Cunning
Viggo Grimborne finished reading the letter again to ensure he had not overlooked any crucial details. The description was clear enough and thorough, which he appreciated. Not all of his informants were as scrupulous as this one, who had earned a sizable finder's fee if this lead turned out to be worthwhile.
"Curious."
He got up from his cluttered desk, went to the bookshelf, and retrieved his dragon manual containing everything he knew about every dragon he knew of. It also had depictions of supposed dragons mentioned in rumor and myths, but which he had no evidence actually existed.
This depiction, this combination of traits related in the letter, was not representative of any dragons he knew about or could find in the manual. The characterization was, however, faintly reminiscent of something else that had changed the world he knew forever. That similarity made this development a mystery and an unknown, both of which he disliked.
The unknown was a new piece on the board, and he did not know what that piece could do or what its appearance meant. Uncertainty was unacceptable. Too much was up in the air at this very fraught time in the region.
He put away the manual, tossed the letter in the fireplace, and put on his scale-cloak which glimmered red from its many shed scales woven into the fabric. The cloak was terribly heavy and not very practical, but it was impressive enough for his special situation.
He left his quarters and went out on deck. The deckhands were specially chosen to serve on his flagship not only because they were efficient, reliable seamen, but also because they lacked a certain fear which most people had. Enough of them had experience in the dragon-trade, mostly in the transportation of the beasts. Good help in that trade was getting increasingly difficult to find since dragons had vanished from the world in the last few years. Very few people knew what had happened to the few remaining dragons, and therefore what had destroyed so much of the trade in the region.
But he knew the truth. He was there when an armada had formed between the forces of his own organization, remains of Drago Bludvist's forces, and Grimmel the Grisly's might. Together, they had driven off the remaining dragonriders from the mainland and had sacked their abandoned home. He had been present to announce to the united forces Grimmel's tragic demise and to take up the mantle of Grimmel's place in the ongoing struggle to rid the world of the dragon menace.
People needed to have an enemy to hate and rally against. That opposition gave them their own identities, a way of distinguishing themselves from everyone else while feeling empathy for their own group. They had rallied around him and Ryker as the natural successors to Grimmel's legacy.
No one other than his brother knew that he had used the dragonriders to destroy Grimmel. Grimmel had become an obstacle to their progress. Fanatical obsession wasn't calculating or open to the progress he wanted to bring about.
He stood at the ship's bow and breathed deep the spray of the sea and the chill wind. Far off near the horizon he could see the island that was their destination. Ard Skellig was the closest thing to a center of trade in the region. It had markets, a port, and enough business that the place had a measure of wealth, though that wealth was lessened by the disappearance of the dragons. Trade in dragons, both live and dead, had been the region's most thriving source of work and wealth.
There was a thud behind him on the deck.
His instincts, long honed from years of practice before he met Grimmel, still jumped every time that happened, though he knew there was no cause for concern.
Ripper, his loyal Deathgripper, ambled up to him, purr-growling in the way that meant Ripper was at ease but wanting attention. He scratched Ripper's muzzle, eliciting a deeper purr-growl as Ripper nudged his side with a tusk.
Grimmel had showed him and Ryker that dragons could be used like any other beast. Ryker was initially not so interested in getting a trained dragon of his own. However, he himself saw and appreciated the sheer tactical advantage from having a loyal dragon. As a condition of his organization joining naval forces with Grimmel and the remnants of Bludvist's armada against the dragon menace, he had obtained from Grimmel one of the Deathgrippers, a small price all considered.
That he received a Deathgripper was an essential detail, even if there were other types of dragons to choose from, since they had a useful characteristic which no other dragon he knew of possessed. Their poison or venom was a very potent pacifying agent against both dragons and, after some experimentation on the dosage, humans. A little venom, whether by ingestion or injection, would make the victim compliant to any demands or instructions, their very willpower to resist corroded and sapped away. They would not fight back at all even when they were being eaten alive. A larger dose could stop the heart entirely.
He had not chosen the biggest or the fiercest of Grimmel's brood. Rather, he had selected the smartest one, since it would be most likely to learn basic commands beyond what Grimmel had taught it. Ripper understood all the commands he needed to learn, and there had not been any incidents at all with him.
