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Dragonnaire
7 March 2007 17:42There are times in a man’s life when he knows he’s made a huge mistake.
I am staring down the blade of that moment right now.
I should have known when she walked into my bar that politeness was called for. She was tall and strong for a woman but over here in Smithtown, that wasn’t too rare. If it wasn’t so busy at the bar, I wouldn’t have missed the markings. I had her pegged as visiting management for the hammer mill or maybe just a new worker from out of town.
Plenty of people came to Smithtown for escape. There were probably just as many assumed names in this place as there were customers. This town was populated by strong people without much intelligence who were more than happy to swing a hammer and work the metal in return for an absence of questions and some privacy.
The ones that drank, they drank a lot. Business was great.
As urine drizzled warmly down my leg and I felt the tip of the sword press a little more firmly into my adam’s apple, I couldn’t help but reflect on the fact that doing good business wasn’t going to save my life here.
I looked up the blade, past the hilt, and was hypnotized to stillness by the cold dead eyes of the Dragonnaire.
The bar was still. No one made a sound. Water from the rain outside dripped off of her chain mail gloves.
The Dragonnaire had a long and almost delicate scar across her throat. The bright-red hair on the half of her scalp that hadn’t been burned in battle was tied back in a lopsided braid. Her pitted armour was scarred with deep clawtracks. Black carbon burn-swathes painted the deep blue of her armour with a pattern of flame-induced camouflage. Rank and symbols had been burned off.
She was filthy and mute. There was a semi-circle of tattooed stars around her left eye. It was the stars that had made my bladder go. They marked her out as a Night Rider.
A few months ago, a Mercy Legislator had come through town proclaiming that while the dragons were still to be hunted and that the bounty on their heads still stood, the Dragonnaires were to be given amnesty.
She wasn’t the first Dragonnaire to come through town to get her armour unenchanted and chipped off but she was the first one to come through legally.
Her armour had been glamoured at the end of the war to never come off of her. The latches had been spelled closed. She stank and was probably septicemic. There weren’t very many of these people left. The defeat punishments had been hard.
The choice to remove their capability to cast spells by excising their vocal chords was made by a bloodthirsty government eager to give the public a spectacle of punishment. At great public cost, the rider’s dragons were hunted down and destroyed by traditional means over the next year.
The fact that this woman was still alive was a sign that her dragon had probably not been killed. They rarely survived the death of their mounts. It was probably still out there somewhere, alone, hiding, frightened and fending for itself. The psychic link forged between them must have been alive with a constant keening.
Dragons don’t sleep. This animal despair must have polluted the Dragonnaire woman’s dreams twenty-four hours a day since the separation.
The bar had been busy. I wasn’t paying attention to faces. I was operating on reflex and habit. I completely forgot my manners as I served the thirsty line at the bar.
“What would you like?” I had asked her without looking at her.
She pointed to the keg behind me.
“Eh, what’s that? C’mon, I haven’t got all day. Cat got your tongue?” I said and looked up into a face that had no patience.
Currently, I was standing with my back against the barrels and the shining tip of her massive sword at my throat. The strongest fighters in the place were looking at the ceiling or suddenly finding their beer very interesting.
She mouthed one word at me from blood-flecked lips.
Apologize.
tags
I am staring down the blade of that moment right now.
I should have known when she walked into my bar that politeness was called for. She was tall and strong for a woman but over here in Smithtown, that wasn’t too rare. If it wasn’t so busy at the bar, I wouldn’t have missed the markings. I had her pegged as visiting management for the hammer mill or maybe just a new worker from out of town.
Plenty of people came to Smithtown for escape. There were probably just as many assumed names in this place as there were customers. This town was populated by strong people without much intelligence who were more than happy to swing a hammer and work the metal in return for an absence of questions and some privacy.
The ones that drank, they drank a lot. Business was great.
As urine drizzled warmly down my leg and I felt the tip of the sword press a little more firmly into my adam’s apple, I couldn’t help but reflect on the fact that doing good business wasn’t going to save my life here.
I looked up the blade, past the hilt, and was hypnotized to stillness by the cold dead eyes of the Dragonnaire.
The bar was still. No one made a sound. Water from the rain outside dripped off of her chain mail gloves.
The Dragonnaire had a long and almost delicate scar across her throat. The bright-red hair on the half of her scalp that hadn’t been burned in battle was tied back in a lopsided braid. Her pitted armour was scarred with deep clawtracks. Black carbon burn-swathes painted the deep blue of her armour with a pattern of flame-induced camouflage. Rank and symbols had been burned off.
She was filthy and mute. There was a semi-circle of tattooed stars around her left eye. It was the stars that had made my bladder go. They marked her out as a Night Rider.
A few months ago, a Mercy Legislator had come through town proclaiming that while the dragons were still to be hunted and that the bounty on their heads still stood, the Dragonnaires were to be given amnesty.
She wasn’t the first Dragonnaire to come through town to get her armour unenchanted and chipped off but she was the first one to come through legally.
Her armour had been glamoured at the end of the war to never come off of her. The latches had been spelled closed. She stank and was probably septicemic. There weren’t very many of these people left. The defeat punishments had been hard.
The choice to remove their capability to cast spells by excising their vocal chords was made by a bloodthirsty government eager to give the public a spectacle of punishment. At great public cost, the rider’s dragons were hunted down and destroyed by traditional means over the next year.
The fact that this woman was still alive was a sign that her dragon had probably not been killed. They rarely survived the death of their mounts. It was probably still out there somewhere, alone, hiding, frightened and fending for itself. The psychic link forged between them must have been alive with a constant keening.
Dragons don’t sleep. This animal despair must have polluted the Dragonnaire woman’s dreams twenty-four hours a day since the separation.
The bar had been busy. I wasn’t paying attention to faces. I was operating on reflex and habit. I completely forgot my manners as I served the thirsty line at the bar.
“What would you like?” I had asked her without looking at her.
She pointed to the keg behind me.
“Eh, what’s that? C’mon, I haven’t got all day. Cat got your tongue?” I said and looked up into a face that had no patience.
Currently, I was standing with my back against the barrels and the shining tip of her massive sword at my throat. The strongest fighters in the place were looking at the ceiling or suddenly finding their beer very interesting.
She mouthed one word at me from blood-flecked lips.
Apologize.
tags