Blood of Dragons

Captives had been taken from below decks to replace the rowers who had been lost, chained to oars as if they were slaves. The merchants and Traders were poor replacements for the work-hardened slaves and sailors that had perished. Yet the Chalcedean and his followers seemed not to care that nineteen of twenty arrows shot at the dragon either missed or splashed uselessly into the river. If the twentieth one loosened a scale or stuck for even a moment in a tender part of her body, they roared and screeched victoriously.

Hest did not see why they put so much effort into it. It seemed plain to him that the dragon was dying. Daily she looked more dilapidated. She was obviously incapable of flight. She carried one of her wings partially open at an odd angle. Her colours were faded and the smell of her was terrible, a stench of rotten meat. Rousted from wherever she had finally taken rest at night, she now put most of her energy into staying out of range of their arrows. Sometimes she sought refuge in the reed-beds at the swampy edge of the river. Lying down, she became almost invisible to them. Then Lord Dargen would force some of his men over the side to harry and taunt her into showing herself. Some of those men became food. Privately, Hest believed that if the Chalcedean would stop feeding his henchmen to the dragon, she would sooner succumb to her injuries and die.

But he did not say so. He did not wish to end up on the end of an oar. Yet he feared that, at the rate Lord Dargen was spending men, it would be inevitable. The Chalcedean seldom gave him an order any more. Hest kept himself busy and out of the man’s sight, making every effort to be both useful and invisible. For hours every day, he carried out menial tasks, wiping tables, stirring porridge or soup, and any other work he could find to occupy himself. He had, he thought bitterly, adapted himself into the ideal slave, endlessly labouring without need of direction.

The only thing worse than the constant drudgery were the times of absolute terror when the dragon attacked the ship. Those could happen at any moment, he had discovered. Pestered and poked enough, she would turn and lash out. Her roars lacked spirit, more the response of a cornered rat than an enraged predator. Yet even so, every attack damaged one ship or another and often enough, claimed a life.

‘Hest!’

He jerked at the sound of his shouted name, and the men gathered at the table roared with laughter. The Chalcedean did not. He was scowling, displeased with his servant. Hest tried not to cower. He had several reasons to fear. He had stolen two pieces of bacon that morning on the pretence of cleaning the pan. And he had purloined a water-stained cloak that one of the Chalcedeans had thrown to the deck after the dragon had given them an unexpected drenching. It served as his bedding now and he was pathetically grateful for its thin comfort. But now, as dread rose in him, he cursed himself for a fool. He had not been that cold nor were the deck planks that hard. That discomfort was not worth his life!

The Chalcedean’s cheeks and nose were red with drinking, or perhaps just from recent splashes of river water. They all looked the worse for wear by now and Hest dared not imagine how he appeared. His hands and arms were scalded red to the elbows just from his cleaning tasks. But his master only took a heavy brass key from the pouch at his belt and said, ‘Go to the second aft hatch and bring us back that little keg of Sandsedge brandy.’ He looked around the table at his men, swaying slightly. ‘I don’t think it’s too early for us to celebrate. Tomorrow she will surely fall to us. That spear from Binton went deep today, did it not? Did you see how her blood bubbled as it met the water? Dragon blood! Soon enough we’ll have plenty of it. So emptying the keg to hold it tonight might be a wise course of action!’

Two men cheered, but the others at the table shook their heads. Hest’s heart sank as one of them snatched the key back from him and stuffed it back into his master’s pouch. Anger blossomed on the Chalcedean’s face and Hest knew he would bear the brunt of it. ‘Your master is drunk. Only a fool celebrates a victory before it is in his hands. Take him back to his bed for the night. Tomorrow, perhaps, you will have to bring us that cask.’

Lord Dargen rose unsteadily. His hand hovered over one of his vicious little knives. ‘You are not in command here, Clard. It is something for you to remember.’

The man did not lower his gaze. ‘I know it well, Lord Dargen. You lead us, and you have borne the hardship of doing so. But I follow you, and not the wine in your belly!’ He grinned as he added this, and after a moment, the fury melted from the Chalcedean’s face. He nodded slowly and relieved smiles broke on the faces of the other men at the table.