A Deathgripper was nothing like a Night Fury in intelligence and comprehension, but that was a whole separate matter. Having a dragon which, no, who could understand everything the same as a person would be much more difficult to train. However, such a dragon, understanding foreplanning and the complexity of life, would be far more useful as an ally, should he be able to convince one to follow him. But that would be a completely different type of relationship which he still had difficulty accepting, despite the certain evidence that it could be.
It might happen, if he had his way and his plans came to fruition.
"Master Viggo!"
He gave a gesture, and Ripper obediently retreated into the ship's hold where he had a den. The ship's captain, a capable seaman, came forward and stood beside him at the bow.
"Captain Hjalmar, is there a problem?"
"No, sir. Just wanted to check on the plan for going ashore."
"We shall not stay overnight. I will take a team of ten to retrieve the asset if it is worth our time. You arrange the rest of the provisions at port. Once we are done here we head back for transfer of the asset to the base of operations."
"Yes, sir. Arrange provisions. Is that all?"
He rolled his eyes, appreciating that other people, while perhaps competent in their own realms, did not infer clearly or draw the correct conclusions. Clear, specific instructions were needed to make sure others did their jobs.
"No, you should have a holding cell prepared for the asset."
"Right, good point. How large of a cell?"
"Size three should suffice."
"Yes, sir. Is... Ripper staying aboard or will you be taking him ashore?"
Another useless question. Taking a Deathgripper into the trading post was not part of the plan.
"He will stay here."
"Understood, sir."
"Dismissed."
Captain Hjalmar went off to start bellowing orders to the crew, so he stopped paying any more attention to him.
All his thoughts went to how this development impacted the plan. More dragons appearing elsewhere in the world wouuld be a very adverse impact. But if it was only the one dragon, captured somewhere far out in the wild, then that was not such a problem.
However, more likely was that this dragon was associated with Haven and the dragonriders. They had heeded his warning and had vanished entirely off the map, though he was unsure where they went. He had only guesses as to where they might have gone.
Wherever the dragonriders were, they were not an immediate concern. Later, after his plan had been put into effect, he could deal with them if there was need and if he could find them. They could prove to be very useful in the world that would follow, which was ironic given that they had seemed uninterested in politics and the game of power. Had they traded dragons and dragon parts, or cultivated alliances with powerful allies, they might not have needed to disappear to wherever they had gone.
So many questions were still unanswered.
The storehouse looked very mundane and run-down, not the kind of place a new type of dragon would be kept in. But this island was not exactly prospering now with the dragon trade having completely dried up. So many jobs were lost, alliances changed, and livelihoods made uncertain in this region, all of which promoted one of the professions which would always exist.
War.
There would always be a need for armies and armadas. He had the foresight to see that the armies and armadas would not always be fighting against dragons, so instead they must pivot to be used against people. There would always be coin to be earned from armies-for-hire.
He glanced around, seeing a couple guards lazing about next door. Keeping a dragon in an inconspicuous setting like this storehouse could be a strategy since no one would initially think to look there. However, such a location would be easier to break into for a common ruffian. So many competing possibilities to consider.
"If you will wait a few minutes sir, the owner will be along shortly," his contact said.
"Of course, we can wait for him."
His contact departed and entered a side building while he and his men prepared the wagon, which was empty of everything except a flask, rope, a tarp, and a coin purse in storage.
His men began talking among themselves about unimportant things, such as their families back home, their preferences in beverages, the women they had bedded recently, and their pay.
A handful of guards and a lone man who was dressed like a merchant approached from the side buildings a few minutes later.
"Just what is the meaning of this?" the merchant asked, seeing him, his ten men, and the very large wagon they brought with them.
He put his hands behind his plain fur cape and approached the merchant, "Well met. Are you trader Skjall?"
"I am. What are you here for?"
He smiled, "You have recently acquired a dragon. There is no reason to deny it. I wish to see this dragon and buy it from you at a more than fair price."
Skjall stroked his dark beard while looking very suspicious, "You lot must be from the ship in the harbor. Not locals at all. Just how did you hear about it?"
He shrugged, "Word spreads whenever dragons are involved. People are always listening."
Skjall nodded, "That they are. You're the first to express any interest in my recent acquisition. She is something special."
