Dragon Knights

Calderus City is the capital of a vast trading empire of rival city states. It lines the rim of an active volvano on a small island in the centre of the Inner Sea. At the centre of the semi-submerged caldera is the Citadel, the fortress isle of the Dragon Knights, the city's guardians.

But not all is well in the city, as the many different opposing power groups seek to control both the knights and their mighty charges - and through them, the vast trading empire and the great wealth it brings...



Slowed by its membranous wings, and with only a gentle impact, the dragon's oversized talons chewed into the courtyards flagstones, splitting them effortlessly as it touched down gently.

Stofford winced, for as the dragon was his, he would be held accountable for any damage the mighty beast inflicted while they were in the city.

There would be no case of mistaken identity: each and every dragon was unique. This massive creature was a magnificent barrel-like bodied beast with shimmering orange and yellow scales - the plates of naturally secreted bronze protecting its flanks, striped with green, added colour and richness along with greater protection.

With a flourish, the dragon beat its huge wings one last time, sweeping the courtyard clear of dust, and folded them against its metallic flanks where the wings fitted snugly into hollows in the reptile's sides.

Swinging himself out of the saddle, Stofford reflected that he was here only on request, and perhaps the Regent should pay for any damage. He was certainly rich enough, controlling the city's treasure chest 'in the name of the King'...

"You came? I didn't think you would be that stupid..."

The voice hissing from the darkness startled Stofford enough for him to reach instinctively for his paired swords.

"Perdita? Is that you?"

"Lady Perdita! You have not shared my bed long enough to be so informal, Sir Stofford."

Stofford relaxed a little, but the dragon tensed, its huge claws closing on the split flagstones and starting to grind them into powder as Lady Perdita stepped from the shadows and into Stofford's arms.

Her blue-black plate and leather armour pressed into his chest firmly, but Stofford knew that her body underneath the armour could be just as firm.

"How did you know I was coming?" he asked, suspicious.

"I have allied with the Regent as you have," she purred, brushing a handful of jet black hair from her face. She gazed up at Stofford from behind the thin lenses of her glasses, her steel-blue eyes unreadable, "But I keep my spies within the King's camp, just in case."

"Like now?"

"Exactly," Perdita reached out to stroke the dragon's beak-like jaw, but it pulled away with a snort of smoke. It could smell the scent of Perdita's own dragon on her fingertips - and all dragons were fierce rivals. Its claws tightened further on the shattered flagstones.

Stofford pushed Perdita gently away and started to head for the staircase. She caught his arm.

"Stofford. Be careful: the King sent assassins today for the Regent. He took care of them personally but now he suspects everybody. Even Parliament."

Stofford stopped, surprised. Had things become so bad in his absence? The Regent had assembled the coalition of politicians, bureaucrats and merchants himself to counter the King's excesses. For the Regent not to trust even them was a bad sign indeed...

"I'll be careful, m'lady."

"You'll need to be more than careful, Stofford. The Regent respects your influence with the knights council - The King fears it."

*

"This one will tell us no more, my lord."

The Regent nodded grimly as he scratched at his neatly trimmed beard. Sokak the torturer may be undead, but his knowledge of the living and their pain thresholds was unsurpassed anywhere in the city.

"So...the King sent them. That 'boy' has more guts than I gave him credit!"

Sokak stepped away from the assassin he had been torturing. He stared coldly with his dead eyes at the man who was humming quietly to himself, driven mad by the treatments Sokak had inflicted.

As the Regent began to pace around, Sokak licked absent-mindily at the blood that had collected on his knuckles from his 'subject'.

The Regent paused at the window. The streak of orange and yellow that had flashed by the window earlier now filled the courtyard below. The Regent recognised the bulk of the dragon. "Sir Stofford is here...you had better go. He doesn't approve of your kind."

"As you wish, but remember that the undead are more reliable than your...fickle dragon knights."

The Regent said nothing as Sokak retreated, but the remark had hit home. Damn those knights! Sokak was right about them. The most powerful creatures that had ever lived were at their beck and call, and they didn't want to be involved in the city they claimed to defend, and that supported them. It was all a bit rich.

