Dragon Wife (11 page)

“I know. Just let me stay with you, like this.”

“Gladly.” He pulled his cloak around the both of them. “Sleep well, Wen.”

“You too.” She smiled into the darkness. Family and friends had called her Wenna, even Wenny when she was small, but never Wen. It was his name for her and no one else’s. She loved it.

Chapter Eight

Huroth landed in the castle courtyard, careful not to jostle Wen too roughly. She’d been a good sport about dragon riding, and he wanted to keep her experience as positive as possible. It might prove to be a useful skill, somewhere down the road.

They’d risen early that morning and traveled fast. The sun had been up only two hours by the time they reached Whiterock, so Huroth had a significant amount of time before the other dragons were due to arrive. He was planning to meet them at noon, outside the castle walls.

Before he landed in the courtyard, news of his approach must have sped through the castle. The paunchy chief steward was already waiting for him, along with five elaborately dressed councilors. The men reeked of fear, and beneath that the cloying scent of perfumed oils. Their long robes flapped in the wind created by Huroth’s beating wings.

Wen hopped down, managing a more graceful dismount than the previous night. The men’s faces revealed how shocked they were to find her with him, especially flying into Whiterock straddling his scaly black back.

Huroth shifted to eldrin form and stepped next to Wen, offering her his arm. She flashed him a quick grin before slipping her hand through the crook of his elbow. Together they walked toward the steps where the men waited, clustered like nervous sheep.

“Lord Huroth, we are deeply honored by your presence.” The steward finished his welcome by bending almost double in a low bow. The councilors bobbed and bowed behind him.

“You have Lady Orwenna to thank for that,” Huroth told them. “She brought me news of your troubles.”

“Oh…I…ah…we weren’t expecting her to contact you. The king’s brother Vardis was sent with the message.”

“Unfortunately, he and his guards were killed by wolves,” Wen said. “So the task fell to me.”

“How could you possibly know of these things?” one of the younger councilors asked, his eyes narrowing. “We didn’t tell…”

“That’s irrelevant,” Huroth cut him off. “Lady Orwenna made her way bravely through the mountains to find me. Because of her, you’ll have dragon warriors to fight the Keskan army. She deserves your gratitude.”

“Oh yes…yes,” an older councilor hurried to say. “We certainly appreciate her efforts.”

“It’s all most astonishing,” another piped in. “And admirable…of course.”

“Most admirable,” a third councilor echoed.

Huroth glanced down at Wen to see if she was enjoying this. The light dancing in her eyes told him all he needed to know.

“You’ll want to recognize her heroism with some appropriate gesture, I’m sure.” He spoke sternly, running his eyes over the councilors’ faces, noticing sweat beading up on more than one brow.

“Appropriate gesture?” the steward stammered.

“An honorary banquet would be a start. Perhaps you should consider a medal or a statue here in the courtyard.” Huroth’s tone was deadly serious. Wen ducked her head, trying to hide her amusement.

“Well, now, that is something to think about,” the steward said, struggling for the correct response.

Wen squeezed Huroth’s arm and gave him the smallest shake of her head. She was ready for him to stop torturing the councilors.

“In the meantime,” he said, “I’d like to know where things stand with the invading army. The king isn’t here to greet me, which suggests he’s already headed south.”

“Indeed.” The steward looked relieved at this change in topic. “He left three days ago, with the bulk of our forces. A messenger pigeon brought news, today. He has stopped south of the Nysa River, directly east of Darro.”

“Why does he wait there, rather than pushing on to the border?”

Wen’s question was met with uncomfortable silence. Apparently the steward didn’t wish to discuss military strategy with her.

“Likely it’s a good location,” Huroth told her. “If the battle occurs too close to the border, the Keskans will hold the high ground and use the hills to their advantage.”

“The king sent word for you to join him as quickly as possible,” the steward interjected. “His scouts observed the Keskan army on the move, and they could engage our forces soon. For that matter, the conflict might have started already. The king’s message was sent yesterday morning.”

“I should leave immediately,” Huroth said. “I’ll instruct my warriors to fly directly south, rather than meeting me here. The earlier we intervene in the battle, the better.”