As he had hoped, the dragon being a female allowed for more possibilities. Finding an appropriate male dragon to cross with this one would be far more difficult if this was the only known specimen of its kind. Only very similar dragons could be crossed and produce viable offspring.
"I hope so. Shall we have a drink before we get down to business? I would like my men to inspect your facility for my own safety before I enter. No offense."
He was not truly concerned about the risk of the dragon not being appropriately secured, but it made for a plausible enough point.
Skjall appeared satisfied, "None taken. I assure you that the dragon is secured, but you can send a couple of your men to see for themselves with my guards. No funny business."
"Of course not. I selected only trustworthy men."
He retrieved his coin pouch, jingled the pouch, and removed a single gold coin which he flipped to Skjall. Skjall bit on the coin and pocketed it after confirming that it was a real gold coin.
"A show of good faith and intent to deal," he smiled.
Skjall crossed his arms, "I appreciate that. You will need more than that pouch though."
"Not a problem. I have more than sufficient means."
"Enough for the Grimborne's bounty?" Skjall asked.
He smirked, "What if I were to tell you that I am here on his behalf?"
Skjall started in surprise, "You work for… him? By the gods."
"Relax, my friend. I am here to deal. He wants the dragon and gave me ample means to negotiate."
"As if I have a real choice," Skjall muttered.
"What my boss wants, he gets. Your choice is whether the dragon disappears at night, stolen by thieves, or you sell it for a considerable profit. One of those options is far better for you and less inconvenient for me."
Skjall sighed and nodded, "Aye, fair enough."
He gestured to a pair of his men who followed a couple of Skjall's guards to the storehouse. Then he retrieved his flask from the wagon and gestured to Skjall's side building outside which there were a few crates they could sit on in the shade.
"Shall we?" he asked, holding up the flask.
"There's a decent brothel not far from here," Skjall proposed.
So many traders were like that: concerned with gain and pleasure. Gain was necessary only as a means to a greater end. Pleasure, which could easily become a goal in itself, was frequently an obstacle to greatness and achievement, which is why he didn't bother with such distractions.
"I unfortunately can't stay here long. The ship is leaving as soon as we resupply and obtain what we came here for. My loss," he shrugged.
"Fine. What poison do you have there?" Skjall asked after waving off his personal guard.
Skjall was already at ease, which was very helpful. It made the next step very easy to pull off.
He unscrewed the flask, took a long swig, and handed the flask to Skjall.
"I call it fire water. Stronger than the strongest mead or ale you've ever had."
"Yeah, strong stuff! By the gods, that'll put hair on yer chest," Skjall shivered, handing the flask back to him after taking a drink.
They arrived at the crates and leaned against them. All he needed was to buy time, so he started idly talking about where his ship had recently sailed, mentioned how his non-existent family was doing back home where he didn't live, and asked about Skjall's business endeavors, all while sharing and gradually emptying the flask. He took much smaller swigs than he appeared to.
His men left the storehouse and gave him the signal he had hoped for. The dragon was there, was safely secured in a steel cage, and was appropriately bound.
But it was becoming more difficult to stand up, so he braced himself against the crate. He felt so weary and weak and not like being confrontational at all, but that was good. Just the thought of resting felt so right and good and, no, he did not need to rest. None of this was unexpected. For one, he did not drink for pleasure. Secondly, the lethargy he felt was surely nothing compared to what Skjall felt.
He took a very deep breath to steady himself and clear his thoughts until only the normal haze of drink remained. Maybe he should start drinking more alcohol just to build up tolerance for situations like this.
Tolerance was important...
"So, my dear friend, where did you find this dragon? You wanted to tell me."
Skjall's eyes were crossed as the man stared toward him, clearly not seeing him. Then Skjall shook his head, appearing to return to normal.
"Yeah... I did. Bought it from Brown-Bear-Tribe."
Skjall naturally spoke very clearly, calmly, and respectfully, as if he wanted nothing better than to answer the questions.
"Where is that tribe?"
"Mainland coast... south of the remains of the cursed village."
"What cursed village?"
"Where... the dragons and dragonriders lived."
He had those lands thoroughly searched after the armada battle. It was unlikely he had missed something. However, his guess that this dragon was associated with what the dragonriders called Haven was now looking more likely.
"Did they say anything about the dragon?"
"No talk. Business only."
