Dragongate I

The Third Room …

So far, so good, and pretty good at that, thought Sacrissa. Thanks to Fool Brother, I’m in precisely the right place at precisely the right time for once. Keep a cool head, don’t get cocky and it’s job done. And looking good, too, if I say so myself, thank you mirror on the wall. Still, I always did scrub up well when I wanted to. And purple really is my colour. A fine chamber, richly appointed, and a warm fire. I feel quite at home. And a fine goose feather bed. Let’s hope I shall have a chance to enjoy it. For the present there is a cushioned chair, and wine and luxury enough while I await the festivities below. Fine duds and a fine gaff. It’ll be back to working clothes and queer lodgings soon enough. But, for now, the Lady Sacrissa must walk the stage to the manner born, as, of course, she is. In life one must learn to take the smooth with the rough.

She was alone, which was how she liked it. The less the servants knew the better. Her man was doubtless getting drunk with the lewd soldiery in a guardroom somewhere and her dupe of a maid she had sent off as soon as she was dressed. Grateful for the night off, perhaps she was also now in search of lewd soldiery? Let them both depart and enjoy themselves. It was not, after all, their tale.

She smiled in the glass; ‘Mine is a life of danger, to be sure, but that is what makes it a life worth living, besides, to be fair, the danger is usually to other people. I’m not one for regrets, but, truth, I have no cause for them. I could have chosen the cloying comfort of home, but a feather bed is nothing to the open road and a night gallop. I have much that others do not, the fruits of study of arcane mysteries. And sword-pay and wrestling, pitting speed and grace against lumbering strength. Fine things, but not so fine as a war of wits where the deadliest weapon is a pretty face with a lie upon its lips and merry devilment in its eyes!’

There were risks, of course. A castle full of knights and men-at-arms was a tough proposition. Yet, she told herself, she could handle it. True, there were many layered defences, the twisting ramp passing under successive gates up the rock foundations of the massy curtain wall, the bridges and portcullises, the many round towers, the concentric walls. But they were all to keep people out. She was already inside. Only if she failed here might she have to go onto Dragongate, assuming it even existed. If it did, it would be a lot more castle, full of many more knights and men-at-arms, oh, and not to mention, guarded by dragons, apparently. All this might be seen as a disincentive for others of her profession, but she had advantages that they did not. She was a woman in a predominantly male profession. That, if you knew how to work it, could be an advantage. And, boy, she knew how to work it. Moreover, such work took her generally among the rich, powerful and high-born. Most in her line of work suffered under the handicap of sticking out like an elf’s ear in the upper rooms, but she, well, she knew she could play the tavern wench or scullery maid to perfection, but nobility was the role she was born to. It got her to all the right places and she fitted in perfectly when she got there. True, it galled her sometimes that she often had to rely on Eric for access. He, tall, handsome, if mentally slow, never lacked invitations. Still, he was useful, and, like all those strapping knights and men-at-arms, was easy enough to fool. Dragons, mind you, it was said were impossible to fool. If the hunt took her further north, what then?

This had not been an easy job thus far, she thought, and she deserved success. Aside from the brilliance and audacity required tonight, she had endured a tiresome journey trailing her father’s entourage at a discreet distance. The trek north over the interminable Wastes to the mysterious Marchlands had been, well, interminable. The Earl’s party had been forced to stop at innumerable dank castles and wretched inns while envoys sped ahead, far and wide, searching for the Vale. She had followed the rumour of them at a discrete distance. The Vale, had been hard enough to find, yet was rumoured somehow to be merely the gateway to Dragongate, whence no stranger was suffered to pass. Dragongate, if it were any more than a children’s story, lay somewhere in the freezing wastes of the uttermost north. It guarded the fabled Hidden Realm, where all manner of folk were said to dwell. Beyond that, well, some said, there was an endless wild, home to the Elves and the Powers knew what else. Her enquiries, as always, had been extensive. Yet, few were able to tell her aught of Dragongate, and none could, or would, say where it lay. One informant assured her that no-one in living memory had seen the Guardians of Dragongate, though, to be fair, she imagined there was not much incentive to brave the perilous ascents to their eyries to see if they were still there. Still, if they hadn’t been seen in years, they either didn’t exist or had been asleep for ages and were not easily roused. Rather like Eric, she thought.

