Dragonfire Read online

Grayblade awoke in his upstairs room at the Boar's Head. The barmaid he'd brought to his bed last night had made herself scarce, which was as expected. That had been fun. He felt good as he stood up and stretched; physically strong, healthy, and confident. As he urinated into a large chamber pot, Grayblade stood as a man of medium height and slim but muscular build. He seemed to be about thirty years old, with a rather weather-beaten look and a pleasant but unremarkable face, except for the gray eyes that looked like slushy old ice. Still naked, he completed his lighter exercise routine before going to wash at the basin. He considered his stubble in the dull steel mirror, and then grinned. Today was special; he would shave. A small keen-bladed dirk found its way into his hand as he soaped his face.

  Toilet done, he reached for his only slightly soiled clothes and dressed carefully, stowing a surprising number of sharp objects and a couple of crystal phials about his person. Finally, he looked into the desk drawer with anticipation. Yes. The sapphire pewter clasp was there, as expected. The Shadow spell. This he fastened to his dark gray cloak, and left the room, eager for breakfast.

  A murky daylight barely brightened the saloon as he took his seat in the corner. The mullioned windows looked as if they had never been cleaned. Ah, well, this was the Boar's Head, not the Royal Coachman. Meg brought him a plate of bread and drippings, and a mug of light ale to go with it. He'd taught them never to offer him porridge. That muck was fit only for the pigs in their pen behind the stables. He glanced up at Meg and winked roguishly, and smirked when she blushed.

  He called for his horse, and had a mug of kif while he waited for the stable boy to saddle the horse and bring him around to the front. Identical in flavour to coffee, 'kif' was the compromise between the legions of fantasy purists on the one hand, and the legions of programmers on the other. The computer nerds couldn't live without coffee, while the fantasy fans objected to the very idea of having such a 'normal' drink in Dragonfire. So now they all drank 'kif'. Grayblade snorted to himself at the amount of fuss made over something so unimportant, and strode out into the yard to mount Traveller. Making more than need be of putting his hood up, he blew Meg a kiss and rode out through the gate. Ever alert, he had noted the beggar boy who scrambled away down an alley. It seemed that the watchers were indeed keeping an eye on him. Good; that meant that Xentar must be logged in. Now, would he be at the Guildhouse, or would he be somewhere harder to find?

  Perhaps it would be politic to check in at the Guildhouse. The duty desk would let him know if there was a job for him, and he could easily infer from their behaviour whether or not Xentar was there. At the same time he would present himself as simply going about the business of being the First Assassin, second only to the Guildmaster himself.

  The village of Markford was only an hour's brisk ride out of Silverthorn. The dirt track through the forest of oak and ash was well worn, and fairly busy. It seemed that today would be a market day in the city. It was amazing to think that there were over three million active human players in the game, as well as around a million computer-driven service characters. That meant three out of every four people travelling on this road, more or less, was a human player busy with their own little game in the Great Game.

  Meg the barmaid for example, he knew was one such human player; he'd made it his business to find out. Some dim-brain daughter of a friend of his father's, one of his - her? - brother's many conquests. He glitched for a moment between being Catlin and Grayblade, and then mentally rebuked himself. It didn't pay, in this game, to try to be more than one person at a time. That was how assassins died. And the rules of Dragonfire were absolute: if you got killed, you started over from scratch. No accumulated goodies, or gold, or strength talismans or protective amulets when you started a new game. And building a decent character from the zero level start that the game enforced on everyone was nothing less than a labour of love and damned hard work and a lot of gaming hours.

  As he trotted into Silverthorn, the crowd thickened. Nevertheless, he had no trouble making his way towards the centre of the city: the dark gray cloak, while not exactly a badge of office, tended to indicate an Assassin of the Guild. And, since wearing such a cloak when you were not, in fact, an Assassin, was something that the Assassin's Guild frowned upon, not many other people wore cloaks of that particular color. Not any more.

  When he entered the market square not far from the Crystal Palace, there was some sort of scuffle going on to his left. Ah - just a pickpocket who'd been caught. If it was a first offence, he'd only lose a hand. Permanent in the game, that kind of sentence was, which meant that your character would be one-handed for the rest of your life in Dragonfire. Then Grayblade saw the leather cuff on one amputated wrist and the shock of black hair. Dipper Lightfoot! He wondered momentarily whether he should intervene. Dipper had been useful a time or two, when an Assassin needed a spy, a catspaw, some remote hand. But no, such help was easy enough to come by, and if Dipper was executed, those of Grayblade's secrets he knew would die with him. Ah well, he thought, that's game over, Dipper. Because on the second offence for a thief they took your head rather than your hand. Bad luck, friend.

