Dragon Death Part 1

Dragonsword.

Dragon Death.

Gael Baudino.

To those who died.

To those who survived.

To those who are still lost somewhere in Vietnam.

The author would like to express her deepest thanks to Jan Bender and Gary Echternacht of the Gryylthan Emba.s.sy, Los Angeles branch, without whose generous a.s.sistance this book would not have been possible.

* CHAPTER 1 *

Amild sea ... and a mild breeze that brought the little fis.h.i.+ng boat across the cold gray water of the inlet that led to Quay. Skimming the waves like a sea-bird, it approached the charred pilings of the docks, hesitated, sails luffing, as though uncertain of its reception, then took the wind once again and came on.

Sheltered by the earthworks that ringed the town, Hahle watched it, frowned doubtfully, readied his bow. "Myylen."

Myylen was thickset, with muscles that were used to heaving on ropes and gathering sails: a seaman, like his comrades, dragged out of his boat and into battle. "Here, councilman."

"Your eyes are younger than mine. What do you see in that boat?"

Myylen crept carefully to the edge of the rough parapet. The breeze freshened. Spray wetted his long, dark hair. "Two men," he said after some time.

A boat. From Vaylle. But why so small a boat . . . and so few pa.s.sengers?

"Alive, Myylen?"

Myylen squinted. The boat drew nearer. Hahle felt a chill that had nothing to do with his bare scalp or his years, that sprang rather from the intuitions of an old warrior: it was going to be a hard march, and a worse bivouac. And comrades would die. In fact, Hahle was afraid that comrades had already died, and that among them was one of his students.

"Such a fine young lad," he murmured to himself. But no; the lad was gone. His place had been taken by a woman. And now she ...

Myylen shook his head. "They do not move."

Driven haphazardly by the wind, the boat turned and ran broadside onto the gently sloping sh.o.r.e a stone's throw from the parapet. It rocked in the lap of waves for a moment, then, as though suddenly sure of its footing, it heeled over and was still.

Not a sound from the boat. Not a movement.

"Who comes?" shouted Hahle. He had fitted an arrow to the bow string, and his strong right hand was covering the nock: three fingers taking the string on the pads, the shaft gripped lightly between the index and middle. "Who comes to Quay?"

The wind died, then came up again. The sails rattled as though petrified. Behind Hahle and Myylen, crouching in the shelter of the earthworks, men drew swords and readied pikes with a set to their faces that told of frantic battles against weapons for which they did not even have names. Ten days before, Quay had been struck by a thing from the sky. The lady Kyria had labored mightily, but though she had healed the wounded, the dead were nonetheless dead, the houses were burned, the streets were choked with rubble and filled with the sweet odor of decay.

And now this boat.

"Sir," said Myylen, "we can-"

His words were interrupted by a faint, choking sound that grew abruptly into a forsaken wail. Hahle flinched and started to draw his bow, but he realized then that what he heard came not from any hound, nor from a thing in the sky, but rather from the throat of a man. Compelling as the voice was, though, he resisted the urge to run to the boat. "Myylen, Stahn," he said. "Follow me. With caution."

The three climbed over the parapet as the others kept a lookout, and in a minute, they stood on the damp sand. The wailing continued, and now it took on the shape of words: "For the love of the G.o.ds, help me!"

Again, the urge to run. Hahle fought it in himself and quelled it in his men with a sharp glance. "But I know that voice," said Myylen. "The one called Helwych."

"That waterfly? But-"

The voice: urgent, compelling, almost commanding. "Help me!"

Myylen and Stahn stumbled forward as Hahle, his cautions sticking in his throat, ran to catch up. When they reached the boat, they found that Myylen was right: there were two men there. One, a stranger, obviously Vayllen, was dead. Helwych, though, was alive.

The lad seemed cut in a hundred places, burned over what little skin was not cut, and so bruised and battered that it was hard to recognize him for the swelling and discoloration. He was bleeding furiously from a gash in his forehead, and his eyes peered frantically from out of a blood-drenched face.

"The Vayllens," he gasped. "All smiles and favors until we reached their city, and then-" He broke off, coughing.

Hahle and his men vaulted into the boat. Myylen and Stahn bent over the sorcerer. Helwych shook, choked, vomited a mixture of blood and bile.

"-and then they turned on us, and ..."

Helwych seemed in danger of bleeding to death as he spoke. Myylen and Stahn cut strips from the sail and attempted to bind up the worst of his wounds, working quickly as he choked and retched; but Hahle felt the cold again. "We need more than sailcloth here," he said, his throat as tight as the grip of his hand on the bow. "Stahn, run to the town and fetch what physicians we have."

Stahn nodded and, shouting for the physicians, vaulted over the gunwale. But his weight caused the boat to s.h.i.+ft and roll, and it pitched Hahle backwards and onto the corpse of the Vayllen.

Myylen looked up, startled. Hahle stared at the dead man. The skin of the body was lined and tan, and its blond hair was bleached nearly white by the sun. Such as you betrayed my people. Such as you will pay dearly.

