Dragonheart (21 page)

“If
the dragon gets here, he’ll find you’ve been sent packing,” Hewe bellowed. “We’ve had enough of your moon-eyed mischief, Kara!”

He raised his staff to menace them off, but an arrow suddenly embedded itself in it.

All eyes turned to a rider in the pasture beyond the stream. Slinging his bow, he galloped over the bridge into the village and brought his horse to a rearing halt between Gilbert and Kara and Hewe.

Gilbert didn’t recognize him for a moment . . . all scrubbed and shaved. His clothes and mail, though still frayed and worn, were clean and mended as best could be. Even the ragged emblem of the sword within the circle seemed brighter. But it was not as bright as the fierce fine visionary fire in the rider’s eyes. Bowen! No, thought Gilbert, a knight of the Old Code.

“Save your strength for the fight against Einon,” Bowen said to Hewe as he leaned forward in his saddle and plucked his arrow from the staff.

Hewe pulled it back with a contemptuous jerk. “There isn’t any fight against Einon,” he stated.

Bowen smiled at him. “I’m going to start one.”

Gilbert turned to Kara, but she only had eyes for the knight. Hewe spat at Bowen’s news. He was very good at spitting.

“You and what army, Knight?”

“He’ll enlist!” Bowen gestured across the stream to the ridge beyond.

There, the massive form of Draco was rising up from behind the horizon, his hide magnificently aglow. Like fire. Ablaze against the morning sun.

Part VI

THE REBELLION

The sky’s untouched without the reach,
The dream’s no good without the dare,
And one must fight for what one wants,
’Tis purpose God attends, not prayer.

—Gilbert of Glockenspur,
“The Psalm of Survival”

Twenty-Six

A BOW, A BIRD, AND
FELTON’S FURTHER MISFORTUNE

“Is that dog wearing a sword?”

“Hungry, pet . . . ?” Brok removed the hood from the falcon that perched on his gauntleted wrist. He stroked the feathered tuft on the bird’s head and cooed at it. Felton found it a revolting exhibition and thought how nice the tuft would look in one of his hats.

The whole afternoon had been revolting. He had ridden over to discuss the business of the realm, not to join in the lout’s hunt. But Brok had been insistent and an insistent Brok was a Brok not be to denied. It wasn’t that Felton’s company was valued; he was there only to provide at least one easy target for the brutes Brok had gathered together. In fact, game had been sparse, but the jests had been plentiful . . . and Felton had been the butt of most of them. And he had yet to introduce the matter he had come to discuss. He had just begun to launch into the details when Brok interrupted him to fuss over his feathered fiend.

“Peasants disappearing every day, Sir Brok . . .” Felton sighed, picking up where he had left off. “More than a hundred from my village alone. The king wants you to look into it.”

“Why should I have to look after your flock, Felton?” Brok laconically muttered, and blew kisses at his falcon once more. The bird pecked back at his beard.

“It’s not just my village,” grumbled Felton. Didn’t the dullard pay attention? “But every village.”

“Not mine, I’ll wager. The scum wouldn’t dare.”

“Nevertheless, Einon instructed me to inform you—”

“You have! Now shut up!” Brok cut him short and stroked his bird. “Don’t worry, Felton, we’ll find your filthy little runaways for you. Just like she finds her prey. Eat, my pretty.”

He released the bird and watched with bloodthirsty amusement as it soared skyward toward a screeching crow. But the huntress never reached her prey. An arrow ripped through the falcon’s breast, sending it plummeting earthward.

“I say! What a splendid shot!” Felton exclaimed, forgetting himself.

Brok turned and scowled at him. “Idiot!” he growled, and with a wail of anger, whipped his horse off through the forest in the direction of his fallen bird. The others rode after him.

Felton figured he’d better follow suit.

The stone hit the straw man’s shoulder and the crow perched there cawed an angry shriek and winged off it. Hewe threw another rock at it for good measure, but it was already out of range, berating its tormentor below with its persistent croaking.

“You’re up, priest,” Hewe snorted with disdain. Gilbert could hear the tittering murmur of the other archers behind him. He squinted at the straw man on the other side of the glade. It seemed very far away. He nervously took his position and, notching an arrow, tried to remember everything Hewe had dismissively barked at him a moment ago.

