Dragonheart (12 page)

It would be a pity to have that lush skin freckle in that scathing sunlight, to spoil the feathery softness of her playful fingers with blistering labor. Felton grabbed a small pouch of money from his bedside table and rose, holding his pants up; no point in tying them only to drop them again.

He loped up behind his melancholy minx and, reaching over her shoulder, slid the pouch down into the treasury of her ample cleavage. He wondered if it was the feel of his hand or the clunky crush of the coins that made her moan so contentedly. But when she turned and smiled, he forgot the question. A lovely smile for a peasant. She still had all her teeth. Yes, best to get this flower back in the shade before it wilted. Just standing in the door, he could feel the pounding heat of the sun. Or perhaps it was merely his swelling desire.

Or perhaps it was the fiery explosion that suddenly blasted both his pleasant afternoon and a section of his wheatfield.

“Dragon! Dragon!”
The cry was taken up across the fields as the workers scattered. None had been in the field that was now ablaze, not that this appeased Felton, who watched it burn with a dismal frown. Given a choice, he’d much prefer to fry a few churls than lose a grain of his precious crop!

The dragon swept out of the cloud of smoke, a black vortex spiraling in his wake as he winged toward the mill. His pants in one hand, his disheveled minx in the other, Felton exited the house and was just rounding one side of it when he was nearly trampled by the onslaught of peasants pouring down from the mill. His bullyboy foreman stood at the crest of the hill, screaming for the retreating workers to return and save the sacks of milled flour. Felton pitied the minion’s dim-witted loyalty, pathetically cracking his whip, hollering, while the wind of the dragon’s wings blew a hurricane of chaff in the idiot’s face.

Suddenly two fireballs cannoned from the dragon’s nostrils. The first blew the roof off the storehouse and sent the bullyboy sprawling down the hill. The other blasted a blizzard of flour into the air, drenching everything in a white downpour.

The fields were in flames, the mill was in flames, the giant mill wheel teetered unsteadily on its stone. Frightened, flour-dusted people dashed about wildly like pale specters.

“Pesky critters, dragons . . .”

Felton spit flour from his mouth, wiped it from his eyes, and saw . . .

. . . the dragonslaying knight, the one he’d cheated not a week before. He was seated on his horse, casually watching the dragon swoop through the wreckage of the mill and alight on the swaying grist wheel.

“. . . like big rodents.” The knight turned and smiled at Felton. “You never seem to get rid of them.”

Felton lost a grip on his pants. They fell to his ankles.

Holding his pants, white powder puffing off his body, Felton stormed through a drifted bank of flour, sidestepping white-daubed peasants who shoveled the stuff back up into sacks.

“Thievery . . . gouging!” Felton dickered hotly with the knight, who sat in his saddle far too casually and seemed far too unconcerned. “You blackmailing blackguard! You’d bleed an honorable man dry?” The smug knight cocked a skeptical eyebrow at him. Felton shoved a peasant out of his way and into the mountain of flour, making his way to the dragonslayer. “You’d take the food out of the mouths of my poor, hungry people?”

The shovelers stopped shoveling and stared incredulously at Felton. The lout he had just shoved spit out a mouthful of flour and stared too. Felton stared back, wild eyes peeking out of the ashen mask of his face, making him look like a corpse risen from the tomb. “What are looking at, you laggards? Scoop it up, scoop it up!” He flung a handful of flour at them for emphasis and wheeled back to Bowen. “In the name of humanity, have pity on these needy souls.”

Felton tried to work up a throb in his voice, but it stuck in his throat. He could see that the knight was unmoved by his theatrics.

“You still owe me from the last time and I want
that
in advance too.”

Felton’s minx was stroking the knight’s horse; she now smiled coyly at Bowen. The knight smiled back and winked. Felton yanked her away. Very well. He’d tried to appeal to this knave’s better nature; now it was time to threaten. If only he could remember the rogue’s name. Bourne. Or Boyce. Bo-something. Never mind. He’d put the fear of the crown in him. “You scoundrel, do you know who you’re dealing with? I am Lord Felton, well beloved of King Einon.”

“In that case, double the fee.”

“I’ll have you whipped! Thrown in chains! I won’t pay it!”

