Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince (54 page)

A searing pain struck his right shoulder and he thought a rock had flown up from the stallion’s hooves. But something dragged at the wound. He groped around with his left hand, drawing rein with the right that was beginning to go slightly numb, and his fingers snagged at the hilt of a knife.

A stand of thin, dry shrubs was ahead of him, and from it ran six men on foot, some with bows, others with swords. Pashta skidded on the loose stones, shrieking a battle challenge as his blood and training dictated, and reared up with hooves lashing out. Rohan hung on, grasping his sword with his left hand and one of his boot-knives with his right. The men came for him, one of them grabbing the stallion’s bridle as he came down; a powerful yank jerked the horse’s head around and the man lost a chunk of sleeve and flesh for his pains. But balance was lost. Even as Rohan hacked through upraised arms and stabbed into chests, Pashta foundered and Rohan toppled to the ground.

His vision exploded in black rainbows as a hand pulled at the knife in his shoulder, tearing down through muscle. His sword was wrested from his grip. He tried to roll away, but the man still had a grip on the blade and twisted it once again. Instinct alone drove his elbow back into the man’s belly. Momentarily freed, he wrenched the knife from his flesh. The pain sent him reeling.

He heard Farid’s shout of his name, Tilal’s frantic call. He spun, crying out an order for them to leave him. He could see nothing, feel nothing but the incredible fire in his shoulder and a new stabbing pain along his thigh. He fumbled at it, and the pain of removing the arrow somehow cleared his vision. A half-sensed movement made him turn and thrust with the knife that still had his blood on it. But his eyes betrayed him then, gaze flickering down at the arrow’s fletching, expecting to confirm suspicion by the sight of Merida colors. The glance was an unforgivable mistake, for it left him open to the blow that felled him. As he crumpled into the dirt, the colors that chased him into unconsciousness were not Merida brown and green, but violet edged in gold. Roelstra’s colors—and Ianthe’s.

Feylin watched shadows fill the valley like an onrushing tide, indigo and deep brown and a strange greenish black. On the cliffs the dragonsires seemed to have melted into the stone. She shook her head, asking herself why men were so stupidly reckless. Dragons were marvels to behold—but at a nice, safe distance. Prince Rohan, Lord Farid, and the young squire ought to have returned by now from their foolish dragon-chasing, and she said as much to the man beside her.

Darfir shrugged and cast an uneasy look across the gorge to the invisible dragons. “His lordship knows his way home.”

Though his words were casual enough, his hands constantly slid up and down the reins and his eyes constantly scanned the trail. Feylin bit her lip. “We’ll wait for them,” she said, and peered into the dying light.

A short time later Darfir gave a muffled curse and pointed to the cliffs. A great winged shadow appeared against the dusky sky and launched itself into flight. Feylin’s blood congealed as the dragon bellowed a hunting-cry familiar to her from childhood.

“Sweet Goddess,” Darfir whispered. “Is he coming after us?”

“No,” another of the men said. “Look.”

The dragon swooped into the gorge and was swallowed in darkness. A horse’s thin scream rose and abruptly died. Moments later the sire lifted into the sky once more, flying to a remote perch with a large, limp shape dangling from his talons. Even at a distance, the piebald hide showed that this was the squire’s mount.

“Oh, no,” Feylin breathed, and in the next instant dug her heels into her horse’s flanks. The others followed her, the arrhythmic pattern of hoofbeats in perfect keeping with the uncertain pounding of her heart.

Suddenly she drew rein, for ahead of her trotted Lord Farid’s dappled gelding, heading home. Darfir rode forward and grabbed the horse’s reins. A quick inspection showed the nicks in his hide and blood on the reins where Farid’s hand would have held them.

“He knows his way home, unlike the one the dragon caught,” Darfir said grimly. “As for the prince’s stallion—he could be anywhere by now.”

“They didn’t fall from their horses,” Feylin said softly.

The oldest of the men, Lhoys, growled through his beard, “Whatever lost them their mounts walked on two legs and drew steel against them.”

“Or glass,” Feylin added. “And they won’t have waited around, either. Can you find the tracks, Lhoys?”

The old man nodded and dismounted to scrutinize the ground. “Bring the gelding. We may have need of him.”