"Has the dragon been hostile or caused problems... like flaming at anyone?"
"No... it just lies there without doing anything."
Inconclusive. Either the dragon was non-combative because it knew humans or it did not know humans at all. At least it was good that this dragon would not be very threatening. There was an easy solution to dragons being too aggressive, but keeping a dragon constantly drugged was not his first choice since doing that could result in permanent damage.
"Is the dragon damaged at all?"
"Yes..."
"What damage?"
"Cut... on a forepaw."
Inconsequential, unless...
"Did the dragon have that cut when you got it?"
"Yes..."
"Is the cut from a blade?"
"Yes..."
"Recent?"
"Old..."
So maybe the dragon was not friendly with humans after all. It had interacted poorly at least once before, likely during transportation.
He clasped Skjall on the shoulder, "You wanted to show me this dragon."
"Yes... I do."
Skjall awkwardly got up and led him to the storehouse, and he followed with an exaggerated sway for effect. Both of them looking drunken helped everything go smoothly.
He gestured for a few of his men to follow him and Skjall inside. One of Skjall's men brought a fresh fish and a bucket of water. The storehouse had crates and boxes of random goods, some weapons, some furniture, rope, muzzles, a tarp, and other unimportant items.
All that mattered was the strange dragon inside a steel cage which looked like one of the ones Grimmel's ships had used. Maybe Skjall acquired the cage from a deserter or lost ship. No matter.
The dragon, lapping at the bucket of water after eating the fish, was... different. It was in shape very like a Night Fury except for having what looked like flexible spikes running from the head down the back and tail. The color was also novel: being white on the chest and wings, and a mix of blue and purple on the head, back, tail, and tailfins. This was not a Night Fury, or a White Fury or whatever the related breed was called.
On the other hand, it looked similar enough, and its grey-blue eyes were fixed on him. Could it understand? Was it like Shadowwing: the intelligent equal of a person? It could not know writing, else Skjall would have mentioned that earlier. He could surely find out more later after acquiring this dragon.
He stepped to the cage and clasped the bars while the strange dragon stared back at him.
"Look at you. Aren't you special?"
Its grey-blue eyes narrowed slightly, and he held a palm to his temple at the flash of a faint headache. Maybe he had too much fire water to drink after all. Building up tolerance took time and dedication.
Especially when building up tolerance to Deathgripper venom or poison, such as he had spiked the fire water with. Compliant, suggestible traders and business associates were much easier to deal with than others. No one would plausibly doubt his sincerity after he offered a drink from his own personal flask. As they were far more susceptible to suggestion after ingesting the tainted drink, they could be commanded to forget about his presence, and they would obey. Further, there was always the faintest possibility that Ripper could turn on him, and having some resistance might make the difference between life and death.
The dragon yawned widely, showing off a mouth empty of teeth as the dragon turned aside to lay down. This was one more piece of evidence beyond bodily appearance that this dragon was related to the Furies. The dragon glanced again at him before closing its eyes. That movement was subtle, but it was also indicative of consideration. Or maybe he was only seeing what he wanted to see there. So many questions.
He smiled and turned to face Skjall, "She's perfect! I'll take her, my friend! We should close the deal."
"Yes... we should," Skjall muttered.
He gestured, and his men joined with Skjall's men to fully bind the dragon, tying its legs, wings, and jaws closed. The dragon thrashed and grumbled, but it did not violently fight back. Its more passive attitude was encouraging since it meant this dragon would likely be easy to work with. His methods were different from Ryker's methods, which hopefully would not be needed.
"Cover it with a tarp and take it to the ship. I and your boss are going to finish the trade."
He tossed Skjall's men a few coins to speed the process along and to pay for the tarp. The jovial men, seeing no objection from their boss, eagerly helped his own men to bodily carry the bound dragon and put it in the cart before hiding it under a tarp. Satisfied, he led the compliant Skjall to the trader's smaller building beside the storehouse. This smaller building appeared to be his main office where he kept records and the books. No one else was there.
He handed Skjall the bag of coin. It was surely not as much as the trader would have freely haggled for, but it was enough that he could possibly have settled for in a drunken stupor.
"You are happy with this pay."
"Yes... I am," Skjall politely answered while counting the coins.
"I would prefer if no one ever knew we were here."