Helwych was gasping through a froth of spittle and blood. "And they . . . and they ..."

Frowning at his clumsiness, Hahle climbed to his feet and made his way to the young sorcerer. "And the others?"

"Dead." Helwych choked, winced at Myylen's rough ministry.

"All of them? No survivors at all?"

Helwych blinked, his mouth working. "All dead." There was an odd tone to his voice, and his eyes s.h.i.+fted a little in their b.l.o.o.d.y sockets. "I alone escaped to tell you."

As the days had slipped by into mid-February, the weather about Kingsbury had grown milder. The storm three weeks ago had spent the last of the winter's strength, and the winds had s.h.i.+fted to the southwest, bringing a warmth that presaged the coming of spring.

In the house of the king, Seena nursed her infant son, the tender expression of a young mother warm on her face. Her heart was full. She had her children and her husband, and Gryylth was changing in wonderful ways. Nearby, Relys watched as Ayya played with a toy broom, wielding it with childish carelessness; and though the girl might sweep some day in earnest, she would, Seena knew, never learn the bow of subservience, and Vill would never know a time when his sister was not his equal, save perhaps in strength.

But the sun was setting, and with nightfall would come things less of wonder and more of horror. Ban-don had been destroyed in the night, and though that slaughter had not been repeated in Gryylth, still darkness brought with it the distant baying of spectral and murderous hounds and a curious, eager snuffling that visited many a door both within the town and without.

The light faded. Seena shuddered and held Vill closer. The infant mumbled, his soft hands padding at his mother's breast.

What would happen, she wondered, if the hounds and the things from the sky came to Kingsbury in earnest? Ayya might never learn the bow . . . but she might well never learn it because- Seena jerked herself away from her thoughts. No. Alouzon had gone off to Vaylle, and if there were anyone capable of bringing that renegade land to heel, it was the Dragonmaster. The younger men might mock her behind her back because she was a woman, but those who had fought with her regarded her almost as though she were a G.o.d who had deigned to come to Gryylth to help Her children, face-to-face, hand-in-hand.

A heavy step at the door. Relys looked up from Ayya, and her hand went to her sword; but the guards outside murmured greetings, and Cvinthil's soft tenor carried into the house. In a moment, Seena's husband had entered. He shut the door behind him, took off his cloak, and hung it on a peg.

Seena smiled fondly. Another man might have decided that a king should have servants to attend to his garments. Not so Cvinthil. He had been a warrior. He still was. He would hang up his own clothes.

Now he bowed to her. "Wife."

"Husband." Seena nodded in return. She and Cvinthil had separate duties, perhaps, and different strengths, but they were equals nonetheless. It was a good thought.

Cvinthil greeted Relys, who had risen, and motioned her back onto her stool. Ayya ran to him, and he swept her up in his arms and made faces at her until she laughed.

"How is it in the wide world, husband?" said Seena.

He bent, Ayya still in his arms, and kissed her. "Well . . ." He looked toward the door almost uneasily, as though at any moment the matters he had left at Hall Kingsbury might suddenly burst in. "Well . . ."He shrugged. "The farmers are saying it will be a good year, and the shepherds-thanks to Karthin's advice-have more lambs than they know what to do with ..." He offered a careworn smile. "... though I am sure they will think of something. Karthin has done much good for Gryylth. Tireas, he said, once called him a hayseed. If so, then let there be more hayseeds in this land, for they seem to be a good lot."

"And . . . Alouzon. . . ?"

Cvinthil's smile faded. Silence grew about him. He sat down on a stool next to Relys and put Ayya on her lap. For a moment, Relys looked almost terrified, and Ayya added to her confusion by kissing her on the cheek. Relys set her on the floor nervously, and the girl laughed and resumed her sweeping.

He spoke at last. "No word has come. Indeed, I fear that no word will ever come."

"Surely you do not-"

He shook his head quickly. "The hounds have made travel dangerous. The messenger that came from Quay ten days ago with word of Alouzon's departure was attacked on the road by a pack. He barely escaped. I imagine it is worse now.''

He stared into the fire for a time, all the care that had come to him since he had a.s.sumed the kings.h.i.+p plain on his face. "O wife," he said softly. "I was never meant for the duties of king. Marrget, I think, would have been the better choice."

"Marrget is a woman, husband," said Seena.

"Aye, that she is. And a brave one. And a wise one. Gryylth could do much worse."

Relys lifted her head. "My king," she said softly, "if I may speak, I believe the captains made a good choice. And Marrget would have refused the t.i.tle. You know that."

"Aye. Aye."

"And, much as I am unwilling to say it, this land is not ready for a woman's rule, and will not be ready for a long time." Relys spoke dispa.s.sionately, but her words obviously pained her.

"Speak, Relys," said the king. "You seem to know more of the results of my reforms than do I. Captains and councilors sometimes tell a king no more than he desires to hear. What can you tell me?''