Gilbert knew he should be happier than he felt. The rebellion was going well; word had filtered through the towns and villages about the secret weapon that would ensure victory against the tyrant. Men had come with their crude weapons and brought their families with them. Their tents and shelters spread out from the borders of the village along the stream and across the pastures. Under Bowen’s command, inept bungling progressed to discipline and skill. Each man was assigned to a unit and had duties beyond his training periods—whether it was to provide food for the camp or to build weapons. Even the women and children helped, making arrows and collecting metal farm implements that could be melted down and remolded into swords and spears.

Gilbert’s own duties included the roles of historian, scribe, and spiritual leader. He helped Bowen draw maps and plot strategies and kept the recruitment records. He bolstered skeptical spirits with rousing eloquence and spine-stiffening sermons. And in the waning hours of the night, when his duty to the day’s cause was done and campfires dotted the fields, he would find a few quiet moments of inspiration and scribble his fancies across parchment, celebrating the glorious adventure in which God had granted him a role.

And though Gilbert was grateful to God and thanked Him every night in lofty and lavish prayer, he longed for a bigger role. Bowen would have exempted him from arms training altogether, out of regard for his priestly vows, but Gilbert would not be dissuaded and would quote himself by way of explanation:

“The sky’s untouched without the reach,
The dream’s no good without the dare,
And one must fight for what one wants,
’Tis purpose God attends, not prayer.”

But while he tackled his training with enthusiasm, he performed less than proficiently. And that was the source of his discontent. He had already abandoned the quarterstaff as his weapon of choice; though he understood it intellectually, his manual dexterity was no match for his mental agility. He was clumsy and inept. This also proved the case with the pike, the mace, and the ball and chain. And he had shown, at best, only a middling competence with a sword. He was beginning to fear that he would strike no blows for God and Arthur on the battlefield and that his only part in the fight would be to bless the troops and bury the dead.

Archery was more or less his last hope. There were aspects about it that made Gilbert hopeful. For one, you could take your time. You could stand behind a tree or a rock and assess the situation before acting. No one was battering at you with another weapon, giving you no time to think, moving too fast for you to effect the intricate strategies of your defense, let alone your attack.

Today he had come with Hewe and his mates into the forest for instruction. It was cool and green and quiet, and nice to be away from the crush and hum of the village, with its blasting forge fires and clanging weapons and chattering crowds.

“Higher with that bow hand, priest, unless you’re shooting gophers!” Hewe’s condescending instruction was accompanied by the crow cawing above. Both disrupted the idyllic calm and interfered with Gilbert’s concentration as he tentatively pulled back the bowstring. He heard Hewe’s peasant pals snickering behind him. Ignoring them as best he could, Gilbert took a breath and composed himself, sighting the target once more.

“You’re aiming with the wrong eye!” Hewe growled. Gilbert could tell the man was performing for his friends.

“Yes, well, it’s easier for you, of course,” Gilbert drolly remarked, and silently asked God to forgive him for mocking another’s afflictions.

Hewe the Bear glared at the priest with his good eye and bit his words off with deliberate slowness as though he were speaking to a dimwit. “Sight along the arrow . . . And get your fingers off the feathers!” He groaned as though his pupil were hopeless and threw up his hands. “Anytime you’re ready.”

Gilbert heaved a sigh of his own and sighted down the arrow as instructed. The straw man seemed to loom large and enticingly at the end of his shaft; not quite so far away as he first thought. He let loose the arrow.

Thwack!
The arrow buried itself right in the middle of the straw man’s heart. Gilbert let out a yelp of delighted surprise. He couldn’t believe it and turned to the dumbfounded peasants—their mouths agape; they couldn’t believe it either. Trev, a tinker, a short fellow no bigger than his bow, let out a long soft whistle, impressed. Hewe cut short the whistle with a stern glance.

“Beginner’s luck!” Hewe frowned down Gilbert’s proud smile. “Try again!”

Gilbert eagerly notched another arrow, consummately performing every direction Hewe had given him, and let fly.

It hit the dummy right between the eyes.

Trev twittered his eyebrows at a stunned Hewe. “ ’E’s a natural, ’e is!”

“Shaddup!” Hewe grumbled, and shoved the short fellow aside. Yanking the bow out of Gilbert’s hand, he suspiciously examined it as though Gilbert’s skill were the result of some trick.