Skjall smiled and winked, "You... were never here. I understand. Where are you going, may I ask?"
A simple request. Give an answer to keep the peace and keep him happy with him. Give an answer, obey, and be happy. No, a lesser mind would do that. Not him.
"Here and there. Business has me traveling everywhere these days."
Skjall slowly nodded, "You're... lucky you got here first."
He blinked and smiled, suddenly very curious, "Why is that? Tell me."
"I had another offer to buy the dragon."
So Skjall had lied earlier. Interesting.
"Who from?"
"Don't know... who's behind it, except it's one of the three big ones. No names were used. But they're not here like you, so... you get the deal, my friend," Skjall clasped him on the shoulder.
That information was both concerning and reassuring. There were obviously other forces that would look to acquire the remaining dragons. Those other powerful leaders and warlords had their own webs of informants. Information was just as important as an army.
The word from all his informants throughout the lands was that there were no dragons at all anymore. They investigated any lead, rumor, or sighting, all of them wanting to earn the bounty he placed on any living dragons. Living was important. Bones and scales were everywhere and would be for generations, but those were entirely useless except as luck charms for the feeble-minded and those who believed in the gods.
"Thank you, my friend. May the gods always smile on you," he said.
"And... on you. A pleasure doin' business with you," Skjall cheerfully answered.
He left Skjall to count his well-earned coin, and went to his men who were waiting for him at the cart.
"Boss, we good to go?"
He checked on the bound dragon to make sure it was secure, "Let's go. Straight to the ship."
Everyone grumbled, sweat dripping down their brows.
"Don't worry. There are several barrels of mead waiting for us at the ship."
His men finished transporting the bound dragon into a holding pen below the deck. The pen was lined with charred and treated wood and steel bars to make it fireproof and resistant to blunt force. Once the dragon was safely inside, he had his men remove the bindings except for those holding closed its jaws. The dragon had not done anything to deserve being completely bound and immobilized for the entire journey. Fully paralyzing a dragon for too long could cause destructive distress and muscular atrophy, both of which were wasteful.
However, even though he wore his scale cloak which could block flame, there was no reason to risk injury by freeing its jaws.
The dragon stared him down for a few moments before starting to inspect its pen, sniffing at the ground and gently pushing at the door and walls. Most dragons when freshly captured and released into the holding cell would growl and roar in defiance or even try to flame or scratch someone outside the pen. This one did not.
He frowned and looked around to check on the sailors. No one was nearby or within hearing, so he had a chance to do what he wanted to do all along.
"Dragon, do you understand me?"
The dragon paused, glanced at him, huffed, and looked away, turning its attention to sniffing the floor. The dragon eventually spun in place and curled up, hiding its head under a wing.
Inconclusive. The dragon was aware of when it was being spoken to, but Ripper was like that too. It had not responded with a nod or any indication of greater intelligence. He wasn't sure if he was more disappointed or relieved by that. That this dragon was not the equal of a Night Fury would help when training it. But the possibility of an allied Night Fury or equivalent had its own appeal in that such an equal could do far more than any other dragon could.
On that possibility of doing more, Grimmel had been adamant that Night Furies had unnatural, magical powers. He had not believed that of course, since everything that happened had to have a reasonable explanation, but what had been related from the armada battle was very difficult to explain in natural terms. The Night Furies had been glowing with blue light. That itself was possibly a natural event for them, they were one of the most mysterious types of dragon, but the lightning that crashed through the skies without even a storm was more inexplicable.
Grimmel had said something about having a secret contingency plan to help against the Night Furies. Something about a gifted demon that hunted shadows of the night. It was hard to find the truths in his ravings.
All dragons had some type of special ability, some trait that made them dangerous beyond just size and strength. Deathgrippers had unique venom which influenced the mind. Drago Bludvist's Bewilderbeast had mental control over dragons. What made this dragon special, if anything, and how could he use that trait to his advantage? If he had to guess from the little he knew of it so far, it might just be a smarter breed of dragon, while not being the same as a Night Fury.
A possibility crossed his mind as he stroked his trim mustache.
The Night Fury he had spoken with years earlier had a mate that was not a Night Fury. One of those White Furies or whatever they were called. He had not seen it himself, but it had, according to reports, looked very similar to a Night Fury. It had the same general body shape, and it was apparently just as smart as a person.
