The Royal Dragoneers: 2016 Modernized Format Edition (Dragoneers Saga) Read online

  She jerked her hand away, let out an exasperated girlish huff, and clenched her fists at her sides. “That the dragons want to help us when the trolls start their war! They’re in the hills gathering and planning as we speak.”

  “War?” Jenka didn’t understand. “Is it the Dragons or the Trolls who are in the hills planning right now?” Jenka had no idea what she was talking about. He was entranced by her very existence though, and couldn’t get his mind to focus on anything other than her beauty.

  She stared at him for a few long moments. “You’re daft,” she finally said. Her eyes were brimming over with tears of disappointment as she turned and stalked away.

  Jenka stood there, slack-jawed, staring at the darkness until Master Kember came over and started speaking to him. “Fargin women’ll twist your thinker till it pops.”

  “What?” Jenka asked.

  “Never mind, boy. What did she say to you?”

  “That the trolls are gonna start a war with us. That the dragons want to help us prevail, and that King Blanchard has to know about it so that we don’t keep killing wyrms.” Jenka couldn’t believe he had retained all of that, but ever since the beautiful druida had stalked away, Jenka had been thinking more clearly.

  “That’s nonsense.” Master Kember shook his head with disgust. “Fargin trolls can’t fight with any sort of form or muster. They end up fighting each other. By the hells, they’ll stop fighting to feed on the dead while you’re cutting them down. I’ve seen it. You didn’t tell her we were going to King’s Island, did you?”

  “No, sir,” Jenka answered. “Is the kingdom seat really going to move to Mainsted when Prince Richard takes the throne? I mean, I sort of understand the expansion and all, but where did we come from before the Dogma wrecked on Gull's Reach? No one ever talks about that much.”

  “That’s a good question.” The old hunter nodded. “There’s an age-old saying about it. It goes like this: Don’t worry about how you got here. You are here, and if you want to survive you have to keep doing everything that needs getting done.”

  “What does that mean?” Jenka shrugged.

  “It means that only a few historians even care where we came from, boy. A few dozen people survived a shipwreck that washed up on Gull's Reach. From that meager beginning, we populated all three islands and set up the strongholds on the mainland. Then we built that fargin wall to keep the wilderness out. Now we are trying to tame the land between the wall and the mountains so that we can grow more crops and build more cities and towns. We have achieved everything you know about. We’re not going back. We’ve been here two hundred twenty some-odd years. We are going to settle this frontier, and the trolls and dragons can be damned if they oppose it.” He let out a tired sigh and changed the subject. “We’ll have to postpone our journey for one more day. It’ll be dawn by the time we get back to Crag.”

  Jenka was only mildly disappointed by the news of the delay. He was busy pondering Zah’s beauty and what she had told him. The ride home was wrought with anxiety and excitement. Several times he started to ask Master Kember a question but caught himself. The idea that Zah might be right, that the trolls would defend their homeland, couldn’t be purged from his mind.

  He fell asleep back in his mother's hut as the sun was just starting to paint the horizon, and he dreamed he was flying high in the sky on the back of an emerald-scaled dragon. They flew across the oceans, over mountains, deserts and plains, until they found the motherland. It was crowded and noisy, and a haze of filthy air hung over the people like a cloud. There were no forests or fields, and the river that turned slowly through it all was clogged and thick with muck. Even the sea around the land was black and shimmering with an oily sheen. There were factories, and shops, and buildings, and so many people that Jenka couldn’t stand it.

  Jenka wasn’t befuddled with Zah’s beauty when he woke up late the next day. He was contemplative and distant. He could imagine Crag a hundred years from now, all crowded and busy, and he wasn’t sure if he liked the idea of it. He finally forced all the negativity from his mind, like he sometimes did when he was hunting, and was decidedly the better for it.

  Beyond being as tired as he could remember, he was also beside himself with a giddy, childish glee. He was about to go on a grand adventure and, after being invited with the King’s Rangers last night, he felt he would make Forester this year for sure. He had just decided that things couldn’t possibly get any better, when he learned that beautiful Zahrellion and another of the Druids of Dou were going to be traveling to King’s Island with them. After hearing that news, Jenka spent the rest of the evening floating around as if he were on a cloud.

