagrants’ keepin’ warm on the border. Think we might spread the blight,” she spat, glaring daggers at Longshore’s dim lights and curling smoke. “They sends out the guards ter clear us out ever once inna while. Gotta be ready to foot it, Derrick.”

  “They knock our shelter down, we build it back up again,” remarked Curtis (who’d first laughed at Derrick for getting drenched in the lake). “Long as we don’t put up no armed resistance, they mostly tolerates us comin’ right back.”

  Nalderick’s clothes were steaming. He’d warmed enough to mostly stop shivering, though occasional spasms still rocked him.

  “What is the blight?” he asked, looking from face to face in the leaping and flickering firelight, shifting along with everyone else when their canvas walls let in spatters of rain. “I’ve heard that w- word before, but I do not know what it signifies.”

  “New in town, eh?” chuckled Bert (the one-eyed old man). “Exiled or sumthin’, I guess. Don’t answer. Don’t none of us care. As ter the blight… it’s a sorta curse. A plague, like, that comes from ‘Is ruddy ‘Ighness, the dragon. Rots people’s insides, then kills ‘em in blood an’ ice.”

  Wenchie, Trixie and Curtis sketched the sign against evil, as though they’d had personal experience of blight, dragons or both. And there, if anywhere at all, lay his bold deed.

  “A dragon is nothing,” scoffed Derrick. “My grandfather…”

  Was dead, while Devrax had reverted to the egg after killing itself out of grief.

  “Erm… my grandfather saw one flying, once.”

  “So’s everyone else,” snorted Bert. “They be thick on the ground in these parts. The white ones, at least… but this un’s got hisself a whole kingdom and army. They say he’s immortal and stalks the night, snatchin’ victims.”

  Right. Child’s play. Nalderick straightened his shoulders, running his tongue over that shattered tooth. The grog had made its way back around by that point, adding sense to Derrick’s plan.

  “Sooo…. If this dragon were stripped of its magic and slain, the blight would end, doubtless saving the grateful populace?”

  Wenchie exploded with laughter.

  “Hark at ‘im!” she chortled. “Doubtless savin’ the grateful pop’lace?! What are ya, Derrick, a friggin’ lord?”

  “Erm… no, I…” Nalderick reddened, shaking his head till the scruffy brown hair flew. “Nothing of that sort. I, ah… was raised in a palace, over the sea. Son of… of an upper-caste servant.”

  They laughed at him, but it wasn’t an ugly laugh. More like… like they’d been through deep trouble themselves and had little hope and fewer illusions.

  “Toldja, nobody cares," snorted Bert. "Hand round the grog, Lud Derrick, afore ya downs enough hooch ter go after that ruddy drake armed with yer charmin’ smile and a stick.”

  He’d do it, though, no matter what Bert, Trixie, Curtis and Wenchie thought. He’d find and kill that immortal dragon, bringing an end to his curse. So swore Lud Derrick, formerly Nalderick, Prince and Jewel of the Realm.