' 'The reforms?'' Relys shrugged. ' 'I can tell you what I see, and what my women see. I can tell you that Wykla was almost raped. I can tell you that the young men from the country, new to their soldier's livery and their station, laugh and sn.i.g.g.e.r at the First Wartroop. I can say that women are threatened daily in the marketplace by men who care little for decrees and laws, but only for old custom. There are many among your own Guard who would wish to see me bow to them, or at least ..." She smiled thinly. "... have me provided with a good husband who would make a proper wife of me.''

Cvinthil sighed. "You tell a grievous tale, lieutenant."

Relys was impa.s.sive. "I am sorry to bear ill tidings, my king. But I would be so bold as to remind you that custom is hard to change. But it is changing."

The king shook his head. "I wonder if it is perhaps changing on the surface only.''

Vill finished nursing, and Seena laid him on her shoulder and patted his back. "Time, my husband."

Cvinthil looked as though he wondered how much time would be given him, but after a moment, Seena realized that he was listening to the horns of the guard posts along the road up Kingsbury Hill. Closer and closer they sounded: a messenger was climbing the switchback trail up to the town.

Relys went to the door, opened it, and slipped out into the fading light, her hand on her sword. Another horn, a different note: the messenger had reached the gate to the city. Seena rose and sent Ayya up the stairs to the loft, then took the seat beside her husband. She was queen. Timid she was, and sometimes she even longed for the old ways, but now her place was here, with Cvinthil.

Horse hoofs clattered on the hard-packed earth of the street, splashed in puddles. Exclamations from the guards outside. Relys cried out: "By the G.o.ds, man! Your arm!"

"My arm is but a little thing, and it will heal," said a voice with a coastal accent. "I would see King Cvinthil."

The sound of a clumsy dismounting, and then Relys flung the door open to admit a tall man. His face was dark with sun, and his hair was dark too, and long. He wore a heavy cloak against the cold, and as he crossed the threshold, he pulled it closely about his left arm as though to hide it. Phosphor smoked on the thick wool, and more smoke came from his hidden arm.

He bowed deeply to Cvinthil and, after a moment's thought, to Seena. "My lord . . . and lady," he said, "I am Myylen. I am from Quay. Hahle sent me with tidings of Alouzon Dragonmaster and her companions."

Cvinthil nodded. "Speak. Quickly."

Myylen's face had already told the story. "They are dead, my king. All of them save Helwych. The Vayllens pretended friends.h.i.+p until our company was defenseless, and then they attacked with magic and weapons. Even the lady Kyria was helpless."

Cvinthil had turned very pale. Seena clutched Vill as though by doing so she could keep away hounds and flying death and fire. "And . . . and Helwych?" said the king.

"Badly injured, my king," said Myylen. "He killed a Vayllen boatman and made for Gryylth so as to warn us of our danger.''

Cvinthil rose and bowed stiffly. "Our thanks to you, sir." But he stood wavering. "Relys," he called uncertainly. "Relys, are you there?"

"Here, my king," came her clear, cold voice.

"Call my advisors and captains to the Hall," he said, his voice distant. "And you come also, and bring Timbrin with you. You are now captain of the First Wartroop, and Timbrin is your lieutenant, and your king is in desperate need of counsel."

"It shall be done, my king." Relys's icy calm did not thaw in the slightest. Marrget had been not only her captain, but her friend. Relys was, Seena knew, planning revenge and war even now. Terrible war. War without conscience or quarter.

And so was the king.

Darham sat on the simple stool that formed as much of a throne as he would allow in the king's lodge, listening to the messenger who had come from Cvinthil. The man's tale was one of deception, murder, and a single lucky escape, but beneath the surface considerations that would lead-inevitably, Darham knew- to war with Vaylle, there were other matters. A much-loved member of the King's Guard of Corrin was dead, as was a trusted captain who had proved himself both in battle and in council, and also the young woman that he himself had adopted.

The messenger finished. Darham hung his head. He had counseled for caution, and this was the result. "I cannot believe that they would have been so careless," he murmured, though he knew that the blame lay upon his own shoulders. "What madness made them walk, open-eyed, into a trap?"

Tylha, the commander of the women's phalanxes, was frowning. "The Vayllens seem to control potencies that even Tireas would have envied," she said. "Perhaps our people did the best they could."

The Gryylthan messenger, a young man, stared at Tylha as though surprised that a woman would raise her voice in council. Or perhaps he was irritated that she did. Darham marked his expression, recalled what Wykla had said of Gryylth's continuing difficulties with its women. And more than likely such as this tormented my brave daughter. "And what of Helwych, sir?"

The Gryylthan composed himself quickly. "Helwych is near death and far too weak to travel, lord. But the physicians of Quay have hopes that he will recover."

"He stole a Vayllen fis.h.i.+ng boat, you say."

"Aye, lord. And to do so he killed the fisher who Downed it."

Calrach, who commanded what few men Corrin still maintained, fought to suppress a smile. "It seems the lad had some teeth after all."

His sentiment was echoed in the faces of the guards and attendants who stood about the lodge. Beneath it, though, ran a deep anger. Helwych had always been irritating and annoying by turns, and his unexpected valor was heartening. But Manda had been a friend to many, and Karthin's abilities were legendary. Corrin had lost two heroes.