Free Dragon Business, The by Kevin J. Anderson Page A

as the new Lord Dalbry’s generosity became known, other supplicants arrived: people whose villages suffered from a deadly fever, houses blown down by storms, crops wiped out by a mysterious blight. Since Dalbry had helped one flooded village, how could he say no to his other subjects? It was not for him to choose whose plight was worthiest. And so he gave each supplicant an equivalent amount of gold.
    Then the freelance regent reported that the adjacent principalities were showing signs of war, and he strongly advised that Dalbry defend his borders. Since the young lord did not know how to do that, the regent brought in a group of his outside friends, mercenaries who were eager to “help.”
    The brotherhood of mercenary knights demanded in the name of Dalbry’s father and the honor of their order that he grant them hospitality. They moved into the cozy castle, taking over the rooms, kicking out the servants, emptying the larders. Young Dalbry didn’t know what to do. The brotherhood of mercenary knights boasted about their fellowship with old Lord Dalbry, telling stories of great battles that did not sound familiar at all to the young man, although his father had told him many war tales.
    The regent talked about funding the defense of the fief, and he rode off with a donkey and a cart filled with gold. As the young lord rode around his fiefdom to inspect the results of his charity work, poor Dalbry learned that there had never even been a flood, nor a fire, nor a plague, nor any of the disasters for which he had funded relief.
    By the time he grew suspicious enough to question what they were doing in his castle, it was far too late. When he returned to the cozy castle, Dalbry found out that he was bankrupt and that the mercenary knights had taken over the castle, the grounds, everything. Laughing, they ran him out of his own castle and seized his property.
    But because he was the son of a knight, they dubbed young Dalbry an honorary knight as their special gift before he left. They let him keep his father’s sword and armor as well as his name.
    As he was driven from his own home, he watched the mercenary knights chop down the apricot orchards and use the wood to build wagons and siege machines, which they trundled off to war. . .  .

    As he finished the story, Dalbry popped another dried apricot into his mouth. The magic sack looked nearly empty now. He carefully stored the pit in the other sack.
    “I don’t even like apricots anymore,” he admitted, “but they remind me of my cozy home, my heritage, and everything I lost. I keep these pits in hopes that someday I can plant another orchard of my own.”
    “Bloodrust and battlerot, I always get angry when I hear that story,” Reeger said.
    Dalbry seemed resigned. “Nevertheless, the experience taught me a valuable lesson and set me on my path in life. Not the path I would have chosen, but . . .”
    Reeger busied himself around the camp. “We’ve got our own work to do and business to attend. We’ll get your lands and your orchards back one of these days, Dalbry.” He grinned, showing off his bad teeth. “And we’ll have fun while we’re at it.”

W HEN REEGER FOUND an abandoned graveyard on their way to King Norrimun’s castle, he could barely contain his glee. Neither Cullin nor Sir Dalbry could drag him away from the treasure trove. “Bloodrust, never waste resources! A good skull and a rib cage are worth their weight in . . . well, in bone. And every cemetery’s got plenty to spare.”
    Sir Dalbry indulged him. “Do what you need to do, Reeger. It is a distasteful but important part of our business.”
    Reeger bent over the rough grave markers, the worn stones, and the uneven mounds that indicated double-decker sites, communal family-style graves from times of heavy plague. Occasionally, witches and hanged men were also buried in a jumble to keep them from stinking up the forest, unless ambitious medical researchers cut them down