The Red Wyvern: Book One of the Dragon Mage (30 page)

“My liege!” Branoic screamed. “Wait! Stop!”

Cursing a steady stream, Caradoc went charging right after Maryn with the rest of the silver daggers close behind. Branoic pulled out of line and yelled at every familiar shield he saw.

“Inside, get inside! The prince! He’s inside the second ring! To the prince!”

Whether they could hear or not, they seemed to understand. Half a hundred men at first, then more, galloped through the open gates of the second ring. Still yelling for reinforcements, Branoic followed. He rode through to see silver daggers riding down the regent’s men who manned the winch at the second ring’s east gate. Prince Maryn himself slashed down to kill the Boarsman at the handle. The regent’s men were running so hard for the safety of the third ring that they never noticed the royal prize to their rear.

“We’ve got the west gate, too!” a Cerrmor man was shouting. “Daeryc’s leading the charge there.”

The Red Wyvern army poured into the second grassy ring. Up at the third wall the regent’s men were running hard out for the gates, which slowly and inexorably creaked closed. One last unit squeaked through, but a couple of stragglers flung themselves against the iron-bound wood in vain. They spun around, backs against the gates, and waited to die as a Red Wyvern squad rode for them with swords flashing.

“Stop!” Maryn screamed. “They’re defenseless!”

Just in time the swords swung up and missed the men’s faces by a handsbreadth. The two stragglers fell to their knees as the squad swung their horses’ heads around and thundered by.

Up above the gate the Green Wyvern men flung down ropes. The prince called his men off and kept them off while the two stragglers climbed up. In the screaming confusion of battle, a little pool of silence spread around the prince and the men he’d allowed to escape, as if everyone were holding their breaths, half-expecting Maryn to have them pulled down and slain at the last moment. But they reached the top at last, and their fellows yanked them over to safety. One of the two turned and called down unthinkingly, “My thanks!”

“Be welcome!” Maryn shouted back. “And remember the pardons I’m offering to lord and rider both!”

For a moment the scene held, the prince on horseback down below, the men atop the wall transfixed. All at once someone on the regent’s side of the second wall started yelling orders. Maryn bowed from the saddle, turned his horse, and rode back to his own men. Open-mouthed with awe, Branoic watched him and wondered if it were a wrong thing to love another man the way he loved Prince Maryn.

By the middle of the afternoon the two armies had sorted out their respective positions. Prince Maryn’s men held the two outermost walls, Burcan held the third, and that left the grassy stretch betwixt the second and third walls belonging to nobody. The prince’s men who were trained in siegecraft got straight to work; they tore down the catwalks on the inside of the first wall so that they could build them anew on their side of the second. From there they could pull up and claim the wooden structures on Burcan’s side of that wall to ensure that it stayed theirs.

In the stretch between the outermost and the second walls, Maryn ordered Oggyn to set up the camp. Predictably enough, a good many of the noble-born grumbled at this decision when they met for the council of war.

“My apologies and all, Your Highness,” Daeryc said, “but I hope that these walls don’t turn into a trap instead of a safeguard.”

“True spoken,” Tieryn Gauryc put in. “With all due respect, my liege, we’re wondering if any good can come of this.”

Maryn looked round the council, catching the glance of each lord in turn.

“I remember a book my learned tutor once gave me to read.” Maryn nodded Nevyn’s way. “In the Dawntime a great leader of our people, Gwersinnoryc, made the same mistake Burcan is making now. Hwl Caisyr, the Rhwman, besieged Gwersinnoryc in his dun, and when Caisyr built a wall around his own men, our Gwersinnoryc let him do it. In the end it saved the Rhwmanes when Gwersinnoryc’s allies came to lift the siege.” He smiled briefly. “Let’s not forget Braemys of the Boar and the lords who deserted. If they rally and try to ride to the regent’s aid, they’ll not be trampling our camp and killing our horses, whether Burcan sallies or not.”

“Don’t you understand?” Burcan snarled. “I didn’t cede them the ring! We don’t have the men to hold it. What with the battles and the desertions, we’ve been bled white. Why lose more men trying to defend an impossible position?”

Tieryn Nantyn crossed his arms tightly over his chest and scowled. All around them the great hall fell silent as men and women alike turned to listen. At the head of the royal table King Olaen was shredding a bit of bread between his fingers, head down while the men argued. Merodda, sitting nearby, slewed round on the bench for a better look. Burcan’s face was a dangerous red.

“Too late to argue the point now.” Lord Belryc rose to join them. “They’ve got it, and that’s that.”

“True enough,” Burcan said. “But I’ll have it known that there were reasons for my decision.”

Nantyn stayed silent, glaring at him with ice-blue eyes. Belryc walked over and laid a friendly hand on his arm. Without looking his way the old man struck him such a hard blow backhanded that Belryc reeled back with a bloody lip and nose.

“Don’t you try to soothe me! I’m no fractious woman, you young cub,” Nantyn said in an oddly level voice. “Listen, Regent! I never doubted you had reasons. I’m saying they’re cursed bad ones.”

Belryc sat down in his place and turned his back on the dispute. Burcan considered Nantyn for a long moment.

“Stick to your opinion, then,” Burcan said at last. “And I’ll stick to mine.”

This maneuver took Nantyn utterly off-guard. For a moment he stood gaping like a fish; then with a sullen shrug he turned and strode out of the great hall. Burcan winked at Merodda and sat down to pick up his table dagger. As he resumed eating, it seemed that every man within earshot let out his breath at once, as if the great hall itself sighed in relief.