  A short while later he dismounted in the Guild courtyard and handed the reins to the stable boy who came running out to take his horse. Again, he noted the two nearly invisible shadows in the shadow of the arch. Watchers here too. Xentar seemed to be nervous about something; Grayblade couldn't imagine what that might be. Once again he smiled to himself, as grimly as before. He stepped lightly up the front steps, walked past the reception desk that was maintained for public consumption, and took the rear stairway down into the cellar.

  "Ah, Grayblade! You look well. Are you looking for a commission, or... well, what can I do for you?" Hussein was at the duty desk, looking as darkly handsome as ever in his saffron robes. Too striking altogether was Hussein, in Grayblade's opinion. Keener on the look of the thing than actual performance. Unprofessional. Which was probably why he was scraping crowns together working at the duty desk.

  "I might be interested," Grayblade asked idly. "What have you got?"

  "Actually, there's a new one just come in that's your sort of thing: high risk, high gain. Four thousand crowns on offer, but a wizard to take out."

  "Oh, really? Which wizard?"

  "Shadowflame. I understand he insulted the Queen, turned the King's favourite hound into a rug, and walked out on the royal ball. These wizards think they can get away with doing whatever they please."

  "Hmm. Only four thousand? Shadowflame's been around for a good long while. He'll be tough to get to."

  "The royal treasury's a little threadbare, I understand. Or so they say. It might just be a ploy to reduce the cost." Hussein seemed a little edgy.

  Grayblade carefully adopted a considering look to cover the way his eyes had sharpened. The signs were right; Xentar was in. Now he needed to appear to be leaving the Guildhouse.

  "We can be sympathetic with that; after all, we know that good Assassins don't come cheap! What time limit have they set?"

  Hussein smiled ingratiatingly. "None. I think they recognise that at this price they have to give an Assassin a lot of latitude in how to go about it."

  "Very well, I'm in. Do we know where he was last seen?"

  "He was at his tower in Greenwood Hall a month ago, but he could be anywhere by now."

  "Fair enough. Let me have a sniff around town first and see if I can get any fresher news of him. I'll be back for my horse before sunset."

  "Good luck," Hussein smiled, less warmly, at Grayblade's departing back.

  Grayblade slipped into the first alley around the corner. When he ducked through a laundry-house around the corner he was satisfied that he'd lost the lone follower who was Xentar's eye upon him. Grayblade now moved unobtrusively and unhurriedly into the second alley after that; which proved to be a very dark corner of the city of Silverthorn. He was determined that no one should see him activate the Shadow spell. Why give away a game-changing move? He reached up for
the pewter clasp and pressed his thumb against the dark sapphire mounted there. It clicked.

  The world around Grayblade began to dim to shadow, as he began to fade from the sight of the world. He smiled with the keenly whetted anticipation of a blade whispering from the sheath. A few seconds later, the world fractured, and Grayblade ceased to exist.

  In the little village of Markford, the barmaid Meg had been ensconced in Grayblade's room for over two hours. Her gaze was riveted to a crystal ball before her on the nightstand. A figure in a dark alley first faded, then flashed as it vanished. She blinked, and relaxed, her breath sighing out in tension released. Her eyes moved to a sapphire pewter clasp next to the crystal. She pocketed it and then spoke to no one in particular, enunciating clearly, "Exit Dragonfire. Execute."

  In Megaware's headquarters building, Catlin's body twitched, and fell slack. Her heart beat a relaxed tempo, her lungs breathed steadily in and out; but no awareness returned to her mind.

  When Florian arrived back from the programmer's review meeting which had served as his alibi of last resort, Megan looked up from the game chair in his bedroom. He cocked an eyebrow at her and she smiled conspiratorially at him. "She never noticed the swap. It worked: she's gone."

  "Yes! Great job, Megan!"

  He held out his arms and she slipped comfortably into his embrace, face turned up for a kiss.

  There's more than one way to play the game.

  ### End ###

  A note from the author:

  Thank you for reading this story - I really hope you enjoyed it. What about leaving a review to tell others what you thought of the book? Whether it's a good or a bad review doesn't matter: hearing what readers honestly think is good for a writer, and for other readers.

  If you would like to learn something more about the author, visit my website. You can find other books I have written, and also discover some unpublished writing, and inside previews of books I am working on.

  My email address is davidr(atsign)weblink1.co.za. I welcome feedback, including useful criticism.

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  Pocket-sized Yarns (Athena Crowley and others) - I contributed to this excellent

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