Feylin glanced at Darfir. “What do you think happened?”

“How could the Merida have come so far south without our knowing?”

“They wouldn’t dare.” But it was a feeble protest.

Lhoys had gone some distance from them, and now turned to call out success. After half a measure they found the place where the squire’s horse had turned into the gorge, prints indicating a panicky gallop. They rode on in silence as the light worsened and every shape became a threat. At last Feylin stopped, seeing a stand of brush and a dark shape on the ground. She cried out and leaped down from her saddle.

Farid sprawled in a dirt-thickened puddle of his own blood, a gaping wound in his side, sword still in his hand, the blade dark with blood. Death had not gentled his face, and as she crouched beside him she almost expected him to sit up and bellow out his rage before slashing into his attackers again. Smoothing his features tenderly, she closed his sightless eyes and bent her head.

“Look here,” Lhoys called out, and she glanced up, tears blurring her eyes. The old man was a few strides away, pointing at the ground. “There’s blood all over. Our lord and his grace gave good accounts of themselves. Signs of bodies being dragged—see the marks of bootheels in the dirt? Three men were unable to walk by the time this was over.”

“Or two of them and Prince Rohan,” Feylin said, shivering.

“Did he wear spurs? These three did.”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“Trained by his father and mounted by Lord Chaynal on a horse like that? No spur ever touched that stallion—nor any other Prince Rohan ever rode.”

She knuckled her eyes and said, “Darfir, put our lord on his horse. We’ll take him back home.”

“We follow the tracks as far as we can,” Lhoys growled.

“There’s no more light,” Darfir protested.

Lhoys cursed and spat, and set off anyway. Feylin caught up with him. “What if we find them? Four of us against however many of them? And with a sword at the prince’s throat? And what about the boy?”

“Small enough to carry, of course. I thought you were careful about observing things.”

“And I thought you were a goldsmith.”

Lhoys snorted. “Only after I had my bellyful of guiding other people’s riches through the mountains, girl. There are less dangerous livings.”

Twilight guided them to a rocky outcropping. Lhoys shook her head in defeat. “Six horses, by the scars on the bushes where they tied the reins. They took the harder path from here. Not even I could find them now.”

“Lhoys, look over here.” Feylin picked up a small, shiny object that had caught her eye. “It’s a coin—no, a medallion.”

He took it from her, ran a finger over both surfaces. “Minted back when the Merida held Stronghold. They had a legendary goldsmith then. I recognize the work.” He spat again. “Merida—damn them!” As they went back to the others, he asked, “Did you ever see his princess?”

“No. All the times they’ve visited, I’ve been out chasing dragons.”

“Fire in her hair and called to her hand when she pleases—but nothing compared to the Fire that will kindle around the Merida when she learns of this. She’ll lead whole armies to get him back.”

“They’ll kill him if she tries!”

Lhoys’ eyes glittered in the dimness. “You’ve never seen the princess,” he said.

Beliaev rubbed at the ritual scar on his chin and glared at the shy slivers of the moons just visible between the jagged mountains. In only a few days they would rise full and provide light enough to ride by. As it was, he was in constant danger of slipping on treacherous rock or missing an essential landmark. The timing had been all wrong, he complained to himself as he rode, and the bitch princess was not going to be pleased. Well, that was her problem, Beliaev thought, and cursed as his gelding’s forelegs skidded on loose stones. How could he have known that fool of a prince would go out sightseeing dragons so soon? How could he have anticipated that Rohan would ride through the very hills where Beliaev and his men were scouting suitable ambush?

They had arrived only yesterday. That meager stand of brush would not have been Beliaev’s choice for cover, but he supposed things had worked out profitably despite the haste of the arrangements. He tugged the lead rein and indulged himself by spitting on the prince’s blond head. Rohan was slung across the saddle like a sack of grain. Rope tying his wrists and ankles passed tight beneath the horse’s belly. Beside him was one of Beliaev’s dead, with a heavy cloth wrapped around his nearly severed arm so dripping blood would not provide a trail. The royal sword responsible for that death and yet another was now in Beliaev’s possession, along with the prince’s knives—he’d been warned about those—and the sleeveless golden robe. He rubbed his cheek to his shoulder, smooth silk and prickly silver embroidery luxurious against his skin. A pity the garment had been ruined by rips and blood, but perhaps the princess’ women could mend and clean it. Now that they’d finished their hellish dragon tapestries, they had nothing better to do.

