When they had gone, I turned to my chancellor.
“Niko, there is a crossbow maker in Trieste who makes a weapon of uncanny range and stopping power. Send a trustworthy man to purchase two of these Triestine bows, plus quarrels and any other necessary equipment. He must be back with them by three days before full moon. You know what is at stake.”
“You prefer crossbows to one of those new firearms being designed?”
“Those are weapons of the future, indeed, but I need a weapon for today, and I need one with both deadly accuracy, and reliability: The Triestine crossbow.”
“Yes, Baron,” said Niko, “I’ll make arrangements before I eat lunch.” He rode away and I knew the task was as good as done.
I walked through the kitchen to ask for a cup of tea and sat in the garden. Then who should come along but Grigor, the great minstrel-tinkerer! At first the ladies tried to shoo him off, but he wouldn’t be shooed. I watched as he pranced and sang and wheedled, and soon they were singing along with him. When they brought the tea he came into the garden with them.
“My lord, we tried. … ” And then they giggled.
I smiled back, then laughed as I said, “Everyone knows you can’t keep a good Grigor down.”
Then I scowled at him, or tried to. “You could have just said that I was expecting you, and they would have believed you. At least enough to have asked me.”
“But you know that I delight in being unexpected, Baron!”
I gave up. “Bring the rest of the sandwiches, and some for Grigor,” I said.
When the ladies had left and I was alone with my chief covert agent, I quickly and quietly told him, “Grigor, Niko is sending a man to Trieste for heavy crossbows. Back him up discreetly; see that those crossbows get back here safely.”
When the ladies returned, Grigor made entertaining conversation. After lunch he led us all in singing.
The next few days were heavy with study. My plan was simple and direct: To offer up the ladies and shoot Almidahl when she came to collect. It also had a very important element of surprise: The Dragon could hardly be aware of the enormous range of these newest and deadliest of mankind’s weapons. And I would post them disguised at long range.
Probably Almidahl and I were evenly matched in magical skill, which is why we hadn’t faced off before then. But that didn’t mean we wouldn’t have a contest. I would oppose her magically in order to hold her where the crossbows had a clear field of fire. That place would be where the ladies stood bound to their sacrificial stakes. So I needed to determine exactly where to put those stakes outside her lair.
I also needed to settle on a poison. Certainly the great crossbow’s quarrels could stop a horse dead in its tracks, but a Dragon is much more than a horse. Not only is it bigger, and at least as heavily armored as a barded horse ever was, but its metabolism is slower. This means that even a mortal wound will take much longer to kill. Totally destroying a Dragon’s heart would leave the attacker facing a very angry and capable Dragon for three minutes or more, not seconds. And I estimated that it would take five perfect quarrel hits to shred a Red Dragon’s heart. If we were to survive the battle she had to succumb much more quickly than she would to simple physical damage, so that must be supplemented with charms and poisons.
By the fifth day of researching every available source on Dragon killing, I was distressed. I was wary of consulting with Ifrit Zaneem because, having acted as intermediary, it might feel obliged to tell the Queen of my plans. Most of the human-written literature was devoted to chivalrous combat with immature male Dragons, and so gave me no clue as to what charms or poisons would be effective against a mature female. I could not even discover whether, with all that fire, Red Dragons were warm-blooded, or instead as cold-blooded as the reptiles they resembled.
I was reduced to preparing a mix of the poisons most broadly deadly across species and hoping. I would have to paint the quarrels’ heads and shaft with the mixture, which somewhat limited its potency. The poison coating could not be so strong that it ate through the shaft—or the shooter’s leather gloves, so that he dropped dead just by loading the ammunition.
Frustrated by my ignorance and the tradeoffs it required, wondering if it was fair to use the women as bait under the circumstances, I slept badly those nights.