  Master Kember was none too pleased about the unwanted additions to his group, but he kept his opinions mostly to himself. Captain Brody had asked him, and ordered the King’s Ranger named Herald, to escort the druids as a personal favor. He also asked that Master Kember help them gain King Blanchard’s ear. Master Kember didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all, but he was willing to do it for the captain. Crippled or not, he was still a King’s Ranger at heart.

  Jenka said goodbye to his mother early in the morning, and promised to deliver a written message to her former employer on King’s Island. Visiting a true Witch of Hazeltine wasn’t one of the things Jenka had planned to do, but he loved his mother and couldn’t possibly consider refusing her simple request. After those tears were dried, he went and found Solman and Rikky at the stables. They both had their long hair chopped at the shoulders like Jenka’s, and they were doing what they could to help the two Foresters get the horses ready.

  As the sun was coming up and losing its battle to light the sky, the group of nine travelers gathered outside the stable in a light, dreary drizzle. They all had their hoods pulled up high on their heads and their cloaks fastened tightly. Not even the inclement weather could dampen their spirits though, especially Jenka’s. He had been assigned the pleasant duty of personal attendant to Zah and her older male companion for the journey.

  “Starting a journey is always such a thrilling feeling,” Master Kember said optimistically to his three students and the two young, uniformed Foresters. Jenka, Solman, and Rikky all cringed, expecting one of Master Kember’s windy proclamations. They were saved from a lengthy discourse on the beginning of journeys by the grizzled old King’s Ranger, Herald. He harrumphed loudly over Master Kember’s voice, spat a wad of brown phlegm from a slit in his dark tangle-shrub of a beard, and snorted. “It’s just the possibility that we might not ever make it back home that makes it thrilling, Marwick. Now let’s get this cavalcade moving before the buzzards fly down and eat us where we sit.”

  With that, they started out of Crag moving south toward Three Forks.

  Chapter Four

  By midday, the late spring sun had burned the clouds away, and though the lightly rutted road was soft under the horses' hooves, there hadn’t been enough precipitation to make it muddy. Birds fluttered about and called out merrily from the thinning copses of tangle oak and pine trees that dotted the roadway, and a light breeze kept the travelers from getting too warm. The chink and jingle of the tack and the occasional whinny of one of the well-mannered horses provided a constant and steady rhythm to their passing.

  “I’m Zahrellion, but you can call me Zah.” The white-haired, tattoo-faced druida said to the two young uniformed Foresters. When they didn’t respond, she continued. “This is Linux.” She indicated her fellow druid. “What are your names?”

  Linux was tall and thin, with a cleanly shaven head and a dark, well-trimmed beard that came to a sharp point a few finger-widths below his chin. The tattoos that marked his pale face were very nearly the same as Zah’s, save the triangle on his forehead wasn’t silvery. It was a darker color, like deep stained mahogany.

  “Mortin Wheatly from Copperton, ma’am,” the bigger of the two Foresters eventually replied. He had short-cropped, carrot-red hair and looked like he had never missed a meal in his life. He was thick neck
ed, thick armed, and looked as if he might be a little thick headed, too.

  “They call me Stick,” the other Forester said quickly, then heeled his horse away from the two druids. He was dark skinned and had short, straight hair as black as pitch that looked like a helmet on his head.

  “They call him Stick because he’s thin like a stick,” Mortin explained for those who didn’t get it.

  Jenka, Solman and Rikky all introduced themselves, and soon a light conversation about the qualities of different types of field rations ensued. Mortin and Rikky both swore that dried venison was the best because you could boil it into a pot of greens and water to make a warm stew, as well as munch it dry when you were on the move. Zah agreed that dried meat was a good choice, but claimed that sea biscuits were better because they would keep for months and could be made with special herbs that revitalized a person’s body faster. Her argument made even more sense when she threw in the fact that ship captains had been using sea biscuits, not jerked venison, as the crew’s main staple for as long as anyone could remember.