Fool Brother was already playing his unwitting part. His billing and cooing had brought the King and the Hidden Princess to the Vale. Tonight, in the Gryphonhold there would be feasting and dancing – Eric can at least do those things well enough – and by his gallantry the great secret of the hidden princess would be revealed. Sacrissa contemplated this outcome with satisfaction, and may even have smacked her lips, though that was not ladylike in the least. She would accomplish her work here, she decided, without a whiff of suspicion, and without need to go dragon-hunting in mythical realms. She had potions and powders to confuse and disable, though it might be that a misdirection and a moment of well-timed audacity would gain her prize. Then it was simply playing the part until the dreary visit was over and then home with an extra bulge in her baggage and an escort of her father’s house guard. And, if it went wrong, a swift horse waiting at the town gate. In the meantime, she had put the time waiting for Their Majesties to good use, gathering all the knowledge she could, while messengers went to and from the heights of the castle and the splendour of her father’s tented encampment with rumours of marriages and alliances.

After a stay at the rancid inn in Stowham, she had penetrated the castle and spent some days in the guise of an indoor servant learning what she could, before presenting herself once more at the gates, but this time as a scion of the House of Daw, accepted as an honoured guest at the very heart of the court. All was in place. She could enjoy surprising her father and brother at the feast, though only one of them was likely to be pleased to see her. She had the sense she was living in a great tale, and that it was very much her story. Hers was the leading role, and she must play her part to the utmost; ‘I must be prepared. I just have to reach out my hand to the prize of my life …’.

But then she heard, or sensed, a change in the atmosphere that cut her train of thought dead in its tracks. The normal background noise of castle life – this castle, any castle – seemed to have suddenly ceased, like a sharp intake of breath. For a moment, just a moment, there was silence. And then she understood as the alarm bell, swinging wildly with a desperate, fearful, clanging, assaulted the air. All the Hells then seemed to break loose. She heard anger, but, above all, fear in the harsh shouts of men. For the merest moment of time she felt fear, the fear of discovery, fear that she was now no longer the hunter, but the hunted. Reason took over in an instant. This was nothing to do with her. This was a general alarm. She heard the anxious braying of the soldiers’ horns from the lower walls to the topmost and back. The clanging of arms and the thudding rapid tread of heavy feet. The guards and watches and reserves were mustering at their places of battle. Presently the fortress would, literally, be crawling with fearful, suspicious and, above all, heavily armed men. This was a complication and complications were unwelcome. She must think and adapt her plans. Whatever the cause, the present state of the castle was one she recognised, and, indeed, was one she sometimes had reason to induce; panic. Panic, she reflected, was opportunity. At the very least, it seemed to her, it should make for an entertaining evening. She hitched up her skirts and checked that the long, thin, assassin’s dagger was present and correctly seated in her thigh scabbard, before smoothing everything back in place. She took a last glance in the glass and saluted her reflection; “Take courage then roll the dice!” Three elegant and haughty strides took her to the door. With a quite unnecessary toss of the head, she stepped out into the passage …

***

The Passage …

One passage. Three young women. All had emerged from their respective rooms the same instant. For the same cause. They looked each other up and down in that pause while it is just too soon to speak, or to think what to say.

Sacrissa spoke first. In her line, you had to think on your feet and speak before a blow could be struck so that it wouldn’t have to be. You had to assess. You had to do it quickly. Then you had to take control … with conversation. She looked to the right and assessed. An inoffensive girl, looking hesitant. Another guest dressed for the feast. Not the priority. Now, left …. an Elf! High born and highly strung, no doubt. Nice gemstone. Fence it where and for what? Full court gown with jewel and archery accessories. Interesting look. Very rich, too; Elven nobility or royalty. Ransome value? Proud and dangerous and …. unusual. What is she here for? Looks like she can handle herself. If I had to fight her, I might lose. Still, useful to stand beside, or behind, in a fight, and she’s clearly up for it. Good.

Now, right, where I left you my timid friend. Wait…! For the split second I saw it, she moved with a certain …. What? Hard to tell in that dress. Why? Women move well in dresses, that’s the point of them. What did I see then? She moved with the ease of a cat, not the grace of a lady. No, with the poise and balance of a fighter! Well, how now, my awkward little shy-boots with your red tresses and pretty freckles and your downcast eyes. There is more to you than meets the eye, my squirrel.

