disappearing. There were those who believed that dragons were dying out, but Lleland believed differently; they were still around, just more adept at hiding. He had no evidence to support this conclusion, however; just a feeling in his gut.
Lleland reached the outer precincts of the Guildhall as the clock struck midnight. He pulled his cloak closer around his chest and peered into the surrounding darkness. The grounds were deserted. Through a crack between the doors fell a faint shaft of light, and Lleland entered a circular hall. A single torch burned in a sconce on the wall, its flickering light reaching no more than a few feet. Pushing the door closed behind him, Lleland walked over to the torch and held a reed, dipped in tallow, up to the flame, watching as it flared with light.
Hidden in the shadows opposite the entrance was a low, narrow doorway, and Lleland made his way over to it, twisting the iron handle and pulling the door open a crack. Holding up his reed light, he glanced around the hall he had just crossed, ensuring that there were no prying eyes, before opening the door more fully. A small, stone landing lay just beyond, from which a narrow staircase spiraled downward. The murmur of voices rose from below, and descending the steps, Lleland found himself outside a large storage room. Wide, double doors stood open, revealing a room well-lit with torches and lanterns. Hessian-wrapped bales lined the walls, while in the center of the room was a circular table, scratched and stained from years of use. Long shadows played over the bales, casting the men who sat at the table in caricature – here, a long, beaked nose and thick eyebrows; there, a loose, flabby neck and rotund belly.
Facing the doorway sat Lord Grant of the beaked nose, with his graying hair pulled into a queue at the back of the neck. A wealthy man with the ear of the king, Lord Grant was the leader of the League. Although skilled with weapons, he seldom accompanied the others in their hunting missions, preferring to arrange the details and finances. He nodded as Lleland entered the room. Around the table sat another seven men, six of them members of the League. Lleland knew them well – he had hunted the hills with them many times as they searched for signs of dragons. The seventh man was not a member of the League, but Lleland recognized him as Lord Hindley, until recently Lord Chamberlain to the King. He’d held that position for over forty years, and in that time had served three monarchs. His failing health was cited as the reason for his retirement, although it was rumored on the streets of Civitas that King John was eager to appoint his latest favorite to the coveted position. He had granted Hindley a handsome pension, however, and estates in the south.
Lleland took a seat beside Durwin Scott and leaned towards him. “What’s Hindley doing here?” he asked softly.
Scott shrugged. “Grant says he has information that might prove useful. He wouldn’t say more until you arrived.” The faint smell of untanned leather rose from Scott’s skin, and Lleland pulled away slightly. Scott was the youngest member of the League, and when he wasn’t hunting dragons, he worked as a tanner. It was hard work, and his hands were stained and calloused, but he had a handsome face that women seemed to find attractive. His dark, curly hair hung loosely around his face, and on his head sat a felt cap, rakishly set over one ear. Unlike the other League members, he had never seen a dragon, and had certainly never killed one. Lleland had often wondered about his admission into the League. While it was true that his father had served Lord Grant on his estates, and that Scott was a skilled fighter, his yearning to hunt dragons lay not in ridding the world of the monsters, but rather in the chase after a superior beast. In fact, Lleland had often mused, the League could have been hunting any behemoth and Scott would have been equally enthusiastic.
Grant
Lleland reached the outer precincts of the Guildhall as the clock struck midnight. He pulled his cloak closer around his chest and peered into the surrounding darkness. The grounds were deserted. Through a crack between the doors fell a faint shaft of light, and Lleland entered a circular hall. A single torch burned in a sconce on the wall, its flickering light reaching no more than a few feet. Pushing the door closed behind him, Lleland walked over to the torch and held a reed, dipped in tallow, up to the flame, watching as it flared with light.
Hidden in the shadows opposite the entrance was a low, narrow doorway, and Lleland made his way over to it, twisting the iron handle and pulling the door open a crack. Holding up his reed light, he glanced around the hall he had just crossed, ensuring that there were no prying eyes, before opening the door more fully. A small, stone landing lay just beyond, from which a narrow staircase spiraled downward. The murmur of voices rose from below, and descending the steps, Lleland found himself outside a large storage room. Wide, double doors stood open, revealing a room well-lit with torches and lanterns. Hessian-wrapped bales lined the walls, while in the center of the room was a circular table, scratched and stained from years of use. Long shadows played over the bales, casting the men who sat at the table in caricature – here, a long, beaked nose and thick eyebrows; there, a loose, flabby neck and rotund belly.
Facing the doorway sat Lord Grant of the beaked nose, with his graying hair pulled into a queue at the back of the neck. A wealthy man with the ear of the king, Lord Grant was the leader of the League. Although skilled with weapons, he seldom accompanied the others in their hunting missions, preferring to arrange the details and finances. He nodded as Lleland entered the room. Around the table sat another seven men, six of them members of the League. Lleland knew them well – he had hunted the hills with them many times as they searched for signs of dragons. The seventh man was not a member of the League, but Lleland recognized him as Lord Hindley, until recently Lord Chamberlain to the King. He’d held that position for over forty years, and in that time had served three monarchs. His failing health was cited as the reason for his retirement, although it was rumored on the streets of Civitas that King John was eager to appoint his latest favorite to the coveted position. He had granted Hindley a handsome pension, however, and estates in the south.
Lleland took a seat beside Durwin Scott and leaned towards him. “What’s Hindley doing here?” he asked softly.
Scott shrugged. “Grant says he has information that might prove useful. He wouldn’t say more until you arrived.” The faint smell of untanned leather rose from Scott’s skin, and Lleland pulled away slightly. Scott was the youngest member of the League, and when he wasn’t hunting dragons, he worked as a tanner. It was hard work, and his hands were stained and calloused, but he had a handsome face that women seemed to find attractive. His dark, curly hair hung loosely around his face, and on his head sat a felt cap, rakishly set over one ear. Unlike the other League members, he had never seen a dragon, and had certainly never killed one. Lleland had often wondered about his admission into the League. While it was true that his father had served Lord Grant on his estates, and that Scott was a skilled fighter, his yearning to hunt dragons lay not in ridding the world of the monsters, but rather in the chase after a superior beast. In fact, Lleland had often mused, the League could have been hunting any behemoth and Scott would have been equally enthusiastic.
Grant
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