When Guillot went into the taproom early the next morning, Beausoleil, Cabham, and Val were waiting for him, swords sheathed and expectant looks on their faces. They were wearing armour—plate cuirasses, pauldrons, and vambraces, with articulated lamellar tassets that extended to the knee, allowing freedom of movement while supplying good protection to the upper leg. There wasn’t too much decoration, and their harnesses looked well maintained, things that gave Guillot confidence.
Val wore an old chain-mail hauberk that he must have picked up during his rushed preparations in Trelain. It was ancient, but looked like it had been reasonably well maintained, and was serviceable. The boy had the earnest look of one who was willing to do whatever was expected of him, while Beausoleil and Cabham both looked more serious. They knew the reality of what was to come. Gill gave them a nod, and gestured for them to follow him to his room. He grabbed a fresh pitcher of water and a fork from the bar as he passed, and waited for them to join him.
“What happens now?” Beausoleil said.
“I’ll administer it to myself first, so you can see what is involved, then to any of you who still want to go ahead with it.” Taking their silence as agreement, Guillot filled the Cup with water. Holding the Cup in one hand and a fork in the other, he reviewed the words in his mind, then started to speak. The others watched in silence and Gill did his best to ignore their presence. The words said, he dipped one of the fork’s tines into the water, then let a single droplet fall on his tongue. He swallowed and smiled to show that he was all right. He didn’t feel any different, but he couldn’t recall noticing anything in particular after the last time. So long as he didn’t die in magically induced agony, he was content.
“Who’s first?” he asked, keeping his voice steady.
“Me,” Beausoleil said.
Gill suppressed a smile as he saw the curl of frustration on Cabham’s mouth. Neither wanted to go first, but neither wanted the other to go ahead of them. Gill could see a look of trepidation on Beausoleil’s face as he approached. If the man was having second thoughts, now was not the time to express them—the loss of face would be too much for any self-respecting banneret to bear.
Beausoleil presented his tongue like a child about to be given a dose of bad-tasting medicine. Gill recited the words and placed a drop of water from the Cup on the younger man’s tongue. He shut his mouth, and Gill could tell he was holding his breath. He let it out a moment later, doing his best, but failing, to hide his relief.
“That was hardly anything,” he said.
“There’s not much to it,” Gill said. “The old Chevaliers had this administered to them every time they went out on a hunt. Now, who’s next?”
Gill repeated the process with Cabham, and finally Val.
“I don’t feel anything,” Cabham said, when it was done.
“I think that’s the point,” Gill said. “Particularly when you’re having fire breathed on you.”
“There’s not supposed to be any … sensation?” Beausoleil said.
“No. You’ll probably feel something when we get closer to the dragons. Almost like a tug, but that’s it. If you’re unlucky enough to get hit by flame, you should be impervious. That’s all there is to it, so unless you want some more breakfast, we should be on our way.”
They rode out of Venne minutes later, under the curious gazes of the soot-stained villagers. There were casualties. Gill’s insistence on getting people into the church had saved many lives, but until the village was rid of the dragons, he couldn’t waste any time congratulating himself.
The village was a hive of activity; the other adventurers were preparing to head out themselves, while the townspeople were making efforts to assess and repair the damage the dragons had caused. Buildings, or what remained of them, still smouldered, and Gill wondered how many concealed charred bodies. The fight against the flames had gone on much of the night, but Gill and the others had slipped away early, to get some rest for what they had to do.
His trick of the night before seemed to have worked. He struggled to contain a smile as he imagined the dragons scrabbling around in the dark trying to pick up the coins with their talons. He expected Edine would have a difficult time explaining the missing tax revenue to the duke’s steward, but considering everything that had happened, he reckoned the excuse would be acceptable.
Guillot had hired an extra horse to carry the spare lances, but he thought it best if they were ready to fight the moment they left the village. The lances seemed well turned and true and the Telastrian tips were securely fitted. Though he did his best not to look around as they rode out of Venne, it was impossible not to think of Villerauvais. He didn’t just want to slaughter the dragons. Before they died, he wanted them to know how foolish they had been to meddle with humanity.
He studied his companions. Val had gone the colour of milk and Gill suspected it was everything the lad could do to hold down his breakfast. Gill wondered if he still thought being a squire and working toward being a banneret was a good idea. Probably not. In that moment, shovelling horse dung didn’t seem like such a bad career choice, even to Gill. Beausoleil and Cabham both had the set jaws of men who were afraid, but had faced that fear before and survived it. They weren’t boasting that morning, which was something—Gill always appreciated the small mercies. He realised his concern for the others was nothing more than his own coping mechanism for the fear that was gnawing away at his gut. It frustrated him—he wanted his anger to outweigh his terror, but it had not.
No amount of anger could shake his deep-rooted horror at the prospect of riding out to once again face a creature out of nightmare. He couldn’t help but recall the heat and choking smoke of the cavern the first time they had encountered the dragon, of being unable to see the deaths of the men with him, but hearing it in excruciating detail. Of Sergeant Doyenne draining the life from herself to give her surviving comrades the chance to escape. The memories were seared into his mind.
They had not gone far before he noticed the first sensation. It was similar to the feeling he’d had the last time, but it seemed to be stronger now. Perhaps that was due to the repetition of the ritual?
He tried to focus on the sensation, but it felt as though it was pulling him in several directions at once. It took him a moment to conclude that the feeling indicated each dragon individually, but that concept was quickly scotched when he felt a fourth tug, coming from Venne. Might there be more than three dragons? If there were three, he supposed there could be four, perhaps more. If that was the case, it was time to ride back to Mirabay to tell the king to reestablish the Silver Circle, and fast.
They followed a herdsman’s trail into the foothills until mid-morning, with Gill trying to fine-tune his sense of where the beasts might be. The others were silent, perhaps concentrating on their own sensations, perhaps simply trying to appear unafraid. Either way, they were all lost in their thoughts. The directional sensations remained confused, although they seemed to be growing stronger.
He decided that if they hadn’t found something to go on—a carcass or tracks—by noon, he would find an animal to kill and use as bait. There was no more gold to be had in Venne, but the scent of blood should attract the beasts. He would feel a fool if some of the other adventurers beat them to the kill, but the goal was to save the village, not win more fame by adding to his tally of slain dragons.
Stopping his horse, Guillot took a moment to survey the countryside they had been riding through. It was a beautiful landscape; green and fertile, laced with rivers and dotted with forests. He imagined it burning, strewn with the half-devoured carcasses of people and animals. As he urged his horse on, Gill tried to push the thought from his head. A wave of nervous energy coursed through him, so strong that he thought he would vomit. If that wasn’t a warning, what was?