Dragon's Trail

I: OVERTURE-2

Worse, though; after Jarrod became famous for killing a guy in a swordfight in Paris a couple of years ago, hordes of macho half-wits and dilettante sword geeks had formed illegal underground dueling clubs around the world. In these circles, Renaldo had made a name for himself. And it was no secret that he wanted a piece of Jarrod.

This, Carter thought, could be an interesting day.

Renaldo was pushing at a small young woman with olive skin and dark hair.

“Siri.” He looked hung-over, or possibly still drunk. “I need to talk to you.”

Carter started easing his way through the crowd, quietly, hands on shoulders.

Renaldo reached out to touch the small woman. She shrugged away from him. “Huh?” he persisted. “Look, let’s talk about this.”

Carter recognized her, now: the one all the fuss had been about. Word had it that Harold and his buddies had r***d her at a feast a few months ago in Manchester, which, he figured, was why Jarrod had kicked Harold’s ass. And good on him.

“I’ll kill you.” She shoved him in return. “I mean it.”

Carter moved faster. “Lemme through. Move.”

“You?” Renaldo countered. “You mean Jarrod. You bring him to me.”

Her eyes were savage. “I will. I hope he cuts your eyes out. Get away from me.”

“You tell him I said to find me. Anytime. You got that? I’m not Harold. I’ll be ready.”

She looked him up and down, pausing for a moment on his loincloth before shaking her head. “Where do you keep your wallet?”

“b***h!” he shouted as she walked away.

Carter finished pushing his way through the crowd to Renaldo, and stood before him, eclipsing the sun.

Renaldo Salazar was big. Striking, chiseled, corded with muscle.

Carter was leviathan. Tanned biceps the size of footballs shoved at the rolled-up sleeves of his T-shirt, a vast expanse of black across which faux bloodstains marred the stencil GET UP.

A broad voice, freakish in its depth, sprang up through Carter’s throat. “Is there a problem, here?”

Renaldo stepped back as Carter stepped forward. “My problem is not with you.”

Carter grinned the merry grin of a Norseman cutting tulips with his favorite axe on a spring afternoon. “It is now.”

The smile widened, its menace amplified by a gold canine tooth, its predecessor rumored to still be embedded in the skull of an actual ninja.

Renaldo’s voice rattled from the hollows of his soul. “Find Jarrod. Tell him to come find me. And bring his blade,” he swallowed the last part of the sentence, and repeated it for good measure.

Carter cleared his throat. “Get out of here before I make what happens next look like an accident.”

Renaldo obliged and, in a moment, had vanished into the crowd.

Jarrod shoved his way through to Carter a moment later. “Did I hear my name taken in vain?” He was dressed in a leather jerkin and tights, the gleaming swept hilt of a heavy rapier adorning his side.

“Hullo, friend,” Carter said to Jarrod with a slight bow. “Renaldo Salazar was just looking for you.”

“I wonder whatever for? A pleasant day to you, my lord,” Jarrod returned. “A thousand thanks.”

Carter waved it off with a wide smile. “I enjoyed that so immensely, I should be thanking you.”

“Carter Sorenson,” said Jarrod, “may I introduce—”

“Siriana.” Carter kissed her hand, bowing quite far to do so. “We’ve met.”

“I thank you, as well, sire,” she curtsied.

Carter dropped out of medieval vernacular as the crowd dissipated. “The fringies are out in force.”

Jarrod shrugged. “Inviting the whole town doesn’t help.” Behind him, the Tin Man of Oz pedaled past on a unicycle. “I could do with less of this.”

“It’s going to be a long summer,” Carter agreed. “You two headin’ back today?”

Jarrod looked at Siri, whose nod told him it was about time to get going. “Yeah, I think so, in a bit. Why do you ask?”

“I’d maybe like to meet you for lunch,” the giant offered. “We haven’t talked in ages. You’re still the fight coordinator over at North Coast, right? The Vikings-and-Indians thing?”

“That’s on hold until next season.” Jarrod’s tone was dejected. “They haven’t picked up my option yet.”

“So what are you doing these days?”

“Jumped out of a building for FOX a couple of times.”

“Jumped?” asked Carter. “Geez, I’d figure they’d just throw you.”

“Funny guy,” said Jarrod. “I did just finish a month of private lessons for Isabella Barnes.”