His mount’s hooves skittered again, and Beliaev yelped a warning to the men behind him. Two of them were wounded, two of them dead and tied across saddles, and one was holding the bound and gagged squire in front of him. It had cost precious time to secure the casualties, and the going was slow with three horses on leading reins. But leaving the men behind was unthinkable. They were Ianthe’s and identifiable as such by their clothes—and that damned arrow it had taken so long to find in the dirt. The prince’s people must believe that the Merida alone were responsible for Rohan’s capture; thus the medallion left where someone would surely find it. Beliaev grinned at the thought of Lord Chaynal riding north at the head of the Desert armies to the plains outside Tiglath—right past Feruche where Rohan would be kept until Ianthe had done whatever it was she planned to do to him. For his own part, Beliaev would just as soon have carved the prince up into interesting shapes to be sent back to his Sunrunner witch of a wife, but Ianthe had forbidden it. She had assured him that the eventual outcome would be much more satisfying, and there had been a feral glow in her eyes that made doubt impossible.

Not that he trusted her, he mused as he leaned slightly back in his saddle, trying to ease the ache in his back. Lord Farid had gotten in a powerful kick while still on horseback, and it had been a real pleasure to shove his sword into the old man’s side. There were bruises elsewhere, too, that riding did nothing to soothe. Thirty more measures to Feruche, and then he would bask in the attentions of the princess’ women while Rohan was given over to Ianthe. Beliaev trusted her not at all, but any change in plan would not profit him at this time. Possibilities teased him about her plans for the prince, but ended in a shrug. She could keep Rohan for a pet or throw him from the cliffs for all Beliaev cared.

He stretched, unable to spare a hand from reins or lead rope to rub his spine, and thought about the speediest way to get word to his brothers in the north that preparations would have to be hastened. The attack on Tiglath—bold stroke, that—would have to begin earlier than planned. Ianthe and Roelstra had warned against it, but there would never be a better time for the obliteration of the city. The High Prince, in collusion with young Prince Jastri of Syr, would soon be conducting military maneuvers on the Syrene side of the Faolain River. It was Roelstra’s plan to use these armies to annihilate in one swift battle all the troops the Desert could muster. Thus he had ordered the Merida to make no move against Tiglath which would compel Lord Chaynal to split his forces to north and south. But Tiglath lay there ripe and waiting, and if the High Prince thought the Merida would pass up this chance, he was very much mistaken. If the horse-thieving Lord of Radzyn’s army divided to defend Tiglath as well as the Faolain border, too bad for Roelstra. Actually, Beliaev told himself, he’d be doing Roelstra a favor by taking care of half the Desert for him. And, too, with Tiglath in Merida hands, Roelstra would have no way to renege on his promise that the northern Desert would return to its rightful owners. Beliaev did not trust the High Prince, either.

He glanced down as Rohan’s fair head moved and a strangled groan escaped his throat. Sliding his foot from the stirrup, he delivered a careful kick just above Rohan’s ear. No further damage could be risked for fear of Ianthe’s wrath. The prince subsided back into senselessness. Feeble moonlight shone off the bloodstain on his shoulder, and Beliaev smiled. Rotten timing or no, he had Rohan secure and would deliver him as promised. By winter the Merida would rule from Stronghold once more.

This happy thought sustained him through the next few measures of winding mountain tails. At last the sun began to finger tentatively at the eastern sky, and Beliaev picked up the pace a little. He cursed the necessity of swinging wide around the Desert garrison below Feruche, for the back route added another ten measures to an already interminable journey. But it would all be for nothing if Rohan’s men spotted this strange party riding into Feruche.

The sun was summer-hot overhead all day, and by dusk was still brutal. At long last Beliaev led the group through the narrow back pass. Startled guards at lonely posts called down challenges he answered with a snarl. The castle spires rose beyond the rocks, tantalizing him for a full three measures before he finally reached the gates. Inside the courtyard he swung down off his horse, aching in every muscle, and seized the waterskin off the first servant who approached. After emptying it down his throat, he heaved a vast sigh and turned as Ianthe called imperiously from the staircase.