This dragon looked vaguely like a Night Fury in its shape, other than the flexible spikes along its length. Was it a crossbreed of a Fury and something else? What else had flexible back spines in this shape? Nothing immediately came to mind.
How to use this dragon best? It was likely smarter than most other breeds. It had a healthy sense for self-preservation by not being violent and aggressive.
Ryker had in recent years been regretting that he chose not to ask for a Deathgripper of his own from Grimmel. The sheer advantage of not being bound to the ground, of having a dragon's-eye view of a battlefield or reconnaissance mission, and of having an escape route, not to mention having a willing fighter to use and dispose of if there was a need, was too good to pass up. Any companionship or enjoyment of being around the dragon or in flight was purely secondary and unnecessary.
Ryker needed a mount of his own, and this dragon might be the one: just smart enough that it was a superior breed for training purposes, but not smart enough to be independent and willful. Hopefully it would not cause problems when being trained.
His own methods, in his opinion, worked better than Ryker's, though they also took longer to show results. Ryker preferred a blunter approach to breaking a dragon's will, while he found it more productive to cooperate and build some trust instead of fully breaking its will. It was frustrating that most people took more easily to Ryker's method than his own.
The dragon grumbled, shifting where it lay in rest before again settling down
He winced at his sudden headache and rubbed his forehead.
"Shit..."
Maybe he made a mistake with the dosage in the fire water, or maybe he just didn't have tolerance for alcohol yet. This was a weakness if the latter. But it was more likely he made a mistake on the former, which meant he should be more careful when preparing the next batch. It was also possible he just needed water.
Having nothing else to do there, he left the pen, assigned one of his men to attend to the dragon's needs, and went to see to Ripper. The Deathgripper had settled on deck, sniffing at where the new dragon had been brought onboard. Ripper curiously growled, seeing his approach.
"Smell her, don't you?"
There was no response, of course. Still, Ripper had previously shown his instincts around other dragons that had been transported this way.
He pointed to the holding pen, bit at the air with a snap of his teeth, and said no. Ripper, understanding the command to not bother the other dragon, grumbled and waddled off to his den. There would be no trouble from him.
Satisfied, he found captain Hjalmar on the main deck, overseeing the activity, the gangplank having already been drawn up.
"Captain, are we ready to make sail?"
Hjalmar snapped to attention, "Yes, sir. All the provisions are stowed and seamen accounted for onboard."
"Very good. Make sail at your leisure. I shall be in my quarters."
"Destination, sir?"
"Falke Isle is the drop point."
"Understood, sir."
He left captain Hjalmar to oversee everything, checked on Ripper dozing in his pen, and retreated to his cabin, eager to escape the activity onboard. But he had a sneaking suspicion to check on before taking any rest.
He slowly opened the door, stepped inside, and looked around after closing and locking the door.
Everything appeared to be in order. The pieces of the maces and talons game he had been playing against himself were right where he had left them. The bed was neatly made. The books were organized on the bookshelves. His chest of clothing, including his leather riding gear, was at the base of the bed. The fireplace was naturally put out, so he stuck a small fire for some warmth and lighting.
Candle in hand, he went to the locked safe in the corner of the cabin. Inside the safe lay his supply of Deathgripper venom and an assortment of plans and documents no one else could see.
However, there was something to check before opening the safe. He crouched down, inspected the floor at the base of the safe, and saw what he was looking for: a small, dark hair on the floor. That hair had been placed across the safe's door and frame so that the hair would be displaced if the safe was opened while he was ashore.
There was a spy onboard, as he had suspected. One of the keys to the safe had gone missing weeks ago, supposedly lost in the confusion of moving boxes and supplies as this cabin was designed for him. He had not brushed off that accident but had instead guessed what it meant.
That incident was why the plans inside the safe were fraudulent. The genuine ones were inside a hollowed-out book with so boring a title that no one would bother checking it, especially since any valuable documents would obviously be kept in the safe.
As he expected, everything inside the safe looked in order. Nothing was missing or visibly disturbed. The vials of green venom were all full and sealed, so those had not been touched. The spy was likely interested in the correspondence with the three warlords, to determine where his allegiances lay and who he was working closest with.