Wen’s hand on his arm tightened. Her body tensed, and he could see fear in her eyes. Huroth tried to think of something comforting to say, but found nothing. It wasn’t in his nature to make false assurances. The battle would be perilous, and they both knew it.

“I’m coming with you,” she said.

“Bad idea.”

“If you won’t take me along, I’ll get on a horse and ride south by myself.” A look of determination replaced the anxiety on her face. “I will go.”

“What can you possibly gain by putting yourself in danger?”

“I can tend to injured soldiers,” she answered. “There’s sure to be a need for people to clean and dress wounds. At least then I’d be useful. I can’t bear the thought of staying here, with nothing to do but wait. Let me help.”

As much as Huroth wanted to keep Wen at Whiterock, where she’d be safe, he had to respect her choice. She wasn’t a child to be ordered about. Her reasons were sound, and her threat of following on horseback was not an empty one. They’d have to tie her up, to keep her here.

“As you wish,” Huroth said. “We’ll go south together.”

“Thank you.”

“Lady Orwenna, I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to accompany…” the steward’s comment froze on his lips, as Huroth fixed him with an icy stare. It was none of this fool’s business what Wen did.

“The decision has been made,” Huroth said coldly. “Go fetch us a satchel of food, and fill these canteens.”

“Yes. Right away.” The steward grabbed the canteens and hurried off. The five councilors shifted in place, looking as if they also wanted to beat a hasty retreat.

“Lord Norlin,” Wen said, addressing the eldest councilor. “Do you know where my father is?”

“He’s gone to meet his crew in Baltha. They’ll sail south with the royal fleet, to protect the coastline.” The old man paused, stroking his white beard, glancing uneasily between her and Huroth.

“Your father was greatly disturbed by your disappearance,” Lord Norlin continued. “It put him in a difficult position with your intended, and it was most unsettling to the court. We had no way of knowing what happened to you.”

Huroth’s attention was caught by the mention of Wen’s ‘intended’. She hadn’t told him anything of an approaching marriage. By the look on her face, it hadn’t been a welcome arrangement. He was certainly glad of that, though he wanted to ask her more about it, later.

“I’m sorry if I caused anyone to lose sleep,” Wen said, not sounding particularly repentant. “As it happens, everything worked out for the best.”

“Ah…I suppose.” Lord Norlin didn’t look convinced. “There are still many unanswered questions…”

“And they’ll have to remain so,” she told him briskly. “I don’t feel like discussing my private business with you.”

The conflict on Lord Norlin’s face spoke volumes. He was not used to being dismissed in such a manner, especially by a young woman. At the same time, he didn’t want to anger Huroth, who had clearly placed himself as Wen’s champion.

In the end, the old fellow must have decided that discretion was the better part of valor. He held his tongue and neither reprimanded nor argued with her. Huroth found the whole thing humorous. Wen’s feistiness pleased him, as did his own ability to intimidate these unctuous men, self-important men.

The Steward soon returned, bringing them a satchel bulging with food and two full canteens. It would be more than enough for their journey. Without further ado, Huroth and Wen took their leave and started south.

Flying his fastest, with only a brief stop for lunch, it was late afternoon before Huroth passed over the Nysa River. He was aware of the other dragons speeding south, not far behind him, but he didn’t expend energy retaining a mind link.

He informed them of their destination and the basic attack plan, but that was all. Unnecessary questions and discussion would only drain him. He needed to be fit and focused for the battle, as they all did.

Nearing the army’s encampment, Huroth could see why the king had chosen this location. The Rhelaun forces waited on a wide grassy slope, overlooking flatlands across which the enemy was fast approaching. Though the Keskan host was massive, they suffered the disadvantage of being downhill. Their arrows wouldn’t fly as far, and they’d work harder to gain ground.

As Huroth began his descent, he observed the archers already firing. A dark cloud of arrows filled the air, raining down on both sides. Less than 400 yards separated the front lines, and the gap was closing fast. There was no time to waste.

He landed well back from the conflict, near the largest, most decorated tent. Green and white banners hung from the tent poles, and the emblem of a white eagle on a green field adorned three sides. On a fourth side the canvas was rolled back to provide a view of the battlefield. The king was almost surely inside. He didn’t strike Huroth as the type to risk his skin leading a charge.