"My lord."

Stofford's voice had a note of respect in it that the Regent couldn't help but notice was missing from Sokak's earlier addresses.

He turned to find Stofford examining the now mad assassin. Without a word, the Regent walked over, drew his bastard sword and impaled the assassin through the neck. Blood spurted from the wound like one of Calderus' lave flows, spraying the Regent's damascene scale mail, the dark red surge staining the intricately etched steel and gold.

He sheathed his blade as the man died with a noisy gurgle. "The King sent them," was all he said as a way of explanation.

Shocked, Stofford mealy stared at the Regent and the now dead killer. The Regent had always been tough - ruthless even, but this?

"You summoned me here to witness this act of barbarism!?" Stofford demanded after several moments had passed and he had mastered himself. Perhaps Perdita is right after all!

"We live in troubled times, and your knights are the key. You claim to defend this city, so I ask you now to join me against the King."

Join you against the King? thought Stofford. The dragons would butcher all in their path!

"The King is the rightful ruler: You were meant to serve as Regent only to the age of his majority - which he has now reached. Technically, you are a traitor. My lord."

Now it was the turn of the Regent to look shocked.

"How can you say that? You know the King, what he is like. He will not be a just ruler! He is a cruel and arrogant tyrant in his own palace! He sends assassins to eliminate his rivals! How can you defend him?"

And you are not cruel and arrogant!? "I will not ally the knights on one side or another in a civil war, in mass murder."

"I thought you would know better, Stofford..." whispered the Regent as he reached for his sword again, but Stofford was ready for him: leaping forwards to land a solid blow against the Regent's bearded chin before the sword had fully cleared the scabbard, Stofford headed for the window, mentally summoning his dragon through the telepathic link all knights are their dragons shared.

The Regent pulled himself to his feet and screamed for help. Outside, the dragon heard Stofford's mental cry at the same time.

The 60 foot long beast reared up on its rear legs bringing its head level with the bay windows and plunged its head through, exploding the glass and wood into a cloud of vicious shards and tinder. It paused only a moment before it sank its forward claws into the brickwork and pulled its body up into the new opening it had created, its delicate looking membranous wings safe in their protective hollows at the dragon's sides.

The Regent feared no mortal man, but he turned ashen at this naked display of power. Stofford skipped onto the dragon's extended neck and climbed into the saddle.

The Regent's guards - the Wardens - burst into the room, spears at the ready. One look at the dragon sent most of them advancing in another direction even more rapidly than when they had burst in.

One guard lingered, and Stofford's dragon lashed out with its tail. On this beast, the tail was barbed with numerous spines that slashed open the guard's splint mail, chest and abdomen with equal ease.

Stofford watched the guard's internal organs spilling out dispassionately, entrails uncoiling like red serpents. He had seen his dragon do worse - the tail slap had been almost playful.

As Stofford turned the dragon to leave, he thought that Perdita had definitely been right all along - There was going to be trouble.

*

Calderus was a volcanic island. Now it slumbered, but in ages past it had erupted so violently that the island had been blasted apart, leaving only a third of the original landmass intact.

The massive crater's west wall had later collapsed, and the sea had flooded in, turning the caldera into the best natural harbour in the known world.

As a result, Calderus now served as the central hub of a vast trading empire consisting of several rival city-states.

Calderus City occupied what remained of the shattered island. The island was too small to support cropland for its massive population, and all its food was imported. The vast harbour and port facilities lined the inside caldera wall, and were surrounded by the poor lower-classes who came searching for work and all too often slipped between the cracks of city life.

They in turn were ringed by the merchant middle-classes who ran the warehouses, taverns and shops. Finally, on the upper slopes of the island amongst the olive groves and garden terraces were the private estates of the truly rich and powerful.

The volcano was still active, and its constant bubbling and noxious emissions had caused the locals to nickname it 'The Cauldron'. It also continued to form several small islets within the caldera. One was the site of the King's palace, linked to the city by an elegant causeway. The largest was the Citadel, the fortified home of the Dragon Knights.

