“That brings me to my next question,” Guillot said. “What can your people bring to the effort? Magically, I mean.”
Leverre took a deep breath. “Magic is a new science. We can do a number of things that make life more convenient—move objects around, create light—but real power, like you hear of in stories about Imperial mages? We’re a long way from being able to do anything close to that.
“That’s what brought us up here. The Prince Bishop thought there might be something in this cave that could give us a boost. Instead, we lost several of our strongest and most promising mages, all dead before I knew what was happening. I’m not sure why it let me get away. It just sat down at the mouth of that cavern and watched me with its big, soulless eyes as I ran away. It was the most humiliating thing I’ve ever experienced.”
Guillot felt awkward at Leverre’s openness, though he supposed that if there was to be a rapprochement between them, now was the time.
“No one could expect you to have done differently,” Guillot said. “I ran the first time I saw it too. It’s a terrifying thing. Dragons have been the scary monster in children’s stories for centuries. No one could expect to see one.”
Leverre nodded. “No, I suppose not. To answer your question: we Spurriers can distract it, we can harry it, we will most likely be able to hurt it, but we don’t possess the power to kill the beast.”
“Thanks for being honest with me.”
“To lie about that would simply get us both killed,” Leverre said, then excused himself and returned to the campsite.
Guillot studied the black void in the mountainside, wondering if the beast was up there at that moment, resting in anticipation of destroying another village, or worse. He wondered if it suspected men were on their way to kill it, then wondered if it could even think. Did it know fear? At that moment, Guillot certainly did. The task ahead seemed as monumental as the mountain before him and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t think of a way to complete it.
Guillot felt like a condemned man when the light of day grew strong enough in their shady enclave to make it impossible to pretend to sleep any longer. He rolled out of his bed of blankets and pine needles and started preparing for the day. There was no chance of a campfire, and while he didn’t like the idea of going up the mountain without a hot meal in his belly, he preferred it to the thought of being a hot meal in the dragon’s belly.
Movement spread through the camp as the dragon hunters went about their morning routines in silence. Even dal Sason seemed to lack anything encouraging to say. He checked his gear, his face gone pale, as though realisation of what they intended to do had finally hit him.
Guillot drew his Sword of Honour and family sword from their sheaths and placed them on his blanket. The Sword of Honour, with a broader Telastrian blade, was something of a jack-of-all-trades. It would serve admirably on the battlefield or in most of the regular fighting a working banneret might set his hand to, but was too heavy to duel with, where speed meant the difference between life and death. Still, he wasn’t sure it was the right weapon for this mission.
That left his family blade, Mourning. He had no idea of its age, only that it had been paired with a new, more fashionable hilt in his father’s time, which in itself was not the first time it had been updated. The blade was broader at the base with a full-length fuller and lines that drew together at the tip in a smooth curve rather than the more angular design of the duelling blade. An ancestor, somewhere back in the almost forgotten mists of time, had been one of the founders of the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle, and Guillot had often wondered if the blade had been his. Might it already have tasted the blood of a dragon?
He picked it up and hefted it in his hand. He was much the same size as his father had been in his prime, and the handle couldn’t have suited his hand much better if it had been made for him. The new hilt was tastefully done—it had been sent to Carlujko, the celebrated Ostian bladesmith, all the way on the other side of the Middle Sea, so the new Telastrian hilt would match the quality of the old, beautiful blade. While regular steel rusted over time, Telastrian steel aged like vintage wine, growing stronger and more beautiful. The swirling blue grain in the dark grey steel had developed a more vibrant hue with age, which made Guillot’s other two newer swords pale by comparison.
Tightening his grip on the handle of the old sword, he chewed his lip. If Mourning hadn’t already shed the blood of a dragon, then it was long beyond time. Perhaps the spirits of his ancestors would look down on him from the heavens favourably and aid him in his most dire moment. He laughed at how foolish this thought was, and how much more receptive he was to the teachings of the church and the benevolence of the gods now that he faced death.
“I’d love to know what can make you laugh on a morning like this,” dal Sason said.
“Better to die laughing than screaming,” Guillot said.
“That definitely isn’t the cheery thought I was looking for,” dal Sason said. “Are you near ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Guillot said. “The others?”
“Likewise,” Leverre said. “Although I’m beginning to wish we’d gone up the mountain in darkness. It might have been better to risk turning an ankle rather than be picked off one by one on that slope.”
“Wouldn’t make any difference,” Guillot said as he started buckling on pieces of armour. “It was hunting around Villerauvais at night. I suspect it can see perfectly well in the dark.”
“I wonder if it’s too much to hope for that it doesn’t see all that well in daylight,” Sergeant Doyenne said.
“We can always hope,” Guillot said. “If you wouldn’t mind?” He raised his arms to expose the straps on his armour that were awkward to get to himself. Leverre stepped over and started tugging them tight.
“Hope for the best, prepare for the worst,” Leverre said, giving the buckles one final pull. “Let’s get to it. Nothing to be gained by putting it off any longer.”
“Agreement again,” Guillot said.
The group moved to the edge of the copse and surveyed the slope. Loose scree and boulders covered the steep mountainside. He couldn’t see them all reaching the cavern in less than an hour, more likely two—a long time to be out in the open, on a surface impossible to move silently on.
“We should spread out,” Guillot said.
“Sounds like a good idea,” dal Sason said. “No point in making things any easier for it than we need to.”
“Well, see you up there,” Guillot said. “We can reconvene under the lip of the opening.”
Everyone nodded in agreement and Guillot set off, leading the way. In addition to his old sword, he carried one of the modified belek spears. Intended to be used from the saddle, it was long and heavy and was awkward to haul up the mountainside. He felt it would be worth the effort, though. Every wrong choice, every concession to laziness, could be fatal.
Despite his best efforts, Guillot failed to keep his boot tops clear of the water when he crossed the stream, and they squelched as he walked. Dying with cold, wet feet didn’t appeal at all. Added to his empty stomach, Gill expected he was about to have a particularly miserable experience.
His boots slipped on the loose stones as he started to tackle the slope and the cumbersome spear threw him off balance. It was too large to use as a walking stick, so he slung it over his shoulders and hung onto it with both hands in an effort to stay balanced. That worked, to a degree, but the scree shifted with each step, so he was breathing hard after only a few steps.