Felton gestured emphatically with his arms. And again his pants fell down. He leaned over to pick them up, glaring the titters back into the throats of the peasants. A loud rumbling made him jerk up. Peasants were running past him. The dragon had flown off the giant mill wheel, which was rolling down the hill, gathering momentum. Felton jumped aside. His pants went down again as he, the knight, the minx, and the horse all turned and watched the twirling juggernaut crash into the side wall of Felton’s house. The lord pulled up his pants. Stared at his house. Then at the knight. Then at the minx. He grabbed the cord dangling over the top of her tunic and yanked it. Her cleavage relinquished the money purse with a jingling bounce. He flung the pouch at the knight.

“Well! Get started!” Felton flailed his arms . . . and his pants fell down yet again.

Peasants lined the yard and the crumbled wall of Felton’s house. Felton, pants secure at last, sat in a chair in front of the crowd, flanked by his bully boys; the Minx lounged at his feet. They all watched as the dragonslayer, battle-ax aloft, spurred his horse up the hill with a shout. The dragon, perched on the mill stone, waited for him.

“When this is over,” Felton whispered to the thug-at-arms behind his chair, “get my money back.”

“My
money,” the minx corrected him.

Both were to be disappointed. As the knight charged, the dragon swooped out and scooped him off the saddle into his waiting jaws and scooped the horse into his outstretched claws. The crowd let out a collective sigh of dismay as the dragon flew over them, the knight’s legs sticking out of its mouth, the horse squealing and kicking in its clutches.

Felton was particularly dismayed. He sprang from his chair and watched the dragon wing out across the wheatfields, disappearing into the forest.

“My money’s in that dragon’s mouth.”

“My
money.” The minx pouted.

The water rippled in the creek as the dragon winged his way over the waterfall and fluttered slowly down to the bank, gently releasing the skittish horse. The frightened animal bolted into the water and stood there quivering. Bowen’s legs still dangled from the dragon’s mouth, twitching. The dragon spat and Bowen tumbled out . . . very much alive and very moist.

“Next time just carry me off in your clutches.” Bowen wiped the drool from him. “Your breath is still vile.”

“Sorry.” the dragon apologized. “It must have been that boar I took for breakfast.”

Bowen laughed and jingled Felton’s money pouch. “You took a boar for breakfast and I took a boor for lunch. Both our appetites have been sated.”

The knight splashed water over his face and hair to rid it of dragon spit and then doffed his surcoat and began to wash it in the creek. Following the knight’s example, the dragon tended to his own toilette, shaking off the grime of battle and licking flour from his hide.

They had chosen the waterfall for their camp, liking both its seclusion and central location. There were many villages and towns within its radius, most under the control of some minion of the king. They had agreed that there was to be no killing or harming of anyone and as little destruction as possible, just enough to make the dragon’s threat look effective. This first foray had been an exception, as it was in the nature of a personal vendetta between Bowen and the lord.

The dragon wondered if he had been wise in suggesting this scheme. He watched the knight lay his surcoat out to dry upon the bank. The faded emblem of the sword within the circle stood out more clearly against the wet leather, but it was very frayed and tattered. The knight started to count his money.

“And what of your other appetite, Knight?” the dragon quietly asked.

“What do you mean?”

The dragon tried to broach the subject casually, idly fluffing out his scales. “I am your livelihood, so it’s in your interest to keep me alive . . . But there is much gold in the world. When you have your fill of it and no longer need me . . .”

The dragon’s tone betrayed him, and it had not come out casually at all. The knights bristled at his words. “I am a knight of the Old Code. My word is my bond,” he said indignantly.

“Did you not once give your word to slay all dragons?”

“How dare you impugn my honor! If anyone has doubts, it should be me.” Bowen turned from him. “I trusted a dragon once before and lived to regret it . . .”

The dragon hoped he would not live to regret his own decision to trust Bowen. He had enough to regret already. He suddenly realized that his preening and grooming of his scales had inadvertently exposed the thin red scar on his chest. He frantically readjusted his scales, just as Bowen confronted him once more.

“. . . yet here I am, blithely jumping in and out of your reeking jaws like some demented jester! How much good faith do you demand, dragon?”