It was here that the great dragons slumbered like their volcano, safe within the giant caverns and ancient lava-tubes. Positioned close to the magma chamber was the maturation cave, where the eggs of the dragons littered the sandy floor, incubating before hatching and bonding with the knights who lived and trained in the cold, upper reaches of the citadel.

There was no other place in the world that Stofford wanted to be right now. But to go there would mean taking the risk that he would be spotted by the City Watch, and that would give the Regent the excuse he needed to invade the Citadel. The Knights would resist such an invasion and there would be many deaths.

Stofford didn't want that and so, with heavy heart he had brought his dragon to the harbour area, hiding the magnificent orange and yellow creature in a safehouse that the Knights owned for just such an emergency.

Ostentiously, the building was a warehouse that was filled with fine silks from the east, but in reality it was empty but for a few crates and sackcloths.

Stofford calmed the dragon by stroking its nose till the great beast's head sagged and it's eyes closed. Dragons were capable of grand feats, but they were 'sprinters', renowned for their power but not their endurance, all dragons needing much rest after any callisthenics.

Leaving the sleeping dragon, Stofford slipped out of the safehouse into the poor quarter of the city.

When a Knight went to war, he wore full plate armour and wielded the dragonlance, a massive rod of steel and wood that was attached to the dragon's saddle due to its great weight. No man could carry one alone!

Stofford had not been going to war, however, and so he was clad only in studded leather, with a longsword at his left hip and a shortsword at his right. Wrapped tightly in a cloak, he hurried through the darkened streets avoiding the scattered and rare watch patrols.

He was headed for the Cock and Spur, a tavern he had frequented as a boy: unlike many of his fellow Knights, Stofford had a humble upbringing, born and raised in the streets of the poor quarter, and knew it like the back of his hand.

The tavern was just as Stofford remembered it. Not wasting time to dwell on the past, he entered the tavern hurriedly and sought her out.

Rosie was here. The owner of the Cock and Spur was a maternal, overweight woman with cherubic features, a friendly smile, dirty blonde hair and a huge chest. She hadn't changed a bit in all the years Stofford had known her.

She was carrying an overloaded tray of filled tankards, and still managed to spot him at once. Rosie gestured with her head for him to follow her into the snug backroom.

"What are you doing here, Stofford?" she asked when they were alone. "Come for a bit of rough? A little slap and tickle?" She pulled suggestively at the draw cord that kept the front of the bodice of her dress together, already straining to keep her huge breasts in check.

"No!" cried Stofford, flushing with embarrassment.

"Too bad," Rosie shrugged, picked up her tray again and headed for the door.

"Wait. Rosie, I need your help."

She stopped and looked at him. "I know. You've been away too long, Stofford. Calderus is on the verge of tearing itself apart in a civil war and you come to my tavern?"

"Yes, I know. And I came to talk to you, Rosie. This tavern is the roughest in the city, its here the worst scum of the city come to drink - "

"Hey! That's my clientele you're insulting!"

"Rosie. You hear things. You must know what's going on, the King's assassins for example..."

The smile faded from her face, and Rosie stared at Stofford with a strange blank expression.

Finally she answered "I do hear things, Stofford, that's true. Nobody knows where the assassins came from. Perhaps another city? Perhaps from somebody in Parliament? Half are elected, half are appointed these days. They resent one another, the Regent keeps them under control, maybe they took offence...Some say that even the undead have been appointed to parliament - "

"What!?"

"It's just a rumour, Stofford. I can't help you anymore than that."

Stofford's eyes narrowed. Can't or won't? Rosie was hiding it well, but she was scared. Who or what had put the frightners on her? Stofford decided that perhaps this hadn't been such a good idea, and it was time he left.

"I have to get back to work," said Rosie. Stofford nodded and headed for the door following her. As they left the snug there was a large crash as the front doors to the tavern burst open.

Clad in jet-black banded mail and carring a drawn magical longsword, Tereill, the City Sheriff stood at the head of a score of watchmen. Stofford's hands flew to his own enchanted blades.