Try to unmask the spy, or pretend that he was unaware? The latter was a better option. Drugging the entire crew was impractical. Further, this was another opportunity to spread misinformation or throw whoever was behind this off-track entirely.
The most valuable piece of information was the location of his secret base. No one else onboard knew that detail, not even captain Hjalmar.
He started pacing before the fireplace, hearing nothing except the crackle of the fire, distant shouts from the seamen, the creak of the ship's hull, and the crashing of waves.
Outwardly, Grimmel's followers and his own dragon hunter organization were still dedicated to protecting tribes against dragons. A detachment would be sent to investigate any potential dragon sightings, for a modest fee. Tribes that paid the protection fee would be owed that service and must be protected to preserve the organization's reputation. However, with no dragons to protect the people against, that protection was increasingly unnecessary. The fleet was rightly pivoting toward providing more protection against people instead.
Secretly, he and Ryker had established another group entirely separate from the dragon killers. The dragon acquisition enterprise was tasked with obtaining any remaining dragons they could find and amassing them in one location.
The armada battle years ago had resulted in several live, captive dragons which the dragonriders could not possibly liberate. Other collectors or private persons had dragons throughout the isles and the mainland. Those dragons were kept for sport, amusement, guard animals, and even disposal of enemies. He and his followers had purchased, captured, or liberated every dragon they could find until there were very few remaining rumors.
All the known dragons, four dozen of several more common breeds, were at his secret base where they were being put to the best possible use. The ones capable of carrying a rider were being trained to have riders who could direct them in combat. Dragons too violent and aggressive for any use had to be put down.
He and Ryker planned to control both a traditional navy and the skies, and therefore be the most powerful warlords Midgard had ever seen. Dragon-rider pairs or detachments could be contracted out to aid other warlords, chiefs, or kings, commanding a hefty price for the services. Other dragons, ones less suited to combat, would be trained to perform labor or carry messages.
Using dragons, tamed and domesticated, was progress, since there was no reason to let such a resource go to waste.
He sat down at his table, inked his quill, and penned a reply to a supposed contact on the mainland. The letter thanked one of the regional warlords for their investment in a secret enterprise, complimented their generosity for providing a southern island on which the company could store dragons in secret, and promised a trained dragon of their own as a reward for the service. He signed the letter under a false name, and deliberately left it unclear which warlord the letter was to.
All of which was false, but that information would distract whoever was behind the spy onboard.
The three most powerful warlords were a complicated mix of interests, bravado, and ambition. Ragnar the Rock and Griselda the Grievous were fellow Nords, having risen to power after Drago Bludvist's demise. Chaghatai Khan was a very different case, since he hailed from a very far eastern land. How that strange man arrived in Nord waters was unclear, but he was a formidable force in his own right, wielding tools and weapons of flame which few Nords understood.
All three of the warlords shared one thing in common: desire for dragons of their own.
They could not be allowed to acquire dragons under any circumstances. Buy the services of a trained dragon and rider, yes. Own enough dragons that they could form their own dragon army, no. Only he and Ryker would have that power from now on. Their eventual elite force would, alongside the traditional navy, provide services throughout the Nord isles and lands, earn coin while doing so, and protect the peace, all from a secret base no one else would ever know about.
He finished the letter and placed it inside the vault, where it would surely be read at some point by whoever had that key. There were a couple weeks until the ship arrived at the drop point. Once there, everyone else onboard would swap out and depart on another ship. The current crew would be replaced by a fresh crew hailing from his secret base which was entirely off the map.
There were few locations where no one would want to go. A place with a tragic history and which was said to be gods-forsaken had proven to be perfect for his needs. Even better was that the island was several days of sailing from the nearest tribe. No one would have reason to sail there unless they knew in advance where to go.
Why would anyone want to venture to an island that had once been overrun by dragons? Even if they had heard of the place, the volcanic island a day away and the history of massive armies in the waters might keep them away. Further, the fact that the Berserkers, though still a shadow of their former strength after suffering a terrible defeat years ago, lived a few days away was another reason why few people would consider the region for former settlement.
With nothing left to do, he lay down to think more about this newest dragon. It could be a couple weeks before the ship arrived at the hidden base. He doubted that he could learn anything new about this dragon in the interim, but it would prove interesting and useful, one way or another. This mission had been worthwhile after all.