“I like this!” Gilbert exclaimed. “I thought you said it was hard.”

Hewe shoved the bow back at him. “Again,” was all he said.

Gilbert was only too happy to oblige. “Bow hand up. Sight along the arrow . . .” His bow snapped with a hearty twang. And the arrow scored another direct hit, right in the dummy’s crotch.

There was a collective wince from the group—all except Trev, who whistled again and exclaimed, “A natural!”

“Anything else I can try?” Gilbert asked of a dour Hewe. The bear squinted his eye up at the abrasively cawing crow circling above. It was as though he shared Gilbert’s mocking amusement and his cries were directed at Hewe personally.

“Now for a moving target,” Hewe said slyly, and pointed skyward. “That pesky crow . . .”

The peasants oohed at the challenge. But Gilbert was feeling cocky and he accepted it without hesitation. Notching another arrow, he drew his bead and fired. As the arrow sliced through the air another bird suddenly appeared in the sky. Both bird and arrow converged upon the crow. There was a shriek and a flutter of feathers and one winged creature plummeted downward, an arrow in its chest. It was not the crow, whose cawing turned triumphant. Gilbert had already dashed across the glade to claim his kill.

“Look! Look! A falcon!” The priest came running back, gleefully waving his arrow with the dead falcon still impaled upon it.

Hewe was unimpressed. “You were aiming for the crow.”

“Would’ve ’ad it too,” Trev offered, “if that falcon ’adn’t got in front of his shot.”

“Who asked you?” Hewe towered over the short fellow, but the debate was abruptly ended by the thunder of hoofbeats as a hunting party of knights and nobles burst into the glade. Realizing that one of them must be missing his falcon, Gilbert quickly hid the arrow and the bird behind his back.

“Which one of you scum shot that bi—” The brutish knight stopped in midtirade as he pointed at Hewe, who was clutching the sword at his side in readiness. “Is that dog wearing a sword?”

“They are all, Sir Brok!” a fop answered the brute. Gilbert recognized the man. It was Lord Felton. He rode up to the wary Hewe and gazed down on him with contemptuous indignation. “A sword is a noble’s weapon. Where did
you
get it?”

“I made it,” came Hewe’s surly retort, unembroidered with a “sir” or a “milord.” But Felton didn’t notice the breach of etiquette; he was too busy laughing. His fellows joined him—save for the brute called Brok. Felton leaned forward in his saddle.

“I would have a closer look at the blade’s workmanship.” Felton imperiously gestured for Hewe’s sword. “Let me have it.”

Hewe smiled, suddenly all deference, as he bowed. “With pleasure, lord.” As he came out of his bow his blade came out of his scabbard, and with a lunge, he sliced off Felton’s hand. “Close enough for you?”

Felton stuttered a scream, staring at his blood-spurting stump, and slid from his saddle. Brok and the others stared in stunned disbelief. Gilbert was stunned too, but through his daze he heard Hewe the Bear’s growling threat.

“That’s the last time you’ll reach for anything of ours!” A dozen drawn swords answered the bear’s taunt and Gilbert hoped that Hewe’s reckless bravery was matched by an ability to calculate odds. It was. The bear whirled to his men and shouted, “Run!”

Gilbert did.

Twenty-Seven

BROK’S DISCOVERY

“That’s it . . . one fluid stroke.”

Kara swung the heavy battle-ax through a series of exercises. Like Gilbert, she was in search of the weapon that best suited her needs. She had not had much luck with stabbing blades; she’d try the hacking ones. If she ripped into Einon with this, there’d be no missing her mark. Imagining him before her, she whirled the ax above her head with a savage heave. The momentum threw her off balance and sent her staggering.

“Easy . . .”

Sturdy arms caught her and stopped her fall. It was Bowen.

“Oh . . . Thank you . . .” she said shyly. She could feel the metal studs on his surcoat pressing into her back. But she made no attempt to move. Nor did he seem in any hurry to release her.

He just stared at her . . . somewhat stupidly, she thought, but sweetly. And she wondered if she was staring back as stupidly. Self-conscious, she turned away, but he did not let her escape his strong arms. She shivered as he gently slid his knee against her inner thigh and nudged her legs apart.