"Sir Stofford!" shouted the Sheriff, causing the tavern's patrons to scurry for cover "By the order of Parliament, you are under arrest!" before he added more quietly "And this time, you have no dragon to save you..."

*

When Sir Stofford was just a boy he had grown up in the poorest quarters of Calderus City. He had run through the streets with his best friend Tereill, and the pair had come to be known as the greatest pair of good-natured ruffians and scallywags alive.

Then Stofford had the dream.

All dragon knights received the dream once in their lives. They knew it as 'the calling'. Some said that the unhatched dragons in their eggs send out the call to their new riders after finding them through Astral Projection, but no-one knew where the dreams really came from.

After the dream, Stofford had gone to the simple brick house by the harbour side owned by the knights, and presented himself. There he had to describe the dream to the assembled knights who allready knew its content, and could tell if he was lying or not.

Satisfied that the dream was genuine, the knights told Stofford to return the next day, where a boat would take him and the other potential candidates to the Citadel.

Stofford was overjoyed, and ran at once to tell his best friend the good news.

"I had no dream." was all Tereill had said.

"What do you mean?" Stofford asked.

"That you'll be going to the Citadel, and I will be staying here. We won't see one another for years - if at all. Goodbye, Stofford."

And so it had been with a heavy heart that Stofford had taken with him to the Citadel the next day.

Sir Stofford had excelled at the Citadel, and risen in the ranks rapidly to his current rank of 'Knights-Captain' after bonding with his dragon. Back in the City, Tereill had also been busy, joining the city watch and rising to the rank of 'Sheriff of Calderus'.

"Stop in the name of Parliament!" was something that Stofford had never thought his old friend would be saying to him but here they were!

"Its a raid! Run for it!" screamed Rosie at the top of her lungs, and immediately the entire Cock and Spur tavern had erupted into violence: The tavern's patrons were after all thugs and villains for the most part.

"This way!" Rosie hissed at Stofford, indicating the back room. Stofford nodded and headed for the escape route as tankards, chairs and even tables seemed to fill the air around him.

Suddenly, something wooden crashed into the back of Stofford's legs, entangling them and causing him to pitch forwards, flat onto his face.

Rolling over, he saw that someone had flung a chair into his retreating legs. Looking up, he saw the Sheriff pushing his way through the raging mob as his men fought to bring the scene under control.

Stofford barely had time to regain his footing before Tereill was on him, his longsword striking out like a spitting snake.

Stofford parried the blow - just, the enchanted blades ringing together from their combined magical energy struggling against one another, their surfaces seeming to flash briefly with lazy coils of paranormal power.

Stofford had explored vast tracts of the globe, and was very experienced but Tereill was highly focused. Stofford was faster than Tereill - slash, stab, slash, stab with longsword and short, but as Sheriff, Tereill was a better swordsman - always had been, ever since they had been boys.

Stofford parried another blow with his longsword and thrusted with his short as Tereill recovered his blade to strike again. The clumsy thrust was deflected from the Sheriff's black banded mail.

Grinning, Tereill slashed at Stofford's legs and the magic blade cut through the toughened leather as if it were the finest gossamer, drawing blood.

Stofford cursed, but worse was to come.

Tereill slashed again as Stofford was off-balance. It was a wild strike, but it hit Stofford in the back of the left hand, splitting glove, flesh, and bone in two. The Sheriff's sword passed through the hand from back to palm where it struck the hilt of Stofford's shortsword, knocking the weapon from his grasp in a curtain of blood.

Stofford had never known such pain!

"I'm sorry Stofford, but you're comi - " He didn't compete the sentence as Rosie came to Stofford's aid again, smashing a heavy tray over the Sheriff's head, splintering the heavy wood and stunning the well-muscled man as he crumpled to the floor.

Rosie hauled Stofford to his feet. "Damn it Stofford! I thought you were good at fighting! Getting lazy 'cause you got a pet dragon!?"

Stofford couldn't respond, but he was grateful as she dragged him into the back room and to safety.

From across the tavern, Sokak rose from his seat, pausing only to pick up Stofford's blood-covered shortsword. It had been a good days work, thought Sokak, looking at the chair he had kicked into the back of Stofford's legs when he had tried to flee.