  “We en't eatin’ neither of `em tonight,” Herald, the King’s Ranger, chimed in robustly. “Tonight we’ll be pullin’ pork till the stars come out. That’s the only reason I like making this fargin trek.” He was a big, gruff, unkempt man of a sizable girth. He didn’t look like much, but there was no mistaking the ease at which he sat the saddle. And if you happened to make out the embroidered emblem on the breast of his filthy tunic, you’d know to beware, because the star of the King’s Rangers was the unquestioned law of the frontier.

  The hills smoothed out a bit as the day wore on, and the slow, rolling plains spread away ahead of them like plush, green waves frozen in time. Behind them, the mountains rose up, sharp and intimidating, but ahead of them the world was alive and full of the promise of spring. Multi-colored clusters of shrubbery and wildflowers sustained a plethora of busy insect life. This kept the scenery along the way from becoming mundane. As the sun sank low in the sky, they saw a thin trail of chimney smoke in the near distance. Herald repeated several times, for the sake of those who didn’t know yet, that the smoke was from a lodging house and pig farm owned by a barrel keg of a bastard named Swinerd.

  Jenka recognized the name and quickly put the big, scruffy man’s face to it. Swinerd and his three sons often sold pigs in Crag, and sometimes stopped to purchase a liniment or a salve from Jenka’s mother. Once, Swinerd had gotten into an argument with one of the King’s Rangers and a brawl had ensued. Jenka remembered how excited the entire village had gotten over the conflict. Wagers had been made, and old Pete had opened a keg of stout for those who had the coin to buy a drink. Swinerd had pounded the poor ranger half to death, and Jenka didn’t remember seeing either man back in Crag since.

  As they neared the formidable and well-constructed looking log building, the smell of swine refuse, pungent and ripe, filled their nostrils to the point of gagging. The lodge was off the main road a short way, and beyond it was an even bigger, open-sided building. Under that gray tiled roof were rows of pens, each full of squealing piglets and loud, grunting sows. A young man, probably one of Swinerd’s sons, looked up from his labors and saw the group approaching. He immediately took off running. A moment later, big old Swinerd was stalking across the turf from the lodge, trying to hold his big splitting axe high with one hand while fastening his cloak around his neck with the other. He couldn’t quite manage it, and that only seemed to further agitate the intimidating-looking man.

  The cloak was discarded after about ten paces. Swinerd’s fierce scowl showed that he was no longer concerned with the garment. One of the sons was coming out behind his father and scooped it up as he came.

  “You fat dirty bastard.” Swinerd snarled and started charging. Herald cursed and then spurred his horse ahead while drawing his sleek long sword. He raised the blade up high and heeled his steed into a full charge at the other man. The two Foresters looked at Master Kember for instruction, but the old hunter intently watched the two men.

  It was odd to look upon; two grizzled men charging at each other, one in drab gray and green ranger’s garb, riding a well-trained horse. The other clad in rough spun and animal hides, running on his booted feet.

  “Why in the world are they…?” Rikky started to ask, but his voice stopped flat when the two men simultaneously let out very similar, primal roars.

  Jenka could do little else but watch, slack-jawed and confused, as the scene unfolded before his eyes. He wondered why Linux or Master Kember weren’t doing anything other than watching, and decided that if they weren’t worried, then he shouldn’t be either.

  Swinerd swung his axe and sent Herald’s sword flying away in a twirling glimmer of polished steel. But big old Herald leapt from his horse like some obese tree-cat and tackled Swinerd by the collar. They went tumbling into a tangle of arms and legs that looked like it would have been fatal for a lesser man. The two men ended up lying in a cloud of dust, side by side, head to foot. After a short, but tense silence they began laughing hysterically like two rambunctious young boys. Realization hit Jenka then: Herald and Swinerd were brothers.