Further, his spies were closing in on a former associate of Grimmel's, and that man would share, willingly or otherwise, what he knew about one of the mysteries surrounding Grimmel's past. The answer to that question could require another mission to obtain a most valuable asset, but that was all only a remote possibility at this point.
Waste pile.
Another trap. This was not a surprise at all.
There were far more two-legs and strange things on this floating-tree-den. But what was very surprising was not something she could see; rather, it was a scent which she had scented before.
There was a stinging-tail hunter-kin closeby. She could not see it, but it was somewhere nearby. The two-legs had to know about the hunter-kin, and they were not afraid of it.
Did they plan to give her to it as food? Probably not. More likely was that they had it trapped just like her. Or maybe it was not trapped.
The flight of two-legs carried her into the trap, carefully took off most of the false-vines, and then closed the trap's mouth. The two-legs ran off, all except for the flight-leader. Its false-furs carried the scent of the hunter-kin. Why would a two-leg and a hunter-kin share scents?
The tree-ground was strong and burned in places, which made it more difficult to burn again. Maybe there was a way to break out of this trap. She nosed at the ground and pawed at the shiny-rock bars trapping her in the false-den. No, this trap was too strong to break out of. It was also too small to freely stretch her wings in.
The two-leg flight-leader growled at her, so she glanced at it. What was behind those strange eyes? What was it thinking? There was one way to find out.
Trying to link with that two-leg from before had not worked well. The mistake was probably in trying to link and share thoughts. If, on the other paw, she only listened and felt the two-leg's life-fire, she might be able to know some of what that two-leg was like without trying to link with it. That was possible anyway, and if it caused the two-leg any pain, it was a trapping two-leg.
She huffed at the flight-alpha, turned around, and curled up, hiding her head under a wing so she could not see the two-leg. Not with her eyes.
The two-leg stayed there outside the trap for many wingbeats, probably staring at her.
She closed her eyes and looked with life-fire sight. It was easy to find his since he was closest and since she had felt his life-fire before.
The faintest of touches, like two fires that almost eat the same wood, and an intense flash of experience.
Consideration. Wariness. Wondering. Usefulness. Planning. Cunning.
Her life-fire recoiled from the two-leg's, and she growled in surprise before hiding that reaction. Hiding her anger and fear was so very important now that she saw the truth.
This two-leg, Cunning, was not truly being kind. Rather, it was planning to use her for... that was still unclear. But the impression, the mixing of thought, that came from Cunning's life-fire was familiar. Cunning reminded her of someone who had once been her kin: Red.
Seeing others as a resource to be used however benefits them the most. Wary and untrusting of others. Planning steps in the future and being cunning enough to do what was needed.
Was that what two-legs were in their livers and life-fires? Twisting and using all around them? Trapping and planning?
Her life-organ felt like it paused for a beat when a very rotted idea came to mind.
The two-legs have more trapped kin!
She had not seen any other kin at all, not counting the stinging-tail hunter-kin she could scent, in all the ranges she had flown in up here. But the two-legs clearly had a process of trapping and collecting kin, probably wherever this floating-tree-den was taking her. There was no chance that the two-legs and kin were living in peace or sharing a nest.
Cunning walked away, leaving her alone with troubled thoughts and questions.
There would be an eventual opportunity for her to escape. But what about all the other kin wherever she was being taken? Were they alone, trapped, afraid, and in need of someone to protect them? They probably were. This was bigger than only her.
She could help them escape too.
With that simple promise, the fear and concern from being trapped and bound was gone. A light was now burning in her life-fire!
She was not being held here against her will. No, being here in the trap was what she wanted, since this would let her eventually help others who need protecting and rescuing. The unpleasant parts of being in a too-small trap were not so bothersome now after many tens of dark-light cycles of being forced to live that way. The food, water, and waste cycles probably would not change much from before.
Further, being alone and away from any strong-thinking kin was not so bad anymore either. Great lights, she was used to living like this and being reliant only on herself and her own life-fire. Having a purpose behind this suffering, a reason why it was worth enduring, gave much strength to remain defiant, even if that defiance would be a secret.
No growling, no fighting, no causing problems for the two-legs. For now, she would be patient and wait for the opportunity that would inevitably fly her way.