*

"It is in there."

Mungriel, the King's tutor and court wizard extended a bony finger to indicate the warehouse.

How does he know that? wondered Dale. Mungriel looked to be well over 60 years of age, thin and gaunt with his pure white hair tied loosely behind his head where it extended to the small of his back. He was stroking his long salt 'n' pepper beard thoughtfully.

Dale looked to his companions. Dale himself was a bard, tall and strapping with straw coloured hair and a way with the ladies (if he said so himself). He beamed his winning smile at Giselle. She ignored him. Playing hard to get, I see Dale decided.

Giselle was a former gladiator. She had earned enough in her fights to buy her freedom and now, like her two friends worked for whomever offered the best. Giselle was gifted with an athletic build, her raven-dark hair was tied in a series of topknots and as always her cool clear icy-blue eyes betrayed no emotion: Her demeanour suggested that she was nothing less than an efficient killing machine, which she was.

Lornia was their outfit's half-elf wizard, average height but regal in her manor. It betrayed the aristocratic upbringing of the young mage, her light red hair flowing across her shoulders with a single thick braid at its center. Her eyes seemed to shine with an unnatural amber light.

"Yes...I can sense the Dragon's power from within," she whispered "It sleeps, for now."

Mungriel shifted the weight on his staff. Dale noticed that some of the insects carved into the dark wood seemed to move to avoid being under the old wizard's fingers, but he thought it must be some trick of the twilight.

"So, how do we go about capturing that dragon in there, then?"

Mungriel fixed Dale with a steady stare. "You're a bard, are you not?"

"Yeah, but - "

"Then you will sing." said Mungriel as he turned away and signaled the score of Kingsmen - the King's elite guard - that accompanied them.

"Sing? To a dragon?" Asked Dale, blinking in surprise as the Kingsmen flowed past them, their breastplates and muskets glinting as they took up positions around the warehouse.

"Yes. Sing." snapped Mungriel, obviously impatient. "You do sing? Play the Lyre?"

"Yes, I get the picture, but what do I sing?"

Mungriel smiled. It was the only time anybody had seen him smile since he had hired them, two days before. "Dragons need to be soothed. You will sing a soothing tune and keep the dragon slumbering. Lornia will augment your efforts with her magic and Giselle will place the binding rings. Then I will bind the dragon. Come."

"That easy, huh?" mumbled Dale to his companions as they headed for the warehouse's interior.

*

Lornia shuddered when she saw the dragon. It was a fearsome beast, with a huge orange and yellow scaled body that reminded Lornia of the giant mead barrels of her mentor's estate in the hills. She looked at Dale. The bard had gone an unhealthy shade at the first whiff of brimstone, and looked even worse now, the closer they got.

"Begin!" hissed Mungriel, as he began to chant softly, commencing the binding spell.
"Sing, Dale!" she hissed, mimicking the white-robed Mungriel. Dale stared. The dragon's ears flicked as if irritated by something, and it lifted one clawed back leg to scratch at them, reminding Lornia of her pet cat, if my cat was 60 feet long, that is!

"Sing!" she repeated, glancing at the Kingsmen. They were looking decidedly nervous, fingering their muskets and rapiers as if they were about to flee.

Lornia began to perspire. She could feel the sweat as it began to run down her body, to the small of her back and between her ample breasts, collecting against the amulet of her faith that she wore.

Dale began to sing. Slowly, hesitantly, but at least he had started. Giselle had placed the first of the binding rings, her acrobatic training invaluable for this. She showed no fear even though she was closest of all.

Mungriel's chanting rose in pitch and volume. Lornia felt the tingling at the core of her being that indicated great magic was in the casting. She found it stimulating as she cast a spell of her own, levitating Giselle over the sleeping dragon to place another binding ring, this one on the creature's back between it's shoulders.

The dragon opened one eye.

"Dale!" cried Giselle. Dale froze in place, transfixed.

"Now!" screamed Mungriel, and everything seemed to happen at once.

The dragon pulled itself to its feet far faster than Giselle had thought possible, and the huge creature's head butted Giselle across the warehouse, Lornia's levitation spell saving her from a bone breaking fall.