“Why did you put your faith in me?” The dragon was sincerely curious.

The question caught the knight off guard. He stared at the ground, as though he might find the answer there, then attempted to parry with a question of his own. “Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?”

“We had a truce,” the dragon replied simply.

“And now? This was your idea, remember? What’s it to be? Partners or enemies?”

“We are not enemies,” said the dragon, but he could not be sure Bowen believed it. He was not sure if he believed it himself.

“No . . . I suppose not . . .” Bowen responded slowly, then barked a sardonic laugh. “In league with a dragon. Life is a mad caprice.”

“At least it’s better than death,” the dragon muttered solemnly.

“Is it?”

The dragon stared at the knight, struck by the bitterness he had infused into those two words. Bowen seemed to realize it too, and self-consciously shifted tone as he waded into the water to lead his horse to the bank.

“For you, I mean—I should think you’d welcome death. The last of your race. All your friends dead. Hated and hunted wherever you go.”

“Do you delight in reminding me?” the dragon snarled testily. This was not going well. He wasn’t exactly sure how it should go, but not like this. “Yes, Knight, I
long
for death . . . but fear it.”

“Why? Aside from your misery, what’s to lose?”

The dragon’s answer came without hesitation. “My soul.”

Thirteen

SHEEP AND WOLVES

“Don’t clutter up a clever scheme with murky morality.”

Bowen moved his horse slowly through the crowd. It was market day in the village and the square was a teeming clutter of stalls and carts as peddlers hawked their wares. The knight was in no hurry. He had already sighted his prey. A blubbery nobleman made his way through the bustle comfortably ensconced in a canopied sedan chair that was hoisted by four burly lackeys. Two haughty servants preceded his lordship, clearing the path by flogging the crowd aside with horsehair flyswatters.

As his chair wended past the various booths the lord casually filched food and merchandise, much to the disgruntled but silent disapproval of the vendors. Oh, Bowen was going to enjoy puncturing this bloated pig. This one belonged to the new breed of knight that had insinuated itself into Einon’s kingdom. Men filled with greed and corruption who devised bloodless ways—at least bloodless for the king—of increasing Einon’s coffers and his power. They were the schemers and Einon’s old guard—the retinue of brutes who had served his father—were the enforcers.

It had evolved into an efficient system. One had only to stare into the hollow-eyed faces of Einon’s subjects, their expressions ashen cold, the spark of rebellion long ago extinguished. Once they had been fighters. Now they were no better than the sheep Bowen had seen grazing down by the lake when he rode into town. Docile and dim-witted and waiting to be fleeced. Einon’s pilfering of their purses was nothing compared with his plundering of their spirits.

The hog-jowled lord was working his way through a gooey gooseberry pie when he casually glanced up. What he saw made his eyes go wide. Bowen did not need to turn around to know the dragon was descending.

He came in low and fast. They had agreed there’d be no fire this time. It was far too dangerous . . . and utterly unnecessary. Just one pass through the marketplace and it was pandemonium. Carts and stalls and goods went topsyturvy. Panicked people tripped and slipped on splattered fruits and vegetables. The lord’s whippers couldn’t keep the frightened mob back from their master. Nor were they even trying. Their haughtiness fled and so did they, along with everybody else—including the lord’s chair bearers.

The sedan chair crashed to the ground with its grand cargo. As the dragon swerved off toward the lake Lord Blubber blustered up out of the chaos of curtains and cushions and mashed merchandise, wiping away the pie that was splattered all over his face. Bowen was the first thing he saw, smiling down on him from his horse.

“Are you the lord of this village?” the knight amiably inquired.

“Not the sheep! Don’t let him get the sheep!” Lord Pie-face hovered anxiously over Bowen’s shoulder, watching the dragon skim over the sheep herd, sending it into a bleating stampede along the shore of the lake.

“Do you mind?” Bowen glared at the lurking lord, whose flabby lips were still crusted with the sticky, sweet stain of the pie. The fool was so close, Bowen couldn’t draw back his bow without his elbow plunging into folds of the man’s belly. A harsh nudge on Bowen’s part quickly served to explain the problem to the lord, who obediently stepped back.

“Please . . . just don’t let him get the sheep.”