Since Merodda could do no more than pick at her food, she excused herself from the queen’s presence long before the meal ended. Her dread seemed palpable, as if a small animal clung to her back and sank in claws to weigh her down. Ever since Tibryn’s death, Burcan had fought off one challenge to his authority after another. Neither she nor Burcan, perhaps, had realized how much they depended on their elder brother’s position to solidify their own. Tibryn’s young son by a second marriage was the Boar now; he and his mother both were off in Cantrae, where perhaps they were safe, perhaps not.

Not that it matters, Merodda thought. Not that it will matter to anyone once this summer’s past!

Up in the blessed silence of her chambers she lit candles from the banked hearth, then brought out her scrying basin and the bottle of ink. Most likely Prince Maryn’s sorcerer had accompanied him to war, too far away from Lilli to hide her.

This time, indeed, when she thought of Lilli the images danced on the black surface. She could see her daughter sitting at table with three other women, all wearing dresses of some soft cloth in bright colors, yellow for Lilli. Although Merodda could hear nothing, they all seemed to be talking and laughing as they ate from trenchers heaped with meat and bread. She could just see a silver bowl piled high with fresh peaches as well. So there was Lilli, safe and pampered, while she herself trembled with fear in a siege that would doubtless end in starvation! Merodda’s rage hit her like a blow. The images vanished, and she straightened up, barely able to breathe.

Someone walked up behind her. Merodda screamed and spun around—the room stood empty, the bar still lay across the door.

“Ah, Goddess!” she exhaled the words more than spoke them. “May Aranrhodda protect me!”

The feeling of being watched persisted, grew stronger, until she wondered if she were going mad. Or was the feeling a warning that Brour’s old master in the dweomer was spying upon her? She gathered herself with a couple of deep breaths, then drew in the air a pentagram with great sweeps of her right arm. Once the image held steady in her mind, she set its image blazing with blue fire.

“Begone!” she called out.

The sensation of being watched vanished. With a small tight smile, Merodda returned to the basin and her scrying.

“Well, that was clumsy of me,” Nevyn said. “I never should have let her know I was spying on her. She’s handier with her magicks than we thought.”

His audience, a fat yellow gnome, plopped itself down on his campaign chest and began to pick its fangs with a long claw. Although Merodda’s clumsy banishment had affected neither Nevyn nor the gnome, Nevyn had brought them back to the physical plane at the instant she drew her sigil.

Let her deem herself the stronger—and grow careless.

•   •   •

In the morning the prince sent heralds to the gates in the third wall. From the newly built catwalks on their side of the second, Nevyn, the Prince, and Oggyn watched their progress up the grassy slope. Each herald carried a long staff wound round with many-colored ribands, a symbol that Regent Burcan and his men still respected, apparently, because no one slung a stone or an insult their way. Instead the gates opened a bare gap to let the two men slip inside. They’d barely closed, it seemed, before they opened again.

The heralds returned fast, shaking their heads, and strode through the gates in the second wall to the camp.

“Let’s go down to meet them,” Maryn said.

As Nevyn followed him down from the catwalks, he was predicting to himself what they were going to say, and he didn’t need dweomer to do it. The heralds knelt before the prince.

“No parley, my liege,” Gavlyn said. “The regent ordered us to withdraw from his city and his dun, and that was an end to it.”

“His city? His dun?” Maryn snapped. “Is the king dead, then?”

“He’s not, my liege, but I doubt me if that matters one way or the other.” Gavlyn glanced at his companion, who shook his head in an agreeing no. “I suspect the phrasing was an unfortunate slip of the truth.”

  CHAPTER THREE  

With the prince gone on campaign, Bellyra ruled Dun Cerrmor as his regent. Every morning she sat at the head of the honor table on the dais with her women around her while the servitors came up to receive her orders concerning the daily life of the dun. Often enough she had to settle some squabble or legal matter as well, though any major dispute, especially those involving the noble-born, would have to wait until Maryn returned in the fall. He was still gwerbret of this rhan and thus the only person entitled to hold full malover. During these sessions Lilli merely listened and watched, though the other women put in plenty of opinions.

“Once he’s truly the king of all Deverry,” Bellyra said one morning, “he’ll have to elevate one of his loyal lords to the gwerbretrhyn of Cerrmor. He’s not looking forward to sorting that out, I tell you.”

“No matter who he chooses,” Elyssa said, “the others will grumble.”

“That’s true enough,” Degwa put in. “A lot of jealous children, that’s what they are.”

“Oh now, please!” Bellyra tried to look stern and failed. “After all, there’s a lot of coin at stake too. It’s not all hurt feelings.”

“Just so, but—” Degwa hesitated. “Who’s that at the door?”

Escorted by pages two armed men, dusty and road-stained, were striding into the great hall. One of them carried a silver message tube in one hand.

“From my lord, I’ll wager.” Bellyra’s voice caught. “May it be good news.”

As if he’d heard her, the messenger raised the tube and shouted across the hall.

“Good news, Your Highness, the best! The prince your husband has taken the Holy City and invested the dun itself.”

Bellyra whooped with laughter and rose, tossing her arms in the air as if she were going to dance a few steps. When Elyssa scowled, the princess recovered herself and managed to arrange a solemn face. As the messenger mounted the steps, Lilli watched him, wondering if she felt glee or dread, then realized that the truth mixed both.

The tube held several long letters, tightly furled. While the princess waited for the royal scribe, the news of their arrival spread and the great hall filled. Every servant and man on fortguard crowded in to hear the tale. When the scribe took the letters and snapped them out to smooth them, the crowd pressed close to the foot of the dais.