Almost at once, Mungriel's partially readied binding spell came into being: a series of sparkling golden energy chains - linking the metallic rings together - snapped into place.

The dragon reared back instinctively, but the chains contained the reptile's movements. Angry, the dragon proceeded to unleash a blast of super-heated flame at the nearest Kingsmen, engulfing two of them in the acid-like flaming chemical mix that made up this dragon's breath weapon.

As the smell of charred flesh reached her nostrils, Lornia found herself reacting instinctively too, casting a freezing spell.

Immediately the air around the dragon's head dropped to many times below freezing point, and to its surprise the dragon found the front of its snout encased in ice. Lornia let out a cry of triumph as the beast pitched forwards and crashed to the ground, the impact almost knocking her off her feet.

"We have it!" exclaimed Mungriel. The dragon looked at them for a moment, then lifting its head up, it dropped it again dashing the ice to thousands of fragments in a single blow.

The Kingsmen unleashed a volley of musket balls, filling the warehouse with smoke - blackpowder mixing with the dragon's sulphur, but the lead shot pattered off the dragon's armour like rain.

"Shi-" began Lornia as the beast pointed its head in her direction as it inhaled.

Suddenly Giselle was in the way. Lornia didn't even know where she had come from as Giselle stabbed the creature in its throat with her trident, the triple points finding a soft spot in between the dragon's plates of naturally secreted bronze.

It reared back and its tail smashed a nearby support pillar to matchwood, the impact knocking Mungriel to the ground and breaking his concentration.

Instantly, the binding chains shimmered out of existence. The dragon bounded into the air with a single stroke of it's wings that knocked everybody to the floor with the backdraft, and plunged through the ceiling - smashing it aside and pulling away into the night sky.

Dale picked himself up first, placing one hand to shield his eyes, "I guess that a pissed off dragon on the loose is bad, huh?" he said quietly.

*

Dale lowered his hand and slammed the tavern's tankard down onto the table with a dull thud, sending frothy splashes of ale over Giselle and Lornia.

"Hey!" the two woman exclaimed in unison. Dale ignored them, shaking his head as he wiped the ale 'moustache' from his top lip with one hand, and tore a leg of lamb from the platter at the center of the table with the other.

"Sacked! I can't believe he sacked us! After all we did for him..." Dale snapped his fingers at a nearby serving girl as he sank his teeth into the hunk of roasted meat.

"I think that's probably why he did sack us" muttered Lornia under her breath. Dale didn't hear, as he was too busy admiring the young blonde serving girl who was bringing him a fresh ale. Next to the Cock and Spur, this tavern, the Dragon's Breath inn (so named, it was rumoured, for how the customers felt in the morning after drinking here) was the roughest in the city.

"Dale. Hey, Dale! Pay attention will you: we have to find a way to get back into employment or otherwise that's going to be the last ale you'll be enjoying for quite a while!"

Dale looked at Lornia, surprised at her outburst. Giselle nodded. "The half-elf is right. We should focus our efforts on finding the dragon...or its rider."

Dale leaned in, as if he was suddenly part of a conspiracy plot.

"What do you mean 'or the rider'? Mungriel said that dragon was a loose one..."

"And you believed that? You must have less brains than I gave you credit for!" laughed Giselle as she leaned back and returned to running the sharpening stone over her shortsword in the cubicle they were sat in at the back of the inn.

Lornia leaned in instead, choosing to ignore the tone of voice that Giselle had used when she had said 'half-elf'.

"If that dragon was loose, then why weren't the dragon knights dealing with it? It is their responsibility. And loose dragons don't usually wear saddles."

"So where do we find the rider? Or the dragon for that matter?"

"Dragons need a lot of sleep, or if they are active, a lot of food," explained Lornia, "but to where you might find an absent rider? No idea."

"What do you think Mungriel wanted with the dragon, anyway?" asked Giselle, between strokes.

"Maybe he collects them!" joked Dale. Lornia stared at him. "This isn't a joking matter, Dale, this could be serious!"