So, interestingly, Sacrissa concluded, it might be that we are three fighters together, well, two fighters and a rogue, perhaps. In dresses. Not ideal; I’ll come to that in a moment. First, take control.

“That is the alarm bell, which means the castle is under-attack,” Sacrissa began, “We are in an internal passage while our rooms face a courtyard. This passage runs north to south, with at each end a stair tower pierced with windows. We can, then, easily discover the direction of the threat. Shall we see? Name’s Sacrissa of Trenisslia, by the way.”

“My honour” replied the Elf, inclining her head, “I am Elyssa of the Blood, known as Bloodraven,” and, turning to the other “I would be honoured to know your name.”

“Sigird of Tuttadale,” Sigrid replied, “as I am honoured to learn yours.” She curtsied. She hoped properly. The Elf nodded in acknowledgement.

“Good, then, come, daughter of Tuttadale, let us to the south window. The threat is to the south.” Elyssa took Sigird lightly by the arm and they hurried to the stair.

“Alright,” Sacrissa shrugged, and with that she followed on.

Sacrissa had been right there would be a view to the south; through an arch and down a short flight there was a break in the stairs and the bay of a window, narrowing to a tall open slit in the stone.

They squeezed their heads to the embrasure. And for a beat, it was as if their hearts had stopped and their breath was stayed.

There, in the evening light, lay the lower walls of the Gryphonhold, glinting pale and pink in the low sun above the western cliffs of the Circling Hills. Below them, in shadow, lay the town of Stowham, the meeting place and the limit of where strangers to the Vale might come and abide. Beyond its streets, a wall, then a wide, open, bailey where the Earl was not camped, and beyond an outer wall. Beyond that lay the rich pastures and fields of the Vale, a place of streams and byres and little copses. None of this fair farmland could now be seen, for covering the ground beyond the outer wall, and both sides of the road all the way to the Circling Hills beyond, was a mighty host. The like of it they had never seen, and it was greater than any of which they’d heard tell from the Kings’ Wars of their parents’ far off youth.

“By the Powers ….” murmured Sigird. Elyssa briefly closed and then opened her eyes, as if that might dispel the sight.

Sacrissa swallowed hard in mute agreement. A mighty host of heavily armoured, well-armed and apparently homicidally inclined men put, she considered, a rather different complexion upon things. For one thing, they blocked her way back south should she need an escape route. For another they had doubtless upset her plans for the evening. They would certainly need to be disposed of before she could continue with her machinations. That, she confessed, was annoying in the extreme.

Turning from the window, the Lady of Trenisslia smiled, “Well ladies, we are all in some measure women of the North I deem. Might we thus in some measure repay the hospitality of our royal host by assisting him with this difficulty?” Sacrissa turned to the Elf, “Lady, may I ask, have your barbs yet tasted blood?”

“I had the honour to lead the High Host of Belshlannoth against the Moon-kin at the battle of Gellathwyn, as told in song,” then the lady blushed a little, “Truth be told it was more of a skirmish, though my arrows flew true and deadly enough. Bards will be bards; the tale was sung quite a bit, as I recall, for a year or two.” And for the first time, the Elf smiled.

“It is well,” answered Sacrissa, “for I am no shot with the bow, and with the sword I am but an indifferent hacker and slasher,” she turned to Sigird, “but you, my lady, you are surely trained to the blade, and staunch and puissant and ready for the fray?”

“Well, yes”, replied the slight red-headed girl uncertainly.

“Well then, I fancy I can find us the quickest way from here to the royal armoury. Though as I, for one, came here for quite another sort of engagement, pray let us shed this finery and don something more suited to the dance at which we find ourselves.” With that Sacrissa turned to her chamber.

“But I …,” began Sigird, but the mischievous lady had already left. Turning to the Elf, “how was she so sure I would fight, could fight?”

“I imagine that Lady Sacrissa has observed something of the power that lies now veiled within you,” answered Elyssa.

“Power?” replied Sigird.

“Yes, your bravery, your honest loyalty, and your skilful propensity for extreme violence.”

“Oh,” said Sigird, “that.”