“Isa . . . bella . . . Barnes?” Carter stammered. “Isabella freakin’ Barnes. ‘Disney’s Izzy?’ Playboy? Her?”

“Paramount is planning a Zorro spinoff. She’d be playing his daughter, the heir to Zorro’s . . . whatever. Swordsman—uh—ism. Hero-ship.”

Carter wiped his forehead. “Christ. I hate you so much right now.”

“I only saw the initial concept,” Jarrod assured him. “It may not go through.”

Carter’s tone was incredulous. “Can she fence?”

“She can, now. She has great wrists.”

Siri rolled her eyes.

“I gotta say, sometimes I feel guilty getting paid,” Jarrod admitted. “How’s your gym?”

“Just sold it.”

“Hey, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

“What are you doing now?”

“Absolutely nothing,” said Carter. “Taking the summer off. I was hoping to talk to you about the Viking thing, frankly.”

“Interesting you should ask. I’ve got a slot for an assistant coming up this fall—assuming they pick me up.”

“I’m looking for work,” Carter admitted.

“How’s the knee?”

“It’s good.”

“You’re going to get knocked around a bit,” Jarrod warned. “It’s cold, muddy, long days, lots of bruises. But the money’s good. They’re shooting in Iceland in September. You’d love it. Ever have Brennivin?”

Carter grinned. “A course of antibiotics cleared it right up.”

“So you’re good to travel. Fantastic. You know Pete’s Chowder House?”

“Down at the harbor, right?”

“Yeah. Meet you there, say, one o’clock?”

“‘Twill be done, my lord.” Carter bowed again, back in character despite his modern garb. “And my lady.”

Jarrod’s bow was much more composed: haughty, sharp, and arrogant, as was the medieval persona he chose to portray at these sorts of things.

“Indeed,” he said, “I look forward to it. My lady?” he extended his arm, and the two of them vanished into the milling crowd.

In his motel room on the edge of town, Jarrod changed out of his medieval getup.

He picked up his new rapier. It needed to be swung. Thrusted with. Parried. Shoved into a hanging side of beef. Or Renaldo, whichever was more convenient.

This was a custom job, to his own specifications. Heavier than most rapiers, nearly a medieval knight’s sword with a cage for counterbalance, the blade afforded more powerful attacks and better control in prise de fer, plus the ability to chop bone, always a bonus.

He swung it around the room, slashed the air.

Amazing weapon. Kinetically majestic, with the gleaming branches and rings above the handle. A strong swordsman’s fencing blade. Not an Olympic blade.

He stood before the mirror in his boxers, struck an en garde, and flexed.

Fuckin’ Olympics.

More shadowy figures yelled at him in his head.

How close were you? Five matches away? Three?

Lookin’ good, though. Gettin’ it back.

He unflexed at a knock on the door.

Jarrod stood before the door and paused. The knock returned. With the rapier behind his back, he unlatched, braced, and then carefully opened the door.

Jarrod recognized Crius from earlier, but it took him a moment. It nagged at him that he’d been tailed.

“Excuse me, sire.” Crius coughed into a handkerchief. “I must have a word with you.”

“If this is about the fight, I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Understandable,” the man admitted, “but I need a champion, and quickly.”

Invisible fanfares rang over Jarrod’s shoulder. “A champion, huh?”

“Yes.” He tucked his handkerchief away. “The compensation would be, at the least—”

The horns fizzled, and Jarrod bit his tongue and shook his head. “Uh-uh. Forget it, pal. ‘The art of fencing is not a harlot to suffer itself to be sold.’ I teach for money. I don’t fight for money.” And with a grimace, he started to close the door. “Ah—goodbye?” was his way of warning Crius to get his foot out of the door, or he stood to lose the better part of it. “Nice boots.”

“Thank you. Please, may I speak with you?”

“You are speaking with me.” Jarrod’s fingers drummed on the rapier’s grip as he earmarked a troubling list of attributes: the shaky hands and foreign mannerisms, the intricate design of his staff or for that matter of his boots (and who logs that many miles in period boots, he had to wonder), the odd cut of his doublet, and the ornate necklaces in plain view. This guy carried the authenticity kick way too far, and Jarrod took him for one of the fringe elements who lived in their garb.

“I’d like to come in,” Crius said.

“Maybe, in a moment,” Jarrod promised.

“Please, sir. We need a champion.”