"What do you mean?"

"Two enemies, both with dragons? And you need to ask me why that is serious?"

"No, but how do we catch a dragon anyway? Your magic isn't upto the job, Lornia. No offence."

Dale waved the leg of mutton in Lornia's direction, causing the vegetarian to wrinkle her nose in disgust.

"The fish market!" he suddenly exclaimed.

"What?" asked the two women, again in unison.

"The fish market!" repeated Dale, "Where else on the whole island is there a ready supply of fresh food!? Where else could our dragon friend go?"

"He has a point, Lornia."

Lornia sat back. There was no room on the island for crop cultivation. The rich may have their private estates and vineyards to provide grapes and olives, but everybody had to have their food imported. Many people still wanted fresh food, and the sea surrounding the island teamed with life, much to the fat fishermen and greedy merchants hand-rubbing pleasure.

"OK, you go to the fish market - the first catch should be landed in a few hours, and I'll go and see my master. He's retired now, but in his day he was more than the equal of Mungriel. He'll provide me with what we need to capture that dragon!"

"And I'll go looking for our missing knight. I know just the place to start searching..." added Giselle, "We'll meet back in two hours."

*

Sir Stofford drifted in and out of consciousness. Rosie sighed to herself. If something didn't improve soon, she would have to get a surgeon to amputate Stofford's hand. He needed magical help to heal a wound that was so severe, but with the watch everywhere looking for them, how could she summon help?

She sighed again and mopped at Stofford's brow with a wet cloth.

*

The Regent slammed an armoured fist into his oaken desk, splitting the wood with a crack. The sheriff winced, and placed one hand to his throbbing, bandaged temple.

"You let him get away!" roared the Regent. In his private suite of offices at the Parliament building, he often let rip with his loudest and most violent mood swings. They had become far more common now the King had reached the age of majority. Tereill was one of the few men who had access to both of them, and he thought that it was ironic that the Regent mirrored the King more and more everyday.

"No...I was - "

"Save your bungling excuses! We have other fish to fry!" interrupted the Regent, impatient, "It seems that bungling isn't just your speciality, today: Mungriel and some mercenaries managed to spook Stofford's dragon and it has been seen at the harbour."

"How do you know that?"

"Oh, a little bird told me..." replied the Regent, looking at his pet raven familiar as it hopped around the cluttered desk.

"Mungriel and his great dragon quest..." mused Tereill, " - another dragon to add to the King's private collection?"

"Perhaps. But all the pieces are just about in place. Soon, the truth will be revealed - and Stofford will wish he had allied his order with Parliament!"

*

Mungriel threw out his arms in a theatrical gesture as he summoned all his magical strength.

In the sandy pit below the rocky over-hanging ledge, the stolen dragon egg started to darken - the majestic coloured swirls that covered its shell faded from view, as the splotches of metallic pigmentation on the creamy surface took on a dark, harder tone.

Mungriel drew on his power, feeling it build in the core of his guts, gathering charge, searing his innards like a miniature sun, yearning for release. The air around Mungriel took on a blue hue, static charges leaping from his out-stretched limbs as the power built to a climax.

A bolt of pure magic power sprang from his fingertips and exploded into the blackened egg, bursting it apart in a spray of plasma and fluid. The energy continued to pour down, and the creature now in the center of the maelstrom of power writhed in agony as its growth was accelerated to an un-natural pace. Within seconds, the hatchling was over 40 feet long, a wingless beast of coal-black scales, sharpened spines and more than a dozen heads on serpentine necks, many of them hideously deformed.

The howl of magic energy died away, to be replaced by the dragon's howls of pain as it lay at the bottom of the blasted pit, dying. Its sides were torn, and thick, blackened dragon blood oozed crimson from the pitiful, mutated creature's many lesions and sores.

"Do you know the trouble I had to go through to get that egg for you!?" exclaimed Lady Perdita, stepping from behind the cover she had taken to avoid being hit by any stray tendrils of power.

Mungriel shrugged "It must have been contaminated. Just look at the mutations..."

"Your magic was contaminated more like!"