Wen slid quickly to the ground, giving Huroth room as he shifted to eldrin form. She started to say something, but King Elric stepped around the side of the tent, accompanied by three guards. The King wore polished gold armor which looked more ceremonial than practical. His guards were outfitted in knee-length chainmail.

“Lord Huroth, I am grateful you’ve come,” King Elric said, barely giving Wen a glance. Whatever he thought of her presence, it was far from his primary concern. “As you see, the battle has begun. We’re sorely outnumbered and we’ll need all the help we can get. I hope you’re not the only dragon with us today.”

“There are five more, on their way,” Huroth answered. “They should be here soon.”

“Excellent! Your service will not be forgotten.”

“I should get to it,” Huroth said, “before the armies mix too heavily. It will be easier to deal with the Keskans, when they’re grouped together.”

“Certainly.” The king’s voice revealed the depth of his relief. “Do whatever you must. Just drive them back.”

Huroth turned to Wen. She was keeping her emotions tightly in check, but he could read them, like a gathering storm behind her eyes. He strode to her side and hugged her, not caring what King Elric or anyone else thought.

“I’ll do my best to return,” he said, memorizing the feel of her in his arms. There was such promise in the bond between them. He wanted to live, to see where it could lead.

“You’re a part of me now,” Wen whispered. “I’ll never forget the past two days.”

They pulled reluctantly apart, and Huroth forced himself to walk away. He didn’t look back, for he knew there were tears in her eyes. The battle couldn’t end quickly enough to please him.

The sky had clouded over during the afternoon, and a light drizzle was starting. It intensified the scents of the battlefield. Already there was a stench of blood and death in his nostrils. It would only get worse.

Huroth shifted back to drake form, beating his powerful wings to gain sufficient altitude. With Wen no longer on his back, he could maneuver fast and tight, not having to worry about her falling.

Far off, in the northern sky, he could see five specks growing rapidly larger. Tallok, Nelek, Rhourik, Thord, and Greylor had all answered his call. Harith wanted to, but Huroth forbid it. The lad was not yet ready for battle.

Thalos, the father of Huroth’s deceased mate, refused to participate. He insisted on staying at Dragonvale with the she-dragons and young…’in case of trouble’. What that trouble might be, Huroth couldn’t imagine.

No trolkin had been seen since the clan first broke from the ice, and no mountain predator could stand against a dragon. More likely, it was Thalos’s way of making a point. He strongly opposed the alliance with Rhelaun, believing that mixing with humans was shameful.

With a low growl, Huroth pushed everything from his mind. The time for thinking was over, and the time for action was at hand. He banked in a wide arc over the slope where the front lines were clashing, then drove down toward the bulk of the Keskan troops. Fire exploded from his open mouth, searing heads and shoulders.

Men fell, screaming. The stink of burnt hair and flesh filled the air. Longbowmen fired at Huroth, but their arrows failed to reach the mark. He climbed steeply, out of range, preparing for another attack.

This time, the soldiers were expecting him, and they threw up their shields to deflect the worst of the flames. Huroth plunged lower still, raking his claws through the huddled men, flinging them this way and that. A spear grazed his right back leg, as he pulled up, returning to a safe height.

Huroth saw that a few Keskans carried heavy crossbows with bolts as thick as a man’s thumb. He gave them a wide berth, recognizing how deadly such a weapon could be against a dragon. He focused on the infantry who bore mostly pikes, swords, and halberds.

By now, the other dragons had arrived. They joined Huroth, over the battlefield, swooping and diving, breathing out torrents of flame. Their talons were sharp as blades, cutting through the enemy lines.

Despite this, the Keskan forces didn’t break and flee. There were so many of them. Where one man fell, two more took his place. They were a flood of human bodies, surging around every obstacle, forcing the Rhelaun army farther and farther up the slope.

Huroth flew high into the cloud cover to catch his breath. The battle was far from over, and he needed to pace himself. Routing the enemy was not proving as easy as he might have hoped. It could be done, but it would take time and stamina.

Across the battlefield, Greylor was just climbing from an assault on the Keskan cavalry, a torn saddle hanging in his talons. A crossbow bolt pierced him at the junction of his right wing and back. He faltered, losing altitude, as another arrow sliced through the membrane of his left wing.