“We?” We stuck in Jarrod’s head. “You were ‘I’ just a moment ago. Or is that a royal ‘we?’”

“Well, in a way, I suppose,” Crius admitted, stroking his goatee and looking away in thought.

“Yeah? We’re done, here.” And at that, Jarrod closed the door and threw the bolt.

He donned black drawstring hemp trousers, and was lacing up his hiking boots when the knock at the door returned, much louder this time.

Sighing, he snapped the door open. “Look, friend—”

Pain burst through the left half of Jarrod’s head and the world dissolved in neon tangles.

Renaldo Salazar stepped into the room, and drove an elbow into Jarrod’s throat, following it with what should have been a world-ending kick in the nuts that Jarrod sidestepped out of muscle memory.

A lifetime of fighting exploded through Jarrod and he spun on his heel with a handful of Renaldo’s jacket, hurling him onto the credenza and collapsing it.

He couldn’t breathe, his throat cramping, and he started to shake.

Windpipe. Windpipe.

Jarrod picked up the phone, watching Renaldo over his shoulder.

He felt pain, but it was miles away. It felt like the point of the boot had torn his hamstring. The concern was the tightening in his throat.

He punched buttons. 9— 1—

His eyes traced the letters below the keypad. They became words.

FOR AN OUTSIDE LINE: DIAL “9”

THEN “0” + THE NUMBER.

FOR LONG-DISTANCE, PLEASE DIAL “0”

AND AN OPERATOR WILL ASSIST YOU.

Jarrod slapped down the contacts on the cradle.

Focus.

His brain refused to comprehend anything except the flares that were now going up, screaming for air. Panic was setting in; he knew he had only moments before things started shutting down. And then, God help him.

9 — No, wait. . .

0?

9?

Renaldo was getting up.

Jarrod met Renaldo’s skull with the phone, hurling it into the back of his head and shattering the plastic case, and fell back against the wall, wheezing. Melting.

Renaldo grabbed the corner of the bed, heaved, and righted himself like a tall ship in a storm.

And it was then that Jarrod saw the sword at Renaldo’s side. A longsword, with about a foot of handle, and the same ornate, branched guard as his new rapier.

Renaldo began sliding the sword—and there was a lot of it—out of the scabbard. “Let’s go. You and me.”

“Yeah, real fair,” rasped Jarrod.

As he lunged for his rapier, all the way across the room, something blew through the door. Something brown, holding something red.

The brown thing knocked Renaldo out with the red thing.

Jarrod stared emptily through the haze that was his eyesight as Renaldo lay sprawled on the floor, on his side, arms askew.

Crius harrumphed, and tossed a fire extinguisher on the bed. “Such foresight to keep these in every hallway.”

“On my swordbelt,” Jarrod squeaked. “Med kit. There’s a . . .” he fought panic at the sound of his voice, “. . . trache tube. You gotta cut me.” The neon wrigglers were coming back, purple and orange, crawling through the edges of his vision as he found himself on his knees. “Oh, f**k. Cut me, man. Trache me.”

Crius stared at him in incomprehension. “I’ll talk you through it,” Jarrod rasped. “Get my med kit. Hurry. Oh, f**k. Oh, f—”

The room flared white and faded.

Carter awaited Jarrod and Siri in the coffee shop of Pete’s Chowder House, just up the street from the weekend’s madness.

He heard sirens, thought nothing of it, and sipped his coffee.

Carter remembered long conversations and many demonstrations with a young Jarrod, even ten years ago, when Jarrod Torrealday was a smirking little slip of a boy, still in high school but an A-grade fencer with a solid grounding in Judo.

Back when Carter had sparred with the young Jarrod, he’d felt like he was standing on ice. Everything he hated about fighting a judoka in the octagon, coming back to haunt him in thirty pounds of mail with a blade that flashed like thought. Terrifying. Not just swords, either. Spear, axe, knife. Immense talent. With something sharp and a suit of armor Jarrod could, quite literally, whip anybody in the world.

When the rules were off.

The strict regulations for historical armored combat had frustrated Jarrod, and he hadn’t placed well in tournaments. He’d dropped out of the medieval re-enactor scene and went on to win a junior World Cup championship in saber. Saber rules, he could do.

A few years later, as an undergrad at Duke, Jarrod had attracted attention by insisting that medieval armored combat and Eastern martial arts shared common ground. This was now common knowledge, but at the time, it had been heresy.