"Perhaps. But I can save this specimen. It may prove...useful. Regardless, you must obtain another egg for us as soon as possible, before the King's gala ball at least. An un-contaminated specimen, this time."

*

Lornia paused at the doorway to Master Baal's walled estate. How would she explain her failure to help capture the renegade dragon? Would not her willingness at a second attempt bear well for her in Baal's eyes?

The half-elf breathed noisily out through her nostrils, and steeling herself as if it might sting her, reached for the bellpull at the barred gate. To her surprise, it swung open before she could grasp the cord.

She looked around, but there was nobody in sight. It was night, and out here in the rolling hills that made up the majority of the island above Calderus City, few of the common folk ventured. The rich and powerful had their private estates and vineyards in the hills, and to wonder around at night was an easy way to be accused of being a burglar or highwayman - crimes that could get you killed really quickly up here.

Lornia pulled herself to her full height - all five feet, six inches of it - and marched confidently into the compound. She was no thief!

Master Baal was stood at the doorway to his mansion. That surprised Lornia. It meant the old mage was expecting her.

Keeping her face neutral, she strode up to him and fixed him with her best, confident gaze that did not match her inner turmoil. Baal hated his students to show fear, anxiety or indeed, any emotion at all. He himself always appeared beyond scrutiny, human, yet his eyes appeared to be as orbs of metal, his weather beaten face hard like toughened leather and his white goatee and hair framed his head like the mane of a lion. Everything about the old man was harsh, and unforgiving.

Which made it even more surprising when he greeted Lornia with a pleasant smile. Lornia had always expected to see the master's face crack if he made any kind of expression with it, so set it seemed to have been, but the smile was warm and natural looking.

"Lornia! My favoured student! Welcome back!"

"Master Baal...I have, well...failed to capture the dragon, master."

Baal nodded. "I know. Come inside and we will discuss it." Baal stepped aside, and as Lornia brushed past him, he placed his hand on the small of her back, directing her to the main room of the mansion. In all her years here as one of his students, Lornia had never seen Baal touch any of them.

"You have come to obtain a weapon from me to facilitate its capture, yes?" he asked as they entered the room. A simple gesture and Lornia found herself holding a fluted glass filled with wine.

"Yes, master," she responded, staring at the conjured refreshment, "How did you - ?"
"Know?" asked Baal, "I have been watching your progress. Your willingness to attempt the capture a second time proves your commitment to the cause. The power of dragons must not be allowed free reign, lest it destroy us all! This is the item you seek: may our God give us the strength we need to enslave dragonkind to our will!"

Baal indicated a vial on a small table by Lornia's side. She was sure it had not been there before. A small blowpipe and a carved wooden box were on the tabletop also.

"A potion?"

Baal nodded.

"You must bring the beast down by force, or find a way to sneak the potion into its food. It will put the animal to sleep, I promise you that," explained Baal, "use the darts in the box to bring the beast down, if you can. They are enchanted and will penetrate the dragon's armour."

"A long sleep?"

"Oh yes," smiled Baal, "A very long sleep..."

*

"I havn't seen nooo dragon around here!" exclaimed the serving girl, as Dale tugged on the drawstring to her bodice.

"That's what I thought. Just checking," he beamed at her, "I have to watch the fishmarket from this bedroom, and you'll have to help me to stay awake all night. Can you help me with that?"

The girl giggled as the front of her dress fell open, and nodded her affirmation.

*

Rosie awoke with a start. She must of dozed off, and now she was no longer alone. A female figure was leaning over Stofford's prostrate form. Rosie remained still, her eyes locked on the figure as she moved her hand ever so slowly to the dagger at her belt, trying not to draw the attention of the chainmail-shirted warrior.

"Touch that knife and I'll have to kill you." said the woman, without turning round.

Rosie froze instinctively.

"Who are you?" Rosie asked, but the woman ignored her.

"Perdita?" croaked Stofford, his vision glazed through a mixture of pain and drugs administrated to him by Rosie.

The woman shook her head. "No...not Perdita. My name is Giselle, and I think you must be our missing Dragon Knight!"


To be continued in Chapter 7, soon...