  The old King’s Ranger hadn’t been exaggerating. They were fed enough roasted pork to fill a small battalion and they were welcomed as if they were the king's own retinue. The lodge’s common room was clean and empty, save for one of the hands that labored for Swinerd. He was at a plank-wood table near the ale keg, hovering over a plate of food. The log walled, plank-floored space boasted a large, stone fireplace at one end and three shuttered windows on the wall facing away from the pig barn. Swinerd’s wife was an excellent cook, and she was as nice as she was round. She hummed and sometimes sang the words to a trio of old folk songs as she floated about the table, keeping the tankards full of dark stout that had been brought there all the way from King’s Island.

  The younger men and boys listened closely as Swinerd recounted the tale of how he and his sons had very recently saved a group of herbalists from a pair of roaming trolls. The herbalists came this way from Port and Three Forks every spring to gather their wild growing wares. They had chanced upon the wrong berry patch this year, though. Swinerd and his sons had been letting the sows fatten in a thayzle-nut patch down by Demon's Lake a few weeks back and had been able to frighten the gangly beasts away before they killed anybody.

  Zah suggested that those trolls could be scouts gathering tactical information for their coming attack. Three of the four men at the table, Master Kember, Herald, and Swinerd, shook their heads and agreed that was foolishness. They didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count the number of trolls they had fought over the years. They spoke from experience, which had come at a grim price for a lot of men.

  “Trolls don’t reason,” Herald insisted. “They can’t think or plan beyond their instinct to hunt and eat. It’s that simple. Wolves are ten times cleverer than trolls.”

  Linux never entered the conversation, but Jenka saw a look pass between him and Zah. After that, she held her tongue when she didn’t agree with the men. Her face showed her displeasure, though. A light tension hummed through the air, save for when Swinerd’s plump wife was there to smother it with her lovely musical voice.

  It turned out that Swinerd was just a nickname, which seemed obvious to Jenka now. Their mother had named them Herald and Gerald, and Gerald had been selling pigs to the rangers up at Kingsmen’s Keep just as long as Herald had been a ranger. Kaljatig was the name their father gave them both, and his long years of working the Great Wall gave it some weight. The Yule pig at the king's own table had come from Swinerd’s farm the last seven years running and he was proud of it. Swinerd also sold his hogs to the good folk up in the other foothill villages, and two or three times a year he sent a herd down to Three Forks. The anger he had displayed at his older brother earlier was over just such a journey that had ended four days ago near Demon's Lake when road bandits got away with a score of his pigs. Herald had promised to come down with a few of the rangers and escor
t the herd safely to Three Forks, but the king’s business had kept him from keeping his word. Swinerd’s oldest son had gotten knifed trying to defend the herd. The boy had survived the chest wound and was out in the bunk house healing. Swinerd had just been venting his anger over the situation, and the animosity was almost already forgotten.

  Zah offered to look at the boy’s wounds, but Swinerd refused her as politely as his rough manner would allow. Herald tried to explain that it would be good for the boy, but there didn’t seem to be any sway in his brother’s superstitious stubbornness.

  Solman, Rikky, Mort, and Stick were put up in the bunk house. Since Jenka had been assigned the position of personal attendant to the druids, he was assigned a room in the main house with Linux. Linux had already politely requested that a hot bath be filled for him, and as soon as Jenka finished his meal, he went about getting the water heated and hauled.

  Zah, being a young lady, was given her own quarters. Jenka had to haul a bath for her, too, but that chore he did happily. When the work was done, he was too tired to haul a bath for himself. Master Kember and Herald each got a private room, and though they were all the way at the other end of the hall, their thunderous snoring kept Jenka awake most of the night. It was during a lull in this nocturnal nasal symphony that Linux spoke to Jenka for the first time.

  “You have a destiny, Jenka De Swasso,” his voice was eerily deep and his tone somewhat grave. “Zahrellion does, too. What that destiny is, I am not certain, but the dragons seem to sense it. That’s why they have approached you two. I think that your path leads somewhere other than to the King’s Rangers. I believe that there are more of you, and I believe that your destiny is far greater than that. I also believe that the trolls are far more powerful than the King’s Rangers believe, and this is troubling.”

  “Are you and Zah human?” Jenka asked the first question that came to mind. “Or